Page 7 of Playing With Her

“Don’t test me, Amelie. There’s only so much a man can take, and I’m so damn close taking you to the bathroom, bending you over, and fucking that sauciness out of you, in turn making us late to your first obstetrician appointment, would be frowned upon.” She’s saved from responding when we have to go through the metal detectors. Her “Whatever” under her breath is the only response I receive. Now I’m the one left with the issue of my cock hardening with the visual I’ve described. Of course, it doesn’t stop there. It’s been too fucking long since we’ve had one another, and that’s going to change. Today.

ELEVEN

Amelie

“I think givingthem a kidney would be easier than all the paperwork I had to fill out.” The elevator ride up to the fifth floor was done in silence with more people in the small space than I’d like. Boston had me pressed to his front, filling my senses with his scent and presence, especially the one poking me in my backside. It was nice to know I wasn’t the only one who is affected when he’s nearby. I finish the last piece of paper of what seemed like an inch thick of paperwork. My family history was a breeze to get through. I wasn’t expecting Boston to answer it with ease. I should never assume anything when it comes to the man sitting beside me. He’s quite literally thrown me for a loop each and every time.

“No kidding. You’d think with all the papers they take in, the hospital would switch to an electronic questionnaire of sorts or ask you to do it online before you come.” He takes the clipboard from my hands, his lips grazing my forehead as he stands. I could cry with the way he handles me and this current situation. One minute I’m pissed off, at what? Nothing, literally nothing. Sure, the man went silent. I get it; he was protecting me. It still hurt, and there’s so much left unsaid. Me falling pregnant isn’t really helping matters. The other minute, I’m riddled with desire, ready to tear our clothes off and ride his face, fingers, or cock, or all three, preferably the first two at the same time, the remaining orgasm being left for Boston’s thickness. Then there’s another part of me which is ready to break down and cry buckets of tears. Mental headcase is what I’m going with. It’s not a diagnosis, but it should be, for me at least. I’m sure other pregnant women don’t go through this, right? I watch as Boston walks to the reception desk. Gone is his jacket. He still remains in the suit, black long-sleeve shirt tucked in, black pants that showcase his firm ass and thick thighs, and once again, he’s setting off a desire inside me that needs to stay locked up until after this appointment.

“Amelie Boudreaux,” my name is called out. Boston turns around, and I watch the entire process as fierce protectiveness is written all over him. I nod, mouthing,I’m okay. This is normal.Either he really is right about his father, or the man has another worry, one he hasn’t spoken about.

“Hi,” I tell the nurse, stepping toward her.

“Hi, this will only take a minute. We’re going to do a urinalysis, then we’ll call you back to a room once it’s run and a room is available,” she explains. I feel Boston’s arm slide around my lower back.

“Thank you.” I take a step to follow her, feeling Boston take a step with me. “Boston, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” he responds,

“To pee in a cup. You can’t come with me.” I’m sure my cheeks are flush with color. The look he gives me, the cocking of an eyebrow, the uplift of his lip are all too telling. The man absolutely would follow me to the restroom and watch me pee in the most un-lady like manner if I’d let him.

“I can, Amelie, don’t test me on that. Go take care of your business. I’ll stand here and wait for you.” So much for stopping him from walking to the back of the office. The man is really going to stand outside the bathroom door, hearing me pee, fiddle with a specimen cup, and give me zero space. Jesus, what did I sign myself up for?

“Don’t worry, honey, he’s not the first one to do this. He won’t be the last.” The nurse hands me what I need. I huff out another breath of air, feeling like I’m a teenager in a snit about my curfew. Boston chuckles and mans his post. I ignore him. Damn alpha male pride; he’s really testing my will to live today. Of course, in my tirade, I try to open the restroom door with attitude. It doesn’t work out well for me with it being on a hinge and all; my dramatic ass is shown up by none other than wood. The automatic lights flicker on, and the door closes softly behind me. I roll my eyes. I’m well aware of the breath I’m holding, mainly because I’m trying to relax. Who knew going pee with the father of your child standing so close to door would give you stage freight? Me, that’s who. I release my breath. There’s no time like the present. I ignore the mirror. There’s no way I’m going to look at myself. Today has been a day, almost like a Monday, except it’s not. It’s just a normal day. I should be doing normal things. Morning sickness, fainting, telling Boston he’s going to be a father, dealing with my own father, yeah, it’s been one of those days.

I do what needs to be done as I follow the instructions that are printed in bold print right in front of the toilet, trying to block out the outside noise that comes through, going so far as to hum to hurry this along. A few moments later, the specimen cup is in the metal container that has a door on each side wedged between the walls, I’m washing my hands, and then I’m out the door.

“Everything okay?” Boston asks the loaded question.

“Your room is already available. I’m going to take your vitals, then the doctor will be in with you shortly.” The nurse saves the day from me word-vomiting all over Boston and how annoyed I am at the slightest provocation. We follow her into the next alcove. “First, we’ll take your weight, blood pressure, and temperature.” Without being told, Boston turns around, hands in his pockets. I’m thankful for one thing going my way. I was really worried my mouth was going to run away with me should he exert his dominance in watching how this whole thing goes down. I kick off my shoes. They probably don’t weigh a lot as it is, but every little bit helps. The nurse types it on her laptop, then I step off.

“You can turn around now,” I tell Boston, then sit down while she pulls the small cart from the corner, takes out the thermometer, places the probe beneath my tongue, and then takes my blood pressure. The cuff really does hurt as she pumps it full of air. My eyes are seeing stars. Boston must realize something is going to happen because the last thing I notice is him rushing toward me, hands cradling my head, before darkness consumes me.

TWELVE

Boston

“This better bea normal side effect of pregnancy,” I state to the doctor, unable to keep the worry from my tone. If this happens naturally, well, this will be the last child Amelie has. I’ll get a fucking vasectomy the second our child is born. My heart still hasn’t recovered as she returns to consciousness on the bed in the room her nurse pointed me toward. Carrying her wasn’t a hardship, and it was faster than the nurse, now known as Stacy, to get a wheelchair.

“Boston, stop being so grouchy and let Dr. Dana talk for a minute,” Amelie says as if she wasn’t conked out only moments ago.

“This can be very normal during your first trimester of pregnancy. A drop in blood pressure, low sugar levels, it can be a domino effect in her fainting spells. What’s the last thing you had to eat?”

“Tea and toast earlier this morning.” Dr. Dana hums in response, looking over her chart on the laptop. I’m tempted to call Ezra and ask him to hack into the hospital and give me all of Amelie’s reports, find a doctor of my choice, preferably one I can fly in from New York to get the real answers.

“That could have a lot to do with it. Are you feeling any dizziness, nausea, vomiting?” I snort, trying to keep my mouth shut while the two of them talk, but knowing Amelie, she’ll try and shrug it off.

“Nausea, definitely. The smell of eggs has me rolling.” She leaves off the other important parts.

“She fainted earlier today, and not so much vomiting. Dry heaving, yes, but she had nothing to get up.” Amelie’s gaze shifts to me.

“There is that, too,” she finally admits to the doctor exactly what happened.

“Ah, okay. Well, morning sickness, unable to keep food or liquids down, can result in your sugar and blood pressure dropping. I’m going to prescribe you an anti-nausea medicine to take as needed. A lot of expectant mothers keep crackers and a lemon-lime soda of sorts on their nightstand, swearing they eat it before their feet touch the ground helps a lot. Now, judging by your last menstrual cycle, you’re about seven weeks along. Would you like to hear your child’s heartbeat?” Amelie’s face gets soft. Part of the questionnaire she had to answer was about her options and what she’d like to choose. I watched out of the corner of my eye, a churning in my gut at the potential of her changing her mind. It eased when she put a check mark bychildbirth.

“Yes, and yes to the medicine, but I’m also going to try the cracker and soda route first. This guy will no doubt hover over me for the next however many months.”

“Wrong. Try years, Amelie. I’m not going anywhere, not today, not tomorrow, not ever, and not because you’re the mother of our child either.” Amelie’s eyes fill with tears. It doesn’t matter that we’re in a room with her doctor; she needed to hear with her own ears that I’m not leaving her. She’s it for me, and once a few things are cleared between us, she’ll hear the words I once told her while she was sleeping.

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