Page 73 of Geordie

“It’s the MacTavish training,” I mimic Granda, a tall, flinty man with a caustic brogue. “You, Lochlan, and Harris are to steward the MacTavish fortune until the next generation. See that you don’t fuck it up.”

Lochlan’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a chuckle rumbles from his chest, and I’m back in Scotland as a schoolboy inventing the next mischief with my cousin. Time can’t remain static, even if we’ve been inseparable since our parents died. We’re veering off into different paths, his journey more traditional than mine.

Lochlan’s concerned face turns toward me. “This deal about the baby you’ve discussed with Lily… there’s no way to change her terms? I’ve got to say that it’s the most sterile way to have a child.”

“Aye, no doubt the method is unorthodox, but imagine the brilliant child we’ll produce. This is the result we both want. When the baby is here, how she was conceived won’t matter.”

Lochlan’s lips draw tight, gaze dark, a sign that he’s battling with himself not to disapprove. He clamps his hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Geordie, and I support what you want to do, but don’t give away everything for this child. The way you begin is the way you end. No matter how she tries to isolate herself from you, Lily becomes one of us when she births the first baby of the next MacTavish generation. The woman has no idea what this means to us. Family is everything. That, you’ll have to teach her.”

He gives me a quick squeeze of my shoulder. The gesture conveys the love between us; it’s more powerful than words. In a distant section, the irrigation, with its mechanical clicking, releases water in short spurts, a signal that it’s time to head back to the office. “I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing.” We stroll shoulder to shoulder down the long path. “I’m not dazzled by a pretty face; my attorney will protect my rights.”

Chapter thirty-five

Turkey Baster

Lily

I'vedecoratedmybedroomat Geordie's apartment so that it reflects me. He's been indulgent, insisting that he escort me to furniture showrooms and cute home décor shops to find personal touches that will make my room in his apartment feel like home. In those times when we searched through shops together, it felt like we were a couple when we'd discuss my choices. He understood that I was determined to have a bastion of femininity in his overly masculine space.

We agreed not to work on the nursery, the empty room between us, until I've conceived. The parenting papers have been signed, and it's like a child custody agreement in reverse. He's even discussed plans to build a nursery and a mother's room at MacTavish Cellars for the employees, something I never would have expected to happen because we’re trying to have a baby.

All this prettiness around me doesn't lessen my nervousness as I sit on the edge of my bed. The door is open to a compilation of sexy music drifting into the room. I'm waiting for Geordie to appear. I pull the sash tighter, the short, silky robe brushing my naked skin. Nipples erect, warm moisture between my legs, the scent of my arousal underneath the floral scent from my bath water, I strain my ears, but hear nothing, fighting the urge to pleasure myself because I know that's what he's doing in his bedroom. I wonder how he's doing it, porn on his laptop, a stash of dirty pictures, or is he conjuring up past or future conquests? Thinking about it is enough for me to reach for the vibrator in my dresser. I glance at the place where the Rowdy Rabbit 1000 vibrator is resting among my undies. God, I'd hate for him to knock when I'm about to release.

The next song on the playlist isHaving my Babyby Paul Anka. I think Geordie insisted on this as a joke, although he was dead serious when he suggested the song. The words make me a little sad, that it wasn't selected by my husband, as a way of telling me how happy he is for us to have a child. I push the thought away that threatens to turn into melancholy. Having my baby this way was the right decision, even with this sappy song, which hasn't dampened my arousal. The strong image of Geordie's naked body pounding me into the mattress is enough of an enticement to take care of my aching pussy.

I can't believe I'm attracted to him, not just a little, a lot. Getting into his face the night I met him was like foreplay, and the more he took my abuse with his arrogant, amused face, the more I wanted to tear off that T-shirt for some hot, raunchy sex. The night in his bed was the worst; his power, his warmth, his scent was enough to turn to him, but he never took advantage of me. He's given every indication he wants me. What kind of man would curb his urges and agree not to touch me to have a child together? Is that love or desperation? I can't figure him out.

Stephen's betrayal has screwed with my head. He was the perfect guy for me until I discovered his real motives; now I'm afraid to trust.

A door opens and footsteps pad down the hall. The music has changed toNeed You Tonightby INXS. It was my choice when we put the playlist together. Maybe it's unlikely sweet baby-making music of love and commitment; it's more of finding someone to satisfy a raw sexual need.

I get to my feet, standing by the bed when he enters. Face flushed, auburn hair in his eyes, in shorts, his broad chest and shoulders are exposed. It sparks a strong need for me to want pleasure from him, not just to conceive. Then I catch the hopefulness in his eyes as he offers the large syringe filled with his essence, then I'm humbled by his gift.

I grasp his forearm for strength, squeezing my thanks, unable to say how much I love him for this, that he's willing to let me conceive on my terms. My fingers curl around the hard plastic syringe, and for a moment we hold the container together, one giving, the other receiving, until he releases and I'm holding his warm sperm in both hands.

Geordies stills, glancing down at me as I step away, hunger molding his handsome features as he spies my open robe. I don't grasp the fabric to my throat; he can look at the body that will carry his child. It's part of our baby-making ceremony we're creating.

He turns away, but I stop him. “We agreed that I would be inseminated, but I didn't say you couldn't be in the room during the process. I want you near me.” I take his hand, leading him to the bed, then place the syringe on books stacked on a low, roughhewed stool. He helps push the brown and white linen pillows off the bed. I could have gone frilly in this room, but I opted for a place that would be fitting for Mother Earth to conceive. I hold up the last pillow, which is covered in a brown, fur-like fabric. “I'll need this one to place under my hips.” The cushion feels soft under my touch, like the comfort of stroking a cat. He nods, looking strange in a place that doesn't look like it's part of his apartment or mine, a neutral space we created just for this purpose.

He sits, positioning himself, giving me most of the room on this queen-size bed, as I drop the pillow in the middle. I wish I had set up a camera to have a record of how our child was conceived. I don't think it's weird to want something to have with the rest of my treasures, like her first booties. My demand for an insemination was enough of an ask, I don't think I could have jarred Geordie's sensibilities any further with a request for a video.

Geordie waits, adjusting his weight on the low platform bed as I turn from him to place tonight in my memory. The clean white coverlet stretched over the bed; a light coffee-colored throw tipped with long, fringed tufts that’s been abandoned at the foot of the bed. A half-eaten cookie, a cup of tea on a table beside the bed. Walls that gleam white. No art, not yet. All the time we spent shopping in countless stores, I selected the bare minimum for this room.

My attention finally rests on Geordie. I give him a reassuring smile that my pause is only reflective and I have no second thoughts. “I just needed a minute to take everything in. I want to tell my children what happened tonight.”

“So, this might not be a one-off?” Geordie mumbles.

I reach for the tight band that holds my ponytail; the mass of dark hair falls about my shoulders. My fingers loosen the sash at my waist, the halves of the dressing gown open and, with the slightest of movement, it slips off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I've never been body conscious, it would be easier to do this naked instead of clutching at the dressing gown to try to preserve my modesty, if I had some.

He abandons his seat in a scramble, eyes narrowed, muttering words to god or a demon. “Tempting the devil, is it? You have too much confidence in my resolve, that I won't pull you onto this bed and impregnate you the way I want. I don't appreciate games, lass, I'm not here for a show.”

I offer my hand. “I took the robe off for convenience; it would just get in the way. I don't want you to watch, I want you to participate.”

“My participation is on the table,” he scoffs, pulling a hand through his hair. “You've made it clear that you won't accept my body.”

He's a beautiful man, loving, sincere, an awful tease, and insufferably arrogant. Stephen pulled me in the same way with a push me/pull you romance. I fell in love with a billionaire playboy who mended his life for me. With Geordie, it can't be a kiss, it didn't work out, I'll see you in my dreams relationship. A child will change everything. I'll be in his life forever.

There's enough frustration in his tense body that he might walk out. I know he wants me submitting to him on this bed or to turn me over his knee for a good spanking. I'm sure he can't make up his mind which he'd prefer… both probably.

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