Page 74 of Geordie

I've asked him to do this my way because I'm not healed from the last man who betrayed me. “If you don't want to be a part of this portion of the conception, I'll understand. It's simple: I don't want to be alone.”

I take a place on the bed, the pillow beside me. He looms over me, brooding, powerful, like a romantic figure from another time.

“What do you want of me?”

“Fetch the syringe,” I say, throwing a hand in the direction of the stool.

Pivoting, he stretches out a hand, gripping it in his palm, and, coming around to the foot of the bed, he holds it like a doctor ready to begin a procedure. We read the instructions together when we received the kit a few days ago.

“Do you remember how to do the insemination?”

“Aye,” he murmurs, tearing his attention away from my prone body, studying his thumb grazing the top of the syringe. “I read the directions again in my bedroom before…” he starts, his words trailing off, probably remembering what he did to have his come in his hand. “They advised to administer it slow and steady to avoid spillage.”

I move inches away from the headboard, and the bed dips as he rests his knee on the mattress. My heels dig in, wedged against my bum, legs pressed together.

He peers at me over the tops of my knees, eyebrows slanted. “No need to be nervous, mo luaidh,” he says, slipping a big, warm hand between my inner thighs, encouraging them open as shivers wind through me. “I'll be gentle; this is our future I have in my hand. Take a wee breath… it will help you to relax.”

I take a ragged breath, his hand stroking my trembling legs that haven't given him entry. The playlist has ended, but Geordie begins singing softly an old Gaelic lament.

“What are you singing?”

“Something you'd sing to a child to lull them to sleep or calm their distress. Did your granny not sing to you at bedtime?”

“A few times, but it was too long ago to remember.”

He goes on in his rumbling baritone, the song a little above a whisper, slipping his hand down, me giving way to his touch.

I've heard the tune before, but I don't know the words. I hum weakly along with him. He nods, giving me a half-smile for my efforts to relax.

His hand exerts a soft pressure to open wider; I obey his silent request and expose myself to him. His hand sails down, covering my mound, then tenderly opens my labia, sliding a finger through my warm moisture, a distracting motion until the finger passes over my sensitive clit, and a gasp escapes my lips as my hips buck.

He glances up from his work. “Are you ready, mo luaidh?” His finger is teasing the entry to my pussy.

“I am,” I exhale.

He pushes a finger into my pussy, my breath quickens, and heat flushes my cheeks as if anticipating a race. The slow in and out of his finger lasts for a few moments, my hips moving with the rhythm until it's replaced by the rigid injector. I settle back as the gradual flow of warmth drifts into me. I watch Geordie's lips grow thin with determined intensity, and a wave of emotion with what he's doing overtakes me.

The syringe withdraws, followed by a tiny bit of come hitting my thigh and I imagine the little strong MacTavish swimmers fighting to get to my egg. He closes my knees and places the pillow under my hips. Geordie stands at the bedside, the tip of the plastic injector pointing down, a drop of come falling to the floor.

“I'll leave you, lass, to rest your thirty minutes. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Would you fetch my vibrator from the top drawer of my dresser?”

He frowns, not pleased with the request, taking a moment to consider, then places the injector on the table. There's a thump as his knees hit the ground, elbows on the bed, gathering my hand in his. “You don't need that cold, thoughtless pleasure contraption. I'm here… use me instead.”

An orgasm will open up my body to help more sperm reach my egg, but haven't I imposed on him enough with this strange ritual? Geordie understands too well what's needed at this moment. When I read the instructions out loud to him the day we received the kit, he made no comment about the suggestion at the end of the pamphlet to have an orgasm after the injection. He just asked when we could do the procedure.

“I won't enter you, but you'll get your release,” he says, running a thumb over the inside of my palm, with surprising effects to my insides.

I stare at him, deciding what should be done. Giving me the injection was a big ask, but to help me orgasm… that seems cruel.

“I won't betray your trust. I couldn't. I only ask that you let me do it my way.” He's solemn in his request, as if he's taking on a sacred duty—and it is. He wants to ensure I conceive as much as I do, that's all.

I close my eyes, not wanting to make the decision based on the hope in his eyes, but what's best for us, for the child. He's done everything I asked. I press his hand and whisper, “Yes.”

“Thank you,” he says, pushing away from the bed as I prop onto my elbows. The change is abrupt; he wastes no time to begin ridding himself of the last barrier between us. In an easy motion, his shorts are on the floor, abandoned. I've seen him naked when he was injured on the bathroom floor, but he wasn't displaying an inconvenient, thick erection that's pointed at me. There's a tug of worry this will go wrong. I know he'll keep his promise not to enter me, but what the fuck have I unleashed? What am I to do about his obvious need? He takes his place stretched alongside of me on the bed, his cock insistent at my thigh, hand stroking my hair away from my eyes. His face is close, his breath on my cheek. “Tha thu bòidheach, Lily,” he sighs.

“What did you say?” I ask, moving back a little from his touch.

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