I peek from the side of my eyes at him. He’s staring at me like I’ve just said the looniest thing on the planet. Then his expression shifts and it looks like he’s taken my words as a personal challenge.
“Oh no,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply that lots of other women didn’t enjoy it. I’m sure they did. I’m not saying that your two-year drought has anything to do with your lack of finesse or…”
Heat travels across my chest and my cheeks.
I lean back in my chair and look at him as carefully as you would a tiger stalking close to the bars of its cage. I feel like if I lean in he’s going to bite. I stare at the sharp angle of his jaw and the firm lines of his face. How have I never noticed how masculine he is? How was I fooled by the messy hair and the T-shirts? Looking at him now all I can see is his solid jaw, his wide shoulders, the six-pack I know is under his shirt, the strength of him and the heat of him and…I try not to fan myself at the sexual awareness that is licking at me.
He takes in the look on my face, then he narrows his eyes, “I’ll do it.”
I shake myself and pull out of the sticky, Jell-O thick lust that just rolled over me. I clear my throat. “Do, ummm, what?”
He smiles at me and his eyelids lower in a hooded, predatory gaze.
Oh no.
He’s turning on the once-famous, rip-off-your-panties, Josh Lewenthal charm.
“I’ll talk dirty to you.”
My lady parts clench and I re-cross my legs and squeeze them together.
“But—”
“Your friend Hannah told me if you orgasm after the transfer you’re more likely to get pregnant.”
What?
“She said what?”
He smiles and nods.
She also said that giving BJs and wearing crystal bracelets would improve your chances, but before I can tell him so, the door to the back opens and the nurse calls my name.
I lean back on the exam table and the paper covering crinkles beneath me. I’m in the usual get-up, the itchy hospital gown that ties in the back and leaves my bum exposed, and my legs are up in the stirrups. I still have to pee and the draft running over my needle-bruised bum is not pleasant, but…
I turn my head and smile at Josh.
He looks back at me with a serious expression on his face. Which is really un-Josh-like. He’s perched on a chair near the head of the exam table. The room is small and sterile and smells like nose-tickling antiseptic and cold stainless steel.
My heart knocks hard against my chest, sharp beats that thump nervously against my breastbone. I swallow and rub my clammy hands against the paper covering the table.
Dr. Ingraham stands at the foot of the exam table. He confirmed that I’m receiving my embryo, verified the chain of custody, etcetera, etcetera, we’re ready to go.
Josh lets out a long breath and leans toward me.
“You good?” he asks in a quiet voice, just for me.
I nod, because for some reason I can’t speak beyond the hard lump in my throat.
Dr. Ingraham clears his throat. “Alrighty. We’re ready to go. I’m going to insert the speculum now. I’ll wipe off the cervix, then place the catheter through the cervix. I’ll use the ultrasound to observe the catheter placement. Then, I’ll send a smaller catheter through the outer catheter and place your embryo inside the uterus. All set?”
I glance at Dr. Ingraham. He has everything ready to go.
I nod and say, “Mhmm.” That’s all I can manage.
Josh wrinkles his brow and looks more closely at me.
I blink quickly, because for some reason, there are tears pressing at the back of my eyes. Why the heck would I cry now of all times?
Josh scoots his chair closer to me and then, instead of whispering a joke like I think he’s going to do, he reaches up and takes my hand.
My stomach does a little flip. His grip is firm and his hand is warm and comforting. When he runs his thumb in a circle on my palm, my stomach twirls around with it. I take in a long, shaky breath.
Dr. Ingraham starts his thing. The ultrasound goop is on my belly, cold and slimy. It’s an abdominal ultrasound this time. He runs the device over my stomach and presses down on my abdomen to get a clear view. I can feel a weird pinchy sensation down below when he inserts the catheter, but otherwise, the biggest feeling is the urge to pee and my sore tush.
“Everything looks good. I’ve placed the catheter,” Dr. Ingraham says.
I keep my eyes on Josh and look at his familiar face, his dark eyes, his long eyelashes, his permanently upturned lips. He keeps ahold of my gaze, and just like his grip, his eyes are warm and reassuring.