“Do we need to stop?” he asks, his voice low.
No, everything in me answers.
“I’m on the pill,” I choke out.
He nods thoughtfully. “I’ve been tested since my last time. All clear,” Bo says with an unmistakable desperation in his voice.
“Me too.” I nuzzle against his neck as he winds his hands around my waist and pulls me back onto his lap. “I don’t want to stop,” I say as he places kisses across my collarbone.
“Neither do I,” he answers.
Lulled with such adoring kisses, I eventually lower myself onto him completely bare. At first, we both remain perfectly still as I adjust to the stretch of him inside me. I feel him deeper than I thought possible, and while it’s not exactly uncomfortable, it steals my breath away and causes a shudder to pass through me. A throbbing ache needing to be satiated.
We do something between fucking and making love. Something new and a little bewildering, unlike any casual sex I’ve ever experienced. It’s not gentle, but it’s not entirely hedonistic either.
We fit together perfectly. Me, with my legs wrapped around his back. Him, a pillar of strength sitting at the centre of the bed. Bo’s hands travel up and down my spine, gripping the flesh of my hips, my ass, and my neck. My hands feast in his hair, trace his jaw, grip his shoulders.
We continue passionately kissing throughout. Biting when it’s all too much—lips and shoulders and jaws. Breathless gasps and moans exchanged, breathed into the other’s flushed skin and hair.
Eventually, we finish together, with his thumb on my clit and his teeth harsh against my jaw telling me—demanding me—to come. It’s incredible.
And yet, when I come back from cleaning myself up in the bathroom, Bo is half dressed and searching in the dark for his carelessly discarded belongings.
“Here,” I say, handing him one of the rings he so casually threw to the floor at the end of the bed.
“Thanks,” he says, smiling shyly at the ground between us as he slips it on.
It’s not that I expected him to stay afterward. We were both clear about what we were looking for. I, even more so. Nothing serious or permanent. Nothing long term. And I still feel that way.
But… I can’t help the sinking feeling that starts in my chest and creeps its way down my spine at the thought of sleeping alone after sharing such a vulnerable time together. I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t nearly as unique for him to experience such great sex. If I wasn’t as good for him as he was for me.
I cover myself with a bed sheet and watch as he effortlessly buttons his shirt back up.
Once dressed, he stills. He pats his pants for phone, or keys, or wallet, and nods to himself. Eventually, he looks at me with hesitancy heavy across his features.
“Thank you,” he says, reaching for my left hand. He bends over to kiss it, his eyes looking up at me. “I can’t entirely explain what this meant to me,” he swallows thickly, “but thank you, Win…”
I nod, unsure of what to say. Nervous that the word stay might escape my lips if I answer him. I lower to sit on the mattress as he grabs one last thing off the chair in the far corner of the room and walks toward the door without looking back.
After shutting off the lights, I fall against the pillows and begin convincing myself that this is definitely for the best. The last time I felt this sort of immediate connection with someone, the effortless back and forth, the rush of excitement followed by great sex, I landed myself in a horrible place.
Jack had been kind at first too. Sweet. Funny. Generous in bed. If he was entirely horrible, I wouldn’t have given him the chance to crush me like he did. That’s how men get you. A false sense of comfort, and then boom—ten months later you’re telling people you have allergies to avoid explaining your red-rimmed eyes again.
And, like my mother, I’m far too soft hearted. Often too eager to see the best in people. Too attached to leave when I should. Too scared of being alone.
And I do struggle with the idea of being alone forever. But that’s even more reason to keep it that way, I think. What’s worse than a woman who can’t enjoy her own company? Independence is a virtue, and one that is best learned without too many hard lessons.
My logic will always have to reconcile against my foolish, helpless heart. And I think logic will win in the end. I can make sure of that.
So I shut my eyes and will myself to sleep well. Determined to not lose sleep over any man. No matter how wonderful he may seem.
CHAPTER 5
Six Weeks Later
“Pregnant?” I ask through hysterical laughter. Doctor Salim stares at me with increasing concern as I spiral further. “No way. Nope! No-no-no. Check again. Run back the tapes. Recount the votes. Something is wrong here.”
The doctor takes a deep breath in as she sits straighter, poised like the impressive woman she is. She at least pretends to look over the papers in her hand again—the folder she must have mistaken as mine. “Win, bloodwork does not lie. If your last period was October sixteenth, that’d make you about eight weeks along.”
“Winnifred McNulty,” I point to the top of the lab report, “is a more common name than you’d think.” I swallow nervously. “The labs probably switched my results with someone else.” That’s it. That has to be it.
We’re interrupted by the sound of a swift knock, followed by the arrival of a disembodied hand through the crack of the door—presumably attached to the nurse who made me pee in a cup. Another sheet of paper is handed over. Those are not my friends today.
“Your urine sample was also positive for pregnancy,” the doctor says, adding another paper to my ever-growing folder. “Win.” She sets the file on her desk and places one leg over the other before resting her tightly clasped hands above her knee. “I take it this is somewhat of a surprise?”
“I’m on the pill,” I say, my voice far off. Perhaps my voice is somewhere with my body. My non-pregnant body. The one I had only minutes ago.
“No contraceptive is 100 percent effective against pregnancy.”
“I also use condoms,” I add.
“Every time?”
Shit, right. “Well, one time… no.” Before Halloween, I had a perfect record. Then Bo. The guy I’ve tried to push out of my thoughts since.
“One time about five to six weeks ago?” Doctor Salim asks, her patience momentarily lapsing.
“About that, yes,” I reply, snarkier than intended. “Shit, sorry,” I whisper into my palms, covering my face. “I got knocked up by a pirate…” I say, my voice muffled by my hands.
“Sorry, what?” The doctor’s tone alerts me to the very unusual thing I just said.
I peek through my fingers at her. “It was Halloween. He was dressed as a pirate.”
“Oh.” She sighs. “Were you intimate with anyone else that same month or shortly thereafter?”
“No, just him.”
“The pirate?”
“Aye,” I whimper softly.
She gives me a this is not the time look that I’ve only previously gotten from my mother. “Well, you have the good fortune of knowing exactly when conception was, which sets your due date at about…” She picks up a circular cardboard device from her desk and rotates between dates. “July twenty-fourth.”