BEDTIME STORIES 5: HELLO, BEAUTIFUL STRANGER
By DixieHellcat
I was excited, and anxious, and I thought I might just have morning sickness even though it was nearly five o’clock in the evening. I waddled around the house in as close to haste as I could manage, considering I was seven months pregnant and almost couldn’t see my feet anymore. This meant, of course, that on top of the extra load I was carrying, I was especially prone to tripping over anything Clay or I had left lying around; thus I had to slow down even more.
Every little thing about the day that could go wrong had, from the toilet overflowing, to the clasp on my favorite necklace breaking, to the neighbor’s cat crawling up in the dryer vent and nearly setting itself, the dryer, and not incidentally our house ablaze. I’m not one for believing in omens, but a part of me was glad Clay had left home early that morning; he could prepare for his performance tonight with all the calm he would need. This was a biggie. Tonight was his return to American Idol—his triumphant return, we hoped.
I was probably as surprised as he when the producers of the show phoned. We’d watched the show that season, sort of, as we always did, sort of. Early on, we’d noticed a tone-deaf little guy attempting to imitate Clay’s look from his original audition—glasses, striped shirt and so on. Only one thing was missing, which even Simon Cowell was obliged to point out: the guy couldn’t sing a note. Clay had chuckled, and even admitted he was a bit touched by the kid’s nerve, but we’d thought no more of it beyond then. Now, 19 Entertainment’s bigwigs had called out of the blue, with plans to bring in some of the viewers’ favorite flops for the season finale. The Clay wannabe, whose name was Michael, had at some point during his audition commented that his dream was to one day sing with his hero. Would Clay be willing to go for it?
Clay was delighted. I approached the idea with more trepidation. Idol had not always been kind to him; I privately suspected that was partly because he had escaped their contractual clutches early, and cost them a good deal of money which was now his rather than theirs. It wasn’t unreasonable for me to worry they intended to mock both the failed auditioner and his role model in one fell swoop. I voiced my concerns to Clay, and he listened with a thoughtful air. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But if that’s the case, we’ll just have to make sure the Clay Aiken they think they’re gonna make fun of isn’t the one who shows up, right?”
I was baffled at first, but Clay was steadfast; Idol was going to get one big surprise. After fits and starts, his new CD, the first in quite a while, was chugging toward completion. It was a new direction for him, blending classic songs and a modern style, and he wanted a new look to go with it: redefining himself, he liked to say. He had let his famous spikes grow completely out, and his stylist had even brought over a half-dozen wigs for him to try, before deciding what to do with his hair. I laughed till I got hiccups at the sight of him bouncing around the house with everything from a pageboy to a dead squirrel on his head. (Okay, it wasn’t a dead squirrel, not really. I’m a novelist, for heaven’s sake. Allow me some poetic license, won’t you?)
Whatever was percolating in his devious brain, he had kept it secret even from me, and tonight was the night to spring it on unsuspecting millions. Clay Nation was already about to melt down with speculations and worries about the CD, about the hints he’d dropped, about the general lack of Clack. Yes, I speak their language. Tonight was the night—and I was running very, very late. Clay had wanted me backstage with him, wherever his ‘backstage’ was going to be—he’d implied he might not even dress in the Kodak Theater itself, but nearby. I was trying to peer down past the soccer ball-sized protrusion from my abdomen when my cell rang. “Claaay, I can’t find my other shoe!” I wailed by way of greeting.
“Wow. Hello to you too, Ari.”
“I’m sorry, baby. This day has been—well, you don’t want to know. I’ll hustle though, and I’ll be there before they go live, I promise. Now, will you finally tell me what the big surprise is?”
“No,” he snickered.
“Aargh! For a guy who hates secrets, you’re very good at keeping them.”
“The nature of the business, darlin’. And don’t hustle! I’d rather have you and my daughter here late than not at all.” I looked down again at the soccer ball, that in a couple of months would be revealed, we prayed, as a perfect beautiful baby girl. Our baby girl, at last. “Just remember to check the Tivo. Everything’ll be fine.”
‘Yeah, but I want to be there for you.”
“You are, Arianne. You always are.”
I closed my eyes against the sting of tears, thankful for his words. “I love you so much, Clay. I want tonight to be perfect for you.”
“It will be. Especially once I see Simon’s jaw hit the judges’ table. You calm down now. I know you’re all awash in those pregnant woman hormones and all.”
“I am not!” I retorted hotly, even though I knew full well that he was right, and that the momentary flare of temper I was feeling was as much due to them as the tears of a few seconds before had been. For that matter, they also contributed to my bouts of extreme horniness that left me sated and Clay happily exhausted. “I’ll be careful, but I am going to hurry.”
“Careful is the important part. I love you, honey.”
Off the phone, I finally located the delinquent shoe and checked myself in the mirror. After a childhood of overweight, I had dreaded the growth of pregnancy and the changes it would bring, but the changes had been amazing. My skin, often prone to breakouts, was clear and luminous, and my hair shone and bounced. In short, I thought I looked pretty decent, and in a simple little black dress with purse and pumps to match, it went to downright cute, for a Weeble with an occasionally aching back. I patted my belly. “We’re going to hear your daddy sing tonight, baby girl,” I told it. “Yeah, I know, big deal, huh? He sings to you every night. But this is different. This’ll be amplified, and a lot of people will yell. We hope so, anyhow. It’s been a while since he’s performed, and this is extra special anyway, because it’s Idol.
“These are the people who told him he couldn’t be a superstar, so it’ll be especially nice to see them have to eat their words. Wonder if they’ll be serving crow at the after-party—“ I was interrupted when the doorbell rang.
A familiar thin figure in fashionably baggy jeans and a tube top stood on the porch. “Hi, Jessie,” I greeted her; the teenage daughter of friends, she checked on our house, gathered the mail and cut the grass and so on, when both Clay and I were out of town. “What’s up?”
“Um, hi, Mrs. Aiken. I dunno, I just got out of school and I was driving around, and I thought maybe I’d come see you.”
I suppressed a sigh, and made myself smile. “Come on in, if you don’t mind chasing me around the house. I need to be downtown in a little while.” She followed me into the bathroom, and I lowered my voice as I lowered myself onto my vanity stool. “This is top secret, but Clay’s singing at the Idol finale tonight.”
Jessie brightened marginally, and we chatted lightly while I finished my makeup. I was just about to grab my purse and walk her out when she burst out, “Mrs. Aiken, can I ask you something? Would—would you miss me if I was gone?”
“Well—yeah!” I replied, surprised. “I mean, Clay and I know you’ll be graduating next spring, and probably going off to college, so we’ll have to find somebody else to help us out—and believe you me, we’re not looking forward to that! You’re so conscientious. Like when you pruned our bushes, even though we didn’t ask you to. Or that time you smelled something and went through the whole house till you found the flatiron Clay left plugged in, before it burned the house down. You’re very special to us, Jessie. Of course we’d miss you! But are you leaving sooner? Are your parents moving, or something?”
She shook her head, raked her long unkempt curls out of her face and opened her mouth as though to say something. Instead she burst into tears, and I hauled myself up from the stool and set her down. “They just don’t understand. My parents I mean. I tell them stuff and they say ‘oh it’s nothing’, but it’s something to me! Even if it’s little stuff, like pimples, or hair. And Winston broke up with me today ‘cause he saw me talking to Carlos. I was trying to be nice since Carlos is new, but Winston wouldn’t listen either. Nobody listens. And I drove around in the hills and I stopped and looked over the rail, and the drop off looked like a mile, and I thought I might as well not exist for all the attention anybody pays to me, and nobody would even notice if I drove off there and died—“ I choked and hugged her, shaking my head in negation. “Yeah, I know it sounds awful, doesn’t it? I know it does. So I started thinking about reasons I didn’t want to die, ‘cause I really don’t.” She tilted her tear-reddened face up to look at me, then patted my intrusive belly. “And then I thought about you, and Mr. Aiken, ‘cause I really want to see your baby, and I hoped maybe I could baby-sit for you sometimes. I like babies a lot.”
‘Oh, absolutely, honey. We wouldn’t trust our baby to just anybody, but to you, I think so. Those kinds of feelings aren’t abnormal, you know, but you’re especially smart to realize they aren’t things to act on. Your parents—I think they’re trying to tell you things they think are true, and they think will help. No matter how it comes out of their mouths, their hearts are wanting to help. Take it from somebody who had a lot of parent trouble back in the day.” Jessie listened intently, as though she’d never had this kind of talk from an adult. “They’re not perfect, but they do love you.
“Now,” I continued, “as for mister Winston—you want a little unsolicited advice, girl to girl?” She swiped at her runny nose and grinned with excitement at being treated as a woman and an equal. “When Clay and I first met, we didn’t communicate very well. I made assumptions about how he felt about me, based on how I interpreted things he did. He did the same about me. And we were both wrong, and we didn’t know it until we talked some things out. If we hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be together. People say all the time that communication is important, but I’ve lived it. I know it. So, my suggestion is that you tell Winston what you just told me. If he says he doesn’t want to talk about it, tell him that’s fine, but that he does need to respect you enough to hear you out. And if he doesn’t want to communicate, he’s not the kind of boy you want to get too deeply involved with. You might tell him that, while you’re at it, too.”
Her eyes widened. “But I love him. I don’t want another guy. I never even notice if other guys are cute anymore, since I’ve been dating him.”
“You’re young, Jessie. You have time to look for a boy who has the qualities that will make him a good man, and the right man for you. I seriously doubt Winston is the only boy you’re going to love. That being said, though, if you do care about him, you want him to know it, and to know that you weren’t showing interest in another boy. If for no other reason than to make sure he kicks himself over giving you up,” I added archly.
She giggled, then looked at the clock on the vanity and gasped. “Omigod, you’re gonna be late!!”
Damn, it was late, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t very well have left a potentially suicidal child on my doorstep to get to a TV broadcast. There are priorities in life. I phoned Clay while driving down the street, and he concurred. “I hate to not be there to help you get ready!” I mourned.
“Well…actually, I wasn’t gonna let you help me get ready. I want you to be as surprised as the rest of the planet, just a few minutes earlier.”
“That’s not likely, considering I’ve seen every look you’ve tried—“ My commentary was cut off by an extremely evil snicker. “Clay? What the devil are you up to? What, did you shave your head?”
Now he was chortling out loud. “I think you’ll like it,” was all he would say, no matter how I threatened. “I’m not in the theater, by the way; I’m next door in the annex, so nobody sees me till the last minute. I go on at 6:15 or so.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
But I wasn’t. LA traffic is bad enough under the best circumstances, but the snarl I ran into on the only road in or out of our neighborhood was legendary. I crept along till I passed the cause, a single-car crash surrounded by emergency vehicles. I shuddered, thankful again I’d stopped to talk to Jessie. Sure, she was a kid, but I remember feeling abandoned and misunderstood as a kid too, and for far too long. We had more in common than that too, I thought with a hint of smugness; I knew how it felt to see one man and lose all desire to ever look at another. No male had aroused me in the slightest since the morning I literally bumped heads with Clay Aiken.
I still had a few minutes to spare; the show had already started, but I had to admit I didn’t care all that much about the show. In fact, I was arguing with myself over leaving right after Clay sang; but the point became moot when the traffic thickened again to a solid standstill. I glanced at my watch, and realized with sinking heart that Clay was on, right then. All I could do was fume, and pray it went well, and whatever bombshell he had planned had detonated as expected. He talked a good game, but I knew returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, had made him more nervous than he would admit, even to me. I should have been there for him, and I wasn’t.
When I finally got him on the phone again I was nearly in tears. “Ari, it’s okay!” he insisted. “It went great. Michael was so excited. I felt really good that I agreed to do it. And the audience liked it too. So don’t worry. Just meet me at the party.”
I screeched to a halt at the hotel where the after-party was being held. It would be nice to say I raced inside, but nobody seven months pregnant races anywhere. (Just for the record, by the way, pregnancy has a far more drastic effect on breathing than wearing a corset.) I waddled as fast as I could through the hotel lobby, scanning the crowd as I reached the party room. Nobody noticed me, which was fine by me. Some fans of Clay’s singing are also fans of my writing, but the fact that the two groups don’t totally cross over gives both of us breaks from the spotlight. For some couples where both partners have some fame, I guess that could be a problem; for us, it’s a blessing.
I didn’t feel very blessed just then though, because I couldn’t see Clay anywhere. The people brushing past me at the door were buzzing, a few about Prince’s unexpected performance; I was almost as ticked about missing him as I was about missing Clay…almost. A lot of the buzz was about Clay though, far more than I had dared hope, and it was intriguing, and very, very good.
“He walked out and I went ‘who the fuck is that?’” said one man nearby to a friend. “Then he opened his mouth and I went ‘that is NOT fuckin’ Clay Aiken!!’ but it was!”
“Did you see Seacrest?” laughed the other man. “Swear to God, I don’t even think he knew him!”
What in heaven’s name had my husband pulled? And where was he? I didn’t bother to check the poolside bar, which I could see through open doors from the party rooms; Clay wouldn’t be that close to water anyway, but as an added repellent, Simon Cowell was holding court there, and he did not look particularly pleased. I took that as another indicator that Clay’s own assessment of his performance had been dead on. In general, anything good for Clay did not make Simon happy. Sour grapes didn’t look good on the Brit.
I slipped through the throngs of chattering people in the dimly lit room, toward an explosion of flashbulbs, realizing I didn’t even know who had been named the new Idol. Stopping someone to ask never entered my mind. Let the tabs find out I wasn’t here for the show, and the next thing you know they’ll have me dumping Clay and running off to the Orient with some guy.
Actually, there were two focuses of the press and cameras. A few hovered around a tall gray-haired man I recognized as Taylor Hicks, one of the two Idol finalists. So he had won. The fan in me, who enjoyed his bluesy voice and irrepressible stage presence, was glad for him; the realist, who knew what a straitjacket an Idol contract was, hoped he’d weather it.
The lion’s share of the media attention, however, was a short distance away. I watched from a discreet distance as they swarmed around a man who, from the rear at least, looked vaguely Asian, except rather too tall. Though his back was to me, I could tell the brown suit he wore was expensive and impeccably tailored. Broad shoulders set it off perfectly. Between talk and music, the noise level was far too loud to pick out voices even at my short remove, but as I watched—no, I admit it, stared—his head went back as if in laughter, and then flicked to one side slightly. His glossy hair, a deep chestnut brown, was collar-long, and I found myself imagining one recalcitrant lock falling into his face when he laughed, and being tossed aside—
I jerked myself up short. What the hell was I doing? I, who so prided myself on the faithfulness of my heart, was standing here all but drooling over a total stranger whose face I hadn’t even seen. I fought to rein in the mad impulse that made me want to see his hands, to see if they were big and capable to match his confident stance, and made me wonder what his ass looked like under that pricey suit jacket. Maybe it was just the raging hormone gumbo in my body, I told myself, but the shock and self-revulsion hit me hard. And still, I could not tear myself away. Frozen, locked in conflict, I watched a girl approach him. Sweet Jesus, it was Paris Hilton. She giggled and cooed and preened. He lowered his ear to her tiny height to listen, then tossed his head again and turned away as though in dismissal, so male and so self-possessed it left me weak.
I was not, however, weak enough to fail to realize what I must do. I had to find Clay, I thought, and then with the next breath knew I couldn’t. There was no way I could face my beloved, look into his sweet face alight with triumph, and know I had betrayed him, even if only in my thoughts. I turned, shaking, and forced myself to move as quickly as I could toward the door. When I reached it, I resisted the impulse to look back, and lost. I turned, and it was my undoing. Across the room, the hunky stranger was still the center of attention, but someone standing near him saw me look. He spoke, and the stranger’s head jerked, and he began to turn.
Seized by terror, I stumbled, then righted my prodigious self. I was wrong—women in my condition could indeed run, if need drove them hard enough. Even as I told myself how foolish I was for thinking he would show enough curiosity or interest to follow me, I fled him, and did not slow down till I pushed the hotel’s front doors open and staggered outside. I ducked around a corner of the building and stopped on the sidewalk leading to the parking lot. I had had a valet take my car, and I leaned against a pillar of the hotel’s side porch while I fumbled for the claim check. Should I find a secluded place to sit for a moment till my legs ceased their shaking? No; I couldn’t risk the man catching up to me. I would go home, if I could bear to do it, if I could bear to look at myself in the rear view mirror. Even now, the dark-haired stranger’s image haunted me, taunted me. I had been so self-righteous, and now I found I was a big a slut as there was to be found anywhere in LA. I covered my face with my hands, tried not to moan—and then screamed out loud when arms encircled me from behind.
“There you are!” Clay’s relieved voice said in my ear. “About time!’ he added without a trace of condemnation for my tardiness. His embrace tightened around me, his clasped hands settling atop my swollen belly. I could not move, or speak. I couldn’t even look down—I was carrying Clay’s baby, and had just made an utter fool of myself in public over another man. Shame choked me. “Ari? Are you okay? You’re not feelin’ sick, are you? I told you not to rush so, and get all upset!”
His hands moved to my hips to turn me around. For a moment I wanted to resist, knowing I could not contain my emotions once his eyes met mine; they held such power, and such truth. It was useless to hold out, though. I would have to face my sin in any event, and better sooner than later. I turned…and could barely see his eyes for the hair hanging in them: long, softly feathered bangs, dark chestnut brown. It was as if Clay’s face had been superimposed onto the body of the luscious fantasy stranger. I took a startled breath. Whatever came out with it, be it anger at his secrecy or some lie to reassure him, I would live with.
What came out was a sob, and then another as I cast myself into his arms. I did get some words out, eventually; quite a few babbled words, and I guess I babbled everything I had felt and fought these last few frantic minutes. Clay held me close and shifted from foot to foot to rock and soothe me.
“Ari, calm down darlin’. Please don’t cry! It’s my fault for not tellin’ you, but it looked pretty good I thought, and you love surprises, and I love surprisin’ you…” I sniffled, and he stroked my hair. “You got all upset with yourself because you didn’t see it was me, but you still thought I looked hot?” he laughed. He laughed. The little shit thought it was funny. “That’s nothin’ to be upset about. I figure your brain didn’t recognize me, but your body did. See?”
“That’s a charitable way to put it,” I snuffed. “You’re far kinder to me than I probably deserve.”
“Oh, hush.” He squeezed me gently, and then relaxed his hold when I stepped back to take in the total picture. From the hip new hairdo to the flawlessly fitting suit to the fine new boots, it was one pretty picture, especially with his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“People must’ve passed out when you came onto the stage, especially since they were probably expecting what you looked like on Idol.”
“Little Michael almost did pass out,” Clay grinned. “And Ryan swore he didn’t know it was me at first—he thought it was an imposter lip syncin’.” His grin turned snarky. “If they really thought they’d make a joke of this, the joke ended up bein’ on them.”
“Serves ‘em right,” I returned. “Hello, you beautiful stranger.” We kissed, and I ran my fingers up into his hair. It had been growing out for some time while he debated what to do with it, but it had been a fairly shapeless, if very soft, mess. This cut, done this very day, was marvelous; the layers flew and fell perfectly around his face and across his forehead, and suddenly I was overcome with the need to see what it would look like damp with the sweat of lovemaking. “How much longer did you plan to stay at the party?” I inquired, attempting to sound casual.
Evidently, my attempt was not successful, as a lecherous grin crept across Clay’s face to match the wicked glint in his eyes. “Now, Arianne, you know I’m not big on parties.”
“Ah, yes. Then I take it that means I won’t have to grab that fine-looking tie you’re wearing and drag you to the car by it.”
“Hey, this tie is Paul Smith. $125. Don’t be grabbin’ it like it’s some nylon leash you bought at Pet Smart for six bucks.”
I started to laugh at that image. “Then don’t make me.”
“I won’t.” His arms went around me again, this time with an air of taking possession, and his kiss was anything but joking. How had I been so blessed to find a man who, on top of his other glorious qualities, found my big pregnant self irresistible? “Let’s go.”
He’d left his car at his manager’s office to ride to the theater with stylist and wardrobe, he told me, in a big SUV with tinted windows, the better to conceal his presence. Simon’s look of dyspepsia made complete sense now. Michael, the Idol reject, had burst into frank tears when Clay appeared, and Clay confessed he’d laughed, and hoped it hadn’t hurt the boy’s feelings. I told him I’d watch the video before giving an opinion.
I actually did as soon as we got home; even though I was seriously horny, curiosity was killing me, and I couldn’t wait another minute to see what I’d missed. “Oh, Clay! No, you couldn’t have offended him. Look at him! You made a dream come true for him, in front of millions of people. Even Ryan’s laughing, but not at him, I think. Just because he’s so cute, and excited and uncontained about it. Who wouldn’t see his joy and laugh?”
“Simon,” Clay snorted.
“Not counting Simon. Simon always looks like he’s been eating green persimmons, as one of my uncles used to say.”
The snort became a cackle. “Not a bad description. Although when I walked on the stage, he was messin’ with some stuff, and then he looked up right at me and went totally still. I looked right at him, and his face was just slack from shock. He sat there the whole time, stiff as a board.”
“He’s the only one,” I said happily as I watched the theater explode. Everyone leaped to their feet, and the shrieks never slackened from the instant Clay appeared till the show went to commercial. “You conquered the masses without firing a shot.”
“Mmm.” He stood from his seat beside me on the couch. “The only conquerin’ I really want to do right now is you.”
“Consider me conquered.” I admired him again. “Damn, you look good.” The way we dress up and role-play for fun, you’re think I’d be used to seeing him in different guises; but this was an altogether different animal. It felt as if one of our games had burst out of the confines of our home, as though we’d role-played in public, and the sensation was arousing in the extreme. “Seduce away, you handsome devil.”
He took the remote from my hands and helped me to my feet. We walked slowly to the bedroom, arms wrapped around each other. Once there, he set me securely on the bed, slid out of his suit jacket and squatted on the floor to slip my shoes off, so considerate. Of course, he followed his chivalry with a long bout of kissing and nibbling on my toes. Erogenous zones often get more erogenous during pregnancy, according to my doctor, but dammit, I hadn’t expected my entire body to turn into one big erogenous zone! I mean, as a general rule, I respond when Clay touches me no matter where he’s touching; but since I’d become pregnant, it seemed sometimes he could send me through the roof with desire just by a gesture as normal as rubbing my back, or stroking my neck…or kissing my toes. The glittering eyes measuring me from behind those artfully messy bangs undid me even further, especially when he pulled that fancy paisley tie loose and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar before nibbling his way up my bare legs. (I hate hose.)
By the time he reached my inner thighs, his shaggy head vanished behind the wall of my belly. “Clay—wait—“ He peered around, worry crinkling his brow. “I can’t see you…could you move the mirror over here? I love to see you loving me.” With a small smirk, he rolled my big old full-length glass over and positioned it for perfect viewing, before going to his knees and pushing my skirt up to my hips. I grabbed a double handful of his hair as he tasted me, that lush dark mane that made everything familiar suddenly fresh and new, gasping his name and throbbing with need.
Finally, when he decided enough was enough, he rose and helped me off with my clothes before removing the rest of his. The sight of the erect announcement of his desire set my heart pounding with love. The pounding only intensified when he crawled onto the bed beside me, kissing me all over. His hair brushed lightly across my moist skin, tickling my already eager nerve endings to new heights of arousal. “So, how do you want to do this?” he murmured at last, sitting up and clasping my hands again in his.
The logistics of making love around our impending arrival had become a challenging adventure. “I can lie down on my side and you can get in behind me…” That position had worked well as I’d grown; but I hesitated at a flicker of—dare I call it disappointment?—that crossed his face.
“Okay, if that’s best for you…I just miss seein’ your face when we do that,” he admitted quietly.
Tears rose in my eyes. “To be honest, I miss seeing yours too. Guess that means me on top.”
He grinned and flung himself across the bed spread-eagled. “Ravish me lady, I’m yours!”
With much giggling, I carefully straddled him. This late in my term, I could not take him very deeply, but the increase of blood flow in areas relevant to carrying a baby provided a delicious bonus that more than made up for that temporary lack: my sensitivity in those areas was exquisitely heightened.
Clay groaned softly when I settled onto him. “You feel so hot inside,” he breathed. “Have been ever since you got pregnant…mmm….aahh…” He bit his lip, shifted his hips and reached up to rake his bangs out of his eyes.
The noise that escaped me was part laugh and part moan. “Oh God, Clay. You do realize that every time I see you do that, every last time, as long as you wear your hair that way, no matter where we are, I’m probably going to think of this, and be overcome with a need to throw you down and have my way with you. You do realize that, don’t you, you sadist?”
He grinned fiercely, and caressed my belly and swollen breasts again. “Fair enough,” he growled, “since anything you do already makes me want to have my way with you.”
Bracing myself with his help, I began to move, slowly at first, then picking up a little speed. Our pants and grunts rose together until Clay arched and clutched my hips and cried my name, dark locks flying as he flung his head back against the pillows. I came hard on his heels, the spasms of climax setting my belly and its contents to vibrating for long moments after, as I lay myself beside him.
“Did we scare her?” he asked with a frown of concern. “We couldn’t start you into labor too soon, could we?”
“No, actually I read that sex late in pregnancy decreases the risk of premature delivery. So it’s a good thing. She’s more likely wondering what’s got mama’s heart racing.” I spoke in the general direction of my belly button. “Hopefully one day, baby girl, you’ll find a boy you love so much he makes your heart race the way your daddy does your mama.”
Against his newly darkened hair, Clay’s blush looked different, but equally pleasing. He stroked my belly absently, reflexively, as if not fully aware he was doing it. “It’s still hard to believe we’re gonna be parents. What if I’m a terrible dad?”
“No chance,” I assured him. “If the way you’ve treated me is any indication, you’ll spoil this baby rotten. Probably spring all sorts of wonderful surprises on her.” He laughed under his breath, and I lay and looked at him, unable to tear my gaze away. Those bangs were made for his sparkling eyes to gaze out from behind them in the heavy-lidded languor of a lover satisfied. (And in reference to my earlier suspicions: yes, they looked especially sexy damp with love sweat, curling slightly on his forehead.) The new look didn’t make me love him more, but the novelty of it certainly upped the hotness factor, in some strange way: the familiar, spiced with a whiff of mystery. I wonder if he felt this way the first time I wore a corset for him, I thought and swallowed a private giggle. “I love you, you know.”
“I know. And I love you. And I love our soon to be new arrival.”
“Yeah.” We lay quietly on our sides for a few minutes, looking into each other’s eyes, until the aforementioned decided to kick some internal organ of mine, just enough to get my attention. I addressed my navel again. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to hear your daddy perform, sweetie, but I bet he’ll make it up to you.”
“You bet,” he grinned. “Command performance.” I lay back and closed my eyes, drifting on the waves of the song he sang to our unborn daughter. “I never thought, through love that we’d make one as lovely as she, Isn’t she lovely, made of love…”
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A big salute to Commander Gwynhwyfyr of the WMS for inspiring the title.
You can contact the author at theleewit@mindspring.com.