Chapter 19
PREGNANCY CRAVINGS
I had a deep growing concern about how much I wanted Barry Wright. And I mean constantly. Between the flirting, the attentiveness to my needs, the scent of his cologne, his big hands on my back as he walked past me in the kitchen—it was all getting a little bit much.
And the sudden return of my libido was both startling and distressing.
The first trimester, I had a near-constant queasiness that made wanting to masturbate a rare occurrence.
Then, by the time I was feeling up to it again, Barry had moved in, so the only good times to myself were: one, when he showered (too quickly, by the way—hasn’t he ever heard of spending time chilling in the hot water?); two, when he was at practice (usually coincided with my post-work nap); or three, when he was traveling for away games.
The last option was best because then at least I could be sure I’d have the house to myself, no interruptions.
He didn’t have a road trip again until tomorrow, but he did have a team dinner he was expected at, and I was desperate, so I foolishly believed a nice session with my vibrator would go uninterrupted.
I thought he would be gone for hours yet, so I didn’t bother closing the bedroom door, only put some headphones on to listen to the audio erotica app Josie got me a subscription to for my birthday and got to work.
The audios turned me on sometimes, but usually only when I imagined Barry was the disembodied voice on the other side, which was problematic for my attempts to not be thinking about him like that.
This was well and good, but my ideal orgasm position was flat on my back, and you’re not supposed to lay flat on your back when you’re as pregnant as I was, so I had to be reclined on pillows, including the big pregnancy one.
And then there was the fact that reaching around my large belly was a little harder than it used to be—nothing about getting off alone was proving to be easy—and every time was more frustrating than the last, but I just kept getting hornier. The cycle was driving me insane.
Google said it was all the blood flow down there. Sure. Whatever it was, I was eleven minutes into attempting to find my bliss with no progress when I saw movement at my bedroom door and yelped.
My first thought was, reasonably, intruder, and my second thought was self-defense. At no point did I think roommate, or, I don’t know, Barry. Somehow this combination led me to throwing my vibrator as hard as I could in the direction of the door, where it landed against the chest of the intruder.
The intruder, I now saw, was indeed Barry. He grunted at the impact of the vibrator, and I scrambled up the bed, pulling a blanket across my naked legs and taking my headphones off.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, panting.
The vibrator was still on, buzzing against the floor, and I covered my eyes with my palm like if I closed my eyes this mortifying ordeal might not actually be happening. When I peered through my fingers, it, in fact, was still happening.
Barry stood in the doorway, looking with shock down at the still vibrating toy.
“Go!” I said, anguished.
“Right, fuck, I’m sorry,” he started in the direction of the baby’s room, then spun on his heel to go to the living room.
After ten seconds of wincing and inwardly groaning, I pulled a pair of shorts on and grabbed the vibrator, silencing it finally.
I tossed it into my drawer where I anticipated it would stay for the next six months because I’d probably be too mortified to ever attempt to masturbate again during this pregnancy, and then it would probably be months before I was allowed to after birth.
Right? I needed to research more about post-birth vaginal health.
I debated closing the door and staying in my room until he went to sleep, but that was many hours from now and I was already a little peckish.
No way would I be able to go that long without peeing, either.
The tiny girl I was growing loved kicking or punching my bladder, it was her new favorite in-womb trick.
“Hannah?” Barry called tentatively from the living room. I knocked my fist on my forehead ten times, silently chanting why, why, why, why.
“Please forget it,” I said.
The floorboards in the hallway creaked and I exhaled deeply, waiting for him to appear in my doorway again. A moment later, he did.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“You have no idea how little I want to talk about it.” I met his gaze, hoping to convey how serious I was.
A silent moment passed before I groaned and, against all odds, started laughing.
Barry did too, his hand bracing him on the doorframe, and I lay back down on the bed while we laughed at the sheer humiliation and awkwardness of the situation.
“What were you listening to that you didn’t hear me yell when I came home?” Barry asked, both of us still laughing, but calming down marginally.
“Just like a dude moaning,” I admitted, setting off a new bout of giggles. “Please, I am begging you to just bleach the horrible image of me trying to get off while seven months pregnant out of your mind.”
Barry sat on the edge of my bed, his weight making me sink a little closer to him until my shin was touching his thigh. I thought it would be weirder to pull away from the contact so I stayed unmoving.
“It was not a horrible image,” Barry said.
I made a high-pitched sound and covered my face with both hands.
“Barry.”
“What? Come on.” He pulled one of my hands away from my face so I would look at him. I complied, but I was sure I was fire-truck red. “I’m not saying I saw anything in the split second before you threw your vibrator at me, but if I had seen something, it would have been, surely, very hot.”
I turned my head so my face was pressed against the blanket and groaned again. He laughed and grabbed my calf, shaking it lightly.
“I’m serious! It’s a compliment, you’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled into the mattress, then turned to him again. His closed-lip smile pressing into his cheeks made me feel better. When did he become such a source of comfort for me? Someone so steady? “That’s nice of you to say.”
He shook my leg harder, making me laugh again.
“Are you calling me a liar, Harvey? You think I’d lie about the very serious topic of how sexy you are?”
I gasped and lightly kicked him.
“Barry!”
“What? Did you forget how you got to be in your condition?”
I propped myself up on my elbow and studied his face, looking for a joke, some proof that he would yield this point, but he just raised his eyebrows and nodded down at my belly, my shirt having ridden up to leave it exposed.
“I said no romance,” I reminded him. “This is bordering on romance.”
“I’m not talking about romance, I’m talking about sex,” he said.
“Probably shouldn’t talk about that either.”
“It seemed to me you didn’t come. Am I right about that?”
“I thought we were forgetting about this.” I tried to sound normal, like I was an adult capable of adult conversations with her roommate, instead of how I felt, which was like an embarrassed, still horny teenager afraid of sex.
“Hannah.”
“Fine.” I sighed. I stalled while I sat up and pulled the fabric over my stomach. Crossing my legs, I looked at him and tilted my head. “No, I didn’t. Masturbating in my state isn’t the easiest thing in the world.”
“Right. And where does it fall on the romance scale if I was to…help you out?”
I blinked, cheeks still flaming.
“Help me how? Leaving the house?”
Barry chewed on the inside of his cheek like he always did when he was debating what to say to me.
I braced, barely breathing, until he exhaled.
Looking at the spot his hand still sat on my leg, he inched his palm upwards, over my knee, then halfway up my thigh, the silence and tension in the room thick between us.
“I could help you get off,” he said quietly. His fingertips on my thigh felt electrified.
“You probably shouldn’t,” I whispered.
“You’re probably right.”
“Why?” I asked too quickly. “I mean, I know why I think you shouldn’t, but why do you agree?”
Barry’s hand stayed where it was, but his thumb started lightly tracing lines back and forth. It felt like there was a direct line to my still aching pussy. I was a fucking mess.
“If I help you come one time, I’ll probably be asking to help all the time. You know how I love being helpful—”
“Infuriatingly helpful,” I agreed.
“—and that could be dangerous. You could even start liking me.”
I smirked, then gave a sharp inhale when his hand skirted an inch higher.
“I can’t be the only one who’s horny all the time.
Do you find women to hook up with on your trips?
Did you this time?” I asked, brave considering I already wanted to riot at the thought of him hooking up with strangers on his road trips.
I had no claim to him nor his body, but the thought still made me unreasonably angry—I blamed the hormones.
He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. After a soundless second, he laughed and shut his eyes.
“It’s okay if you did,” I said. “You’re allowed to have sex with people, you’re not in a relationship.”
“I haven’t.”
Haven’t.
I blinked, trying to calculate the relative probability of hot, single, hockey playing Barry Wright not having sex for the seven months since he knocked me up and determined the number close to zero.
Many hockey players are hot, or kind of hot—or like, they are hot, but mostly because they are tall or strong or professional hockey players—but Barry was hot hot.
The hottest man on both his current and previous teams.
So no way did he go that long with no sex after meeting me. No way.
“So you’re probably horny too, then. I doubt the blow-up mattress is the best place to jerk off, and we know that the downstairs shower isn’t an option.”