Chapter 8 Sebastian #2
I’m not going to coerce or trick her into getting pregnant. I’m going to tell her what’s going to happen, and she’s going to obey me, because she loves it, and so do I.
Soft snores fall from her parted lips, and I find myself smiling down at her. This woman is my entire world, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life making babies with her.
Grabbing my cell, I half watch her, half doomscroll through my socials, finding myself and Starling tagged in several pictures.
Most are from people at the party we know, but several are from a profile called Birdsflyhigh.
Clicking into the profile, it looks to be a new user, as the only pictures on the account are from the baby shower.
Frowning, I open my text app, intending to message Clay to ask him to look into who the profile belongs to, but get distracted when Starling starts to stir.
“God, my head feels like a full marching band is performing inside of it and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet,” she groans.
“Shall I get you some painkillers?”
Nodding carefully, she pouts, her full lips pink and begging to be bitten. “Thank you.”
Sliding from the bed, I step into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. Spotting her birth control pills, I fight the urge to take them but reach for the Tylenol instead, popping two into my hand before closing the cabinet and heading back into the bedroom.
Taking the pills from me, she carefully inches upright, and I hand her the bottle of water I brought up for her last night before she passed out.
“God, I feel awful,” she says, quickly swallowing down the pills and half of the bottle of water before she shuffles down the bed again and pulls the covers to her chin.
“I’m not surprised; you were asleep before I could convince you to drink some water. Are you hungry? I could ask Armand to make us breakfast sandwiches.”
“That sounds amazing and like it’s going to make me want to puke all at the same time. Why aren’t you as sick as me?”
“Because I didn’t drink yesterday.”
“You didn’t?” she questions, her brow furrowed.
“No. I thought it was best to stay sober, in case you and your mom got into it.”
“Did we?” she asks, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“No.”
“Good.”
Texting Armand, I ask him to make breakfast sandwiches and a couple of smoothies just in case she can’t stomach the food when it arrives.
“Let’s take a shower, the water will make you feel better,” I tell her.
“No,” she whines. “I’m staying here until I die or feel better, whichever comes first.”
“Come on, Little Bird, I’ll do all the work.”
Reluctantly lifting her arms into the air, she wraps them around my neck, then clings to me like a monkey as I lift her out of bed and into the shower.
Not letting me go, she rests her cheek on my shoulder while I wash her body, then hair, one-handed, struggling to get the suds out while she hangs on, not even attempting to help.
Once we’re both as clean as I can make us without putting her down, I turn off the shower, then wrap her in a towel and sit her on the counter beside the basin. Putting toothpaste on her brush, I lift it to her mouth.
“Open up,” I tell her, watching as she looks at me, then does as I’ve asked and opens her mouth.
Carefully brushing her teeth first, I hold her hair every time she leans over to spit, then palm her thigh while I brush my own teeth. Once I’m finished, I lift her into my arms and carry her into the closet.
Lowering her to her feet, I dry the water from her skin, then blot her hair. Using the towel on myself next, I drop it into the hamper, then pick out some shorts and a matching sports bra and bring them over to her.
“Panties?” she asks.
“Nope,” I tell her, crouching down and holding the shorts out for her to step into.
Without protest, she lets me dress her, then watches as I pull on a pair of loose shorts, not bothering with boxers.
Leading her back into the bedroom, I find her hairbrush and run it through her hair until the wet strands are smooth and tangle-free.
“Carry me,” she whines when I take her hand to lead her out of the bedroom. “Please.”
Scoffing lightly beneath my breath, I lift her into my arms, holding her beneath her butt as she wraps her arms and legs around me again.
The breakfast sandwiches and smoothies have appeared like magic and are waiting for us when we get downstairs. Unwrapping the sandwiches, I carry the platter into the living room. Lowering Starling to the couch first, I place the sandwiches on the coffee table and go back for the smoothies.
Taking the seat beside her, I reach for her legs, intending to drape them over mine, but instead she crawls into my lap, whining softly.
“You need to eat,” I tell her, holding her in place with my arm while I lean forward and pick up a sandwich for her.
Reluctantly taking it from me, she brings it to her mouth and takes a tentative bite, while I reach for a sandwich for myself, humming appreciatively when the salty bacon, gooey cheese, and creamy egg hits my taste buds.
Stroking her hair with my free hand, we eat in relative silence until she freezes, her sandwich midway to her mouth.
“I’m going to puke,” she declares, throwing the sandwich onto the platter as she clambers off my lap and rushes for the washroom.
Pushing the last bite of my own sandwich into my mouth, I follow after her, reaching to pull her hair back as she regurgitates the sandwich and a couple of bottles of champagne into the toilet.
Her skin is clammy and pale by the time she finishes puking, and I help her get cleaned up before I carry her back to the couch, settling her under a blanket with her head in my lap.
“I feel like death,” she groans. “Why did you let me get so drunk?”
“I don’t make those decisions for you,” I remind her.
“I barely remember most of the day.”
“You were hitting it pretty hard, especially after what happened with Harry.”
“I’m not apologizing to him,” she says quickly.
“I wouldn’t ask you to. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I heard some.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” I concede, not wanting to get into an argument about her mom or the role I played in the destruction of their relationship. “I had Armand make you a smoothie. You should sip at it, you’ll only feel worse if you get more dehydrated.”
We spend the rest of the day on the couch, watching crappy TV and just existing, happy and together. When the sun has set, I carry Starling to bed, strip her naked, and fuck her slow and deep, kissing her the entire time.
“How are you feeling?” I ask the next morning.
“Much better,” she says, shuffling up the bed until she’s sitting up, her weight rested on her elbows. “Are you going to work?”
“Yeah, I have a meeting this morning, but I should be home for lunch. Any requests?”
“Does Armand take requests? Doesn’t he have to plan a menu or something?”
“He’s our personal chef, he takes requests. What do you want?”
“Fries,” she says decisively.
“Fries,” I repeat back to her. “Just fries.”
“I mean, if he could make them like those ones we had that I loved.”
Smiling, I nod. “Truffle and parmesan fries.”
“God, yes, that sounds amazing.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t care as long as I get fries.”
“Are you going to school this morning?” I ask.
“No,” she says on a yawn. “I’m going to run, then watch my lectures on the patio.”
“Okay, Little Bird, have a good morning. Your breakfast is in the oven.”
“Thank you,” she says sweetly, curling her arm around my neck and pulling me down for a kiss.
I smile my entire drive to the office. Starling is happy.
She might not have even admitted it to herself yet, but she likes being an online student.
The only friends she has are Sammy, Bunny, and January, and with Sammy too pregnant to go to campus and Bunny and January having completely different majors, even if she’d have gone to class, she’d have spent all her time alone.
A part of me feels guilty that I’m the reason she struggles to form friendships, but I’m happy with our social circle and don’t really want to have to welcome anyone else into our group.
It isn’t until I park my car in the parking structure that I realize my cell is in my pocket and not open with the house security cameras and the tracking app on the screen.
It’s been well over a year since I spent a moment apart from my wife that I wasn’t constantly tracking her behavior and location, but today I forgot.
I search for the panic that has had me in a stranglehold since I saw the tracking chip roll across the table and can’t find it.
But I don’t know if its absence is because I’ve accepted that if she decides to leave me, she’s capable of doing so in a way that would mean I’d probably never find her.
Or if, for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t think she’s going to run.
Riding the elevator to my office, I greet everyone I recognize as I walk through the floor of people, closing my office door behind me and sinking down into the chair behind my desk.
Checking my internal panic level, I realize that although there’s still a low level of fear of losing her, the clawing anxiety that I’ve been living with isn’t there.
After a long pause, I realize that the new sexual dynamic we’re exploring, her happiness, and my decision to put my baby in her has calmed me.
My wife isn’t going to leave me, and not just because I won’t ever give her the opportunity, but because she loves me, and soon, she’ll be pregnant with our first child.
I’ll always be the lock on her cage, but just because she’s not the same person she was at sixteen doesn’t mean that we don’t still fit perfectly together.