Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Amy
Outside, Boston is dull, the sky a wet wool blanket, the city rinsed in gray. Even the Charles looks bored.
Inside our condo, my hormones are staging a coup.
What nobody advertises about the second trimester is that at eighteen weeks, your libido can burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man.
Right now, Hamish is doing Str1kecast prep in the little office nook, hunched over his laptop, one headphone in, one out.
Highlighter in hand, notes on the screen, he's wearing a serious face that should be illegal in a man with those cheekbones.
His injured knee is propped on the ottoman, ice pack in place.
He mutters commentary lines under his breath, testing cadence. He looks so focused and conscientious. It's alluring in a new way, because I've never seen him study spreadsheets before and for me, with my MBA, spreadsheets are definitely sexy.
I stand in the doorway, holding my water bottle, and my entire body roars the word NOW like my clit is going to rip itself off its perch and go climb Mount Hamish, solo.
He looks up and his smile is warm, sealing his fate.
"Hey, pet," he says, brushing a curl off his forehead. "Ye all right?"
"No," I say, nearly coming on the spot, swollen already, sensitive and needy.
His smile drops. He straightens instantly, alert in that protective way that makes me want to marry him all over again.
"No?" he repeats. "Is it the baby?"
"It's me."
"That's still the baby," he says.
"I have a medical emergency," I tell him.
His eyebrows draw together.
"D'ye need ta sit? D'ye need water?"
"I have water. I need something more. Need it really, really bad."
"Should I call the doctor? 911?"
I set the bottle down on the desk. Then I step between his knees.
His eyes drop to my belly and his expression turns tender, reverent, like my body is sacred.
Which is sweet but also wildly inconvenient.
I take his hand and put it on my bump. His palm spreads there instinctively and he smiles.
Then I slide his hand down.
To my thigh.
"I have a Vitamin H deficiency."
His breath catches. Amusement and desire collide, sparks everywhere.
"Ohhh," he says, voice rough.
"Yes. That is my emergency. Can you hear my clit calling like a siren?"
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
"I—am I supposed to? I've been as close as anyone could possibly get ta it, and I confess, pet, I dinna hear a sound.
Then again, yer sweet, warm thighs press ma ears like the flowers in Mum's scrapbooks, so mebbe I missed this siren?
" His eyes light up. "I need another chance ta listen. Let's give it a go."
I lean in and kiss him, slow. A warning kiss. A prelude kiss.
His hands come to my waist, steadying me like I am a boat and he is the dock.
"Ye're no' havin' a medical emergency," he says.
"I am."
"That's just yer libido, hen."
"Don't minimize my condition," I say, keeping a straight face as my nipples harden like darts. "If untreated, I will perish. My obituary will read: She died horny while her husband laughed."
"Jesus."
"Jesus died young, too, but not from this."
"Ye claim yer dying from no' havin' sex immediately?"
"Yes."
"That isna technically possible."
"You've said the same thing to me at least three times since we've been together."
He goes still.
"That was different. And true."
"How can it be true when it's you, but not me?"
He looks at his notes. "Because I have a deadline."
"I have deadlines, too!"
Hamish glances at his laptop, then back to me. He's trying so hard to be responsible. It is adorable, but also very unlike him. Normally, when I come on strong, he comes on stronger.
Comes on, comes in, you name it.
"I need five minutes," he says. "Just five. I've got notes and they're waitin' fer ma input."
I blink at him.
"I need your input, too. Specifically, your put in me."
With flaring eyes and an Adam's apple that bobs more than a cross-Channel swimmer, Hamish groans.
"Amy, please," he says through gritted teeth.
"Counteroffer," I say. "Six minutes of sex. Then you can have five minutes to work."
My hand offers a preview of what I'm putting on the table.
"Six is more than five. This is math. You love math."
"I dinna love this kind o' cocktease math."
"I'm not teasing you! This is 'have fun with me now' math. You love stats. You track heart rates for fun."
"That's work. Yer doin' sex math." He looks at the laptop again, torn. "Ye're usually the one who wants ta work."
"I know. Your favorite pregnant wife is in heat."
"Yer no' a cat, Amy."
Turning slightly, I raise my ass in the air. He drags a hand down his face, fighting a grin.
"Two minutes," he bargains. "Just two. Then ye can do whatever ye want."
Something in my spine lights up.
"Anything I want?" I whisper.
"Is there something new?" He swallows, eyes darkening.
"My fantasy involves orgasms."
"That's a given."
"It involves your cock."
"Another given." Said cock has hardened visibly in his pants, which I take as a win. I'm scoring lots of points and he's not trying hard at all to block them.
"And it involves now. But I'll give you two minutes."
"Thank ye," he says, relieved.
Then I sit in his lap, straddling him. He goes rigid.
"Hi."
"Amy. Ye said ye'd give me two minutes."
"I am! This is my compromise. You work. I'm just warming up my seat ahead of time."
His laugh is half gasp.
"More than enough heat there already." He nuzzles my neck. "And if ye're warming up yer seat, it's ma face ye should be heating up."
"Start the timer," I tell him, mouth at his ear.
He fumbles for his phone, taps to set the timer, and puts it on the desk where I can see it. Then he tries to read his notes again.
He tries.
Hamish is a professional athlete. He has faced hostile crowds. He has been heckled by grown men with painted faces, terrible hygiene, and pub tabs higher than their rent.
None of that trained him for his pregnant wife sitting on his lap, grinding away, needing him now, while he tries to work.
Now.
He reads a line under his breath. I shift my ass. His voice breaks.
"You're doing great," I smile sweetly.
"Ye're a menace."
He attempts another line. He makes it through three words before his eyes close and he exhales like he is holding on to the edge of sanity.
"Two minutes is such a long time," I tease, kissing his jaw.
"Eternity," he agrees, voice shaking.
"Pregnancy has its own time zone," I inform him as I lick his earlobe. "In Horny Standard Time, two minutes is a month."
He lets out a sound that might be Gaelic.
When the timer goes off, the little alarm is so cheerful, it's almost insulting.
"Time," I say brightly, stripping off my shirt.
"Right," he says, voice low, eyes on my breasts. "Now it's my turn."
He stands up with me still on his lap, absurdly strong and deeply determined, carrying me down the hall and into our bedroom, my legs wrapped around his waist, hard shaft against my clit. Each step makes me rub against him and I nearly come right there.
"Hamish," I squeak, gripping his shoulders. "Finally!"
"Working from home is goin' ta be verra hard if yer demanding sex when I need ta read notes, but I'll find a way to persevere."
"You just described every night when I try to do work at home!"
"Turnabout is fair play, then, pet."
The dim winter light makes everything soft and private. He lays me on the bed, then kisses me, deep and familiar and hungry, hands moving over me with the confidence of someone who has memorized me. He has us both naked in seconds.
He kisses my belly softly, then looks up. Having a man between your legs looking up at you from underneath his eyelashes is daringly sexy and painfully vulnerable.
"Hi, wee one," he murmurs. "Yer mum's unhinged."
"And horny," I add.
"Ye hear that? Horny and Unhinged. The perfect autobiography title."
"Mine or yours?"
"Mine would be Happy Horny Hamish."
I let out a whoop as he plunges his face between my legs, tongue warm and pointed, right where I need it. Running my fingers through his thick waves, I buck up against his mouth, coming faster than I even imagined, exploding with primed energy. I scream and he moans against my thighs.
What began as a scream turns into a low, throaty sound, my entire body dissolving into the sheets. His arms move up, hands sliding along my ribs, his cock inside me before I can beg, though I'm not above begging.
At all.
"Oh, Hamish, this—more. More," is all I can find inside me for words, his legs long and thick and peppered with hair against my thighs, my heels connecting behind him as he drives into me, our kisses messy and wet, hard then gentle.
Hamish is careful, mindful of my growing belly, but he doesn't treat me like glass and I'm so appreciative as I realize I'm going to come again.
His breath hitches, mouth dipping to my nipple, sucking insistently.
I tighten so hard, my core presses against my spine, and I climax, hard and heavy, his own orgasm right there, inside me, hot and quick and exactly what I need.
The second trimester is apparently powered by a tiny demon called More.
When I come yet again, it hits fast, stealing my breath, making me clutch his shoulders and laugh and almost cry at the same time. He follows with a low sound that turns my bones warm. After, he collapses beside me, one hand at my hip and the other resting on my belly.
For a moment, we just breathe, and then he laughs.
"What?" I ask, still floating.
"Ye offered six minutes o' sex," he says.
"And?"
"That was mebbe three." He raises his eyebrows. "Ye owe me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, with the righteous confidence of a woman who has already won.
"Ye're smug." He brushes hair off my forehead.
"I'm satisfied."
His phone rings.
We both freeze, staring at the bedside table. The screen flashes: Jody.
"No." Hamish groans.
"Don't answer," I whisper.
"He'll call again."
He takes the call.
"Jody," he says, voice rough. "What's happenin'?"
"There he is. Big opportunity," Jody says. "Life insurance campaign. National. They want you and Amy."
Hamish's hand goes to my belly, automatic and protective.
"They want us?" he repeats.
"You're the perfect aspirational yet approachable family. World-class athlete; smart, capable wife; baby on the way. Protect what matters. Plan for the future."
"So I smile while I talk about dyin'." Hamish snorts.
"Do not say dying," Jody says quickly. "Not on camera."
"It's fer life insurance. Of course it's about dying."
A pause so long, I swear I can hear Jody blinking through the phone.
"We focus on what a full, loving life you, Amy, and the baby are living," Jody says. "And Amy, they want you speaking, too. Not just standing there smiling. You have a line."
"A whole line," I say, and I hear the edge in my own voice before I can stop it.
It's not really about Jody—he just said they want me speaking, which is more than most offers give me.
But months of being introduced as "Hamish McCormick's wife" have left a residue, and sometimes it leaks out at the wrong people.
"I'd want to see the script first," I say, leveling my tone. "And have approval on how I'm presented. Not just the smiling wife in the background."
"Of course," Jody says firmly.
"We went through this before," I add, "when James tried to pitch us as a family package. We drew a boundary."
"Right. Understood."
"Write it in blood," Hamish suggests.
"Not literally," Jody says.
"Yes, literally." Hamish drops his voice in a humorous attempt to sound intimidating.
I pinch his side and he laughs.
"Must be a good deal. More than ma uncle offered?"
"Yes." Jody exhales. "I'll send details. No pressure."
"Pressure is what got us here," Hamish mutters.
"Okay. Great. Talk soon."
Hamish drops the phone onto the bed.
"Well," he says. "That was foreplay for capitalism."
"You made it weird."
"I make everything weird." Then his expression softens, and he rubs my belly, thumb tracing slow circles. "Str1kecast contract's signed. Insurance ads next. The baby after that. We're collectin' responsibilities."
"And orgasms," I add.
"Aye."
My phone buzzes. Bad Symptom Watch chat.
Shannon asks: Nausea today?
At eighteen weeks, I'm long past morning sickness territory, yet they ask me this every time, border guards hoping to trip me up.
Carol chimes in: Ankles? Swelling? Heartburn?
Shannon: If you say you feel fine, we're going to give the baby a drum set and a firetruck with a real siren as shower gifts. And extra batteries for the siren
Carol: I read an article that said you can crave chalk. Are you craving chalk?
Shannon: Is that a euphemism for cum?
Carol: Why on earth would I use a euphemism? FFS, Shannon. If I'm going to talk about cum, I'll just talk about cum!
Shannon: Geez, touched a nerve
I type with one hand while Hamish watches, wary.
Still no nausea. Just multiple orgasms.
I hit Send.
"Amy!" Hamish says in a chiding tone, but I can tell he's delighted.
"What? It's a symptom. I'm just reporting accurately."
My phone erupts.
Carol: Now you're just rubbing our faces in it
Shannon: I AM THE MOTHER OF A YOUNG CHILD HOW DARE YOU
Carol: My boyfriend is plastic and has batteries that die at the worst possible time. I hate you
Shannon: No nausea AND multiple orgasms is the pregnancy equivalent of winning the Powerball lottery
Carol: Sounds like Hamish is the one with the power balls
"Carol pays attention," he says approvingly.
I laugh so hard, I have to put the phone down. Hamish shakes his head, eyes warm.
"Yer sisters are mental."
"I'm the baby of the family. It's hard to top my older sisters. I finally got their admiration for something, even if it's completely random and unearned."
Outside, Boston remains committed to winter misery.
Inside, I feel warm, loved, and sated.
And if my hormones stage another coup in an hour, well....
Hamish has a timer.
And a new autobiography title:
Happy Horny Hamish.