14
weeks
I wake up feeling better than I have in the past few weeks.
No nausea, no interrupted sleep—nothing but blissful quiet. What the hell changed? Harrison . Even after the fucking agony last night, I slept like a damn baby. I remember how he held me, how his strong hands kneaded my back, and that feeling of relief when he worked out the knots. Fucking hell. Why the hell does he have to be so fucking charming? So goddamn caring? What the fuck, man? The thought hits me and a rush of heat creeps up my spine, slipping lower, until it stops dead centre. Great. Of all the times for my hormones to make an entrance. Just what I need.
I stumble to the bathroom, wanting to drown out the madness, and turn the water on. Steam swirls in the air, the heat hitting me like it knows exactly what I need. Maybe this will help. I grab fresh clothes from my drawer and then I hear a knock on my door.
“Pumpkin, I’m heading out. Got called to a job site,” comes my dad’s voice from behind the door.
“Okay. See you later.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered and fresh. I slip into my favourite cream satin set. The waistband hugs my waist, and I swear, my nipples could cut glass they’re so hard. It’s like they’re on full alert, and my pussy? Yeah, it’s still throbbing, begging for attention.
Damn you, Harrison, with your muscle-bound, tattoo-covered arms, and that fucking charm. Just, fuck.
I yank open the bedside drawer, grabbing my small pink wand. This is going to have to do. Turning it on, I lift the waistband of my underwear just enough, pressing the vibrator against my clit. The first jolt of sensation shoots up my body. I bite my lip to stifle a moan, squeezing my eyes shut. Holy shit. The urge to let go is building fast. I turn up the speed, arching my back into the pillows, every nerve alive.
Almost there. So close.
Then— the clearing of a throat . My heart fucking stops.
I fumble to turn the vibrator off, eyes flying open, locking with Harrison’s. My heart could literally leap out of my fucking chest. “Well, don’t stop on my account,” he says, that smug grin spreading across his face.
“What the fuck!” I shout, scrambling to pull myself together. “Get out of here, Harrison. Don’t you know how to knock?”
“I did,” he smirks, leaning in the doorway. “Twice on the front door. Twice now. You were clearly... very, very occupied.” My heart rate spikes. My breathing’s fast. Thank God I kept my damn clothes on. This could’ve been a lot more embarrassing.
“You know,” he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, “I’m actually quite sad you didn’t call me to take care of…” he gestures at me, “that. What do you think I meant when I said, ‘I want to take care of you?’ ”
“Fuck off,” I snap back. “You don’t get to be that smug right now.”
He takes another step forward, planting himself at the foot of my bed. Crosses his arms over his chest, making his muscles flex. “You know,” he says, looking around like he’s trying to figure out something. “It’s really stuffy in here. Do you have a fan?”
“Obviously not,” I deadpan.
“Shame,” he mutters, then grips the back of his shirt at the neck, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. His chest. Muscular. Tattoos covering his arms, veins bulging, that V tapering down to his waistband, are all on full display. He’s playing an unfair fucking game, and I’m losing.
“Put your clothes back on,” I grit through my teeth, my body screaming at me, my vagina basically in full meltdown mode. I’m still trying to catch my breath when he climbs onto the bed, sitting in front of me like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Are you going to finish, or what?”
“Long gone now,” I snap, but it’s a half-assed lie. He creeps closer, his knees pushing into the bed, and I can’t bring myself to push him away. God, I don’t want to.
“Are you sure?” He dips his mouth to my jaw, kissing my neck where my pulse is thundering. My breath doesn’t falter, but it takes everything not to moan. “I don’t think you’re done. Want me to help you out, sugar?” His fingers trace along the waistband of my shorts, nudging them down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I try for defiance, but my voice wavers, betraying me.
“Taking care of my girl.” His fingers pause, his green eyes locking with mine. “If you’ll let me.”
I scoff, desperate to keep some control. “I am not your girl.”
He grins like he knows a secret. “We’ll see about that. You still haven’t answered me, Immy.”
“Answered what?” I snap, distracted by the sight of him kneeling between my legs. His broad shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls, and the raw hunger in his eyes—it’s enough to make my head spin.
“I’m dying to taste you, sugar.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Please.” God, just say yes.
“Fine. I mean, since you’re down there.”
The grin that spreads across his face sends a ripple of goosebumps down my arms. He wastes no time, tugging my shorts and underwear down in one slow, deliberate motion, baring me completely. A rough groan escapes him as he tosses them aside, his gaze devouring every slick inch of me.
His finger glides down my folds, slick with arousal, and his sharp inhale makes my stomach flip. “Jesus, you’re so fucking pretty and pink. Is this what you were imagining when you had your vibrator out?” he murmurs, dragging his hands up my thighs.
I smirk, cocking a brow. “Wow, you really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”
“Oh, sugar, I’m just getting started,” he says, dipping his finger into me, and fuck, I’m already dizzy. My body clenches, humming with anticipation as he strokes me from the inside. Then he dips his head, his tongue flicking over me, and I don’t stand a chance.
My whole body arches up off the bed as I slap a hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the helpless sounds slipping out of me. It’s too much, too fast, and when the release crashes over me, it tears me apart. I’m trembling, my body wrecked, his name ripping from my lips in a desperate, raw cry.
The kitchen is quieter than usual when I finally sit down across from my dad, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing down on me. He’s flipping through the paper, distracted.
“Dad,” I start. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
He puts the paper down slowly and gives me his full attention. “What’s going on?”
I hesitate, the words feeling heavier than they should. My stomach twists as I wonder if I’ve made the right choice, or if I’m just desperately seeking validation. Either way, I know I need his input. “I’m thinking about moving in with Harrison.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and the room feels like it holds its breath. Dad’s face doesn’t change immediately, but I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He’s not angry—just quiet, processing. He’s always been that way. I wait, the silence stretching, almost unbearable.
“You know, I’ve always told you to take your time with things,” he says. “But if you’re serious about it... I trust you to make the right decision.”
“I just... I don’t know. It feels like a big step.”
“It is. But I suppose you’d need your own space. Are you sure that’s what you want, Imogen?”
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure. “I don’t know if it’s what I want, but it’s what might be best for now. I don’t want to be alone in this.”
Dad raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything, waiting for me to fill the silence. And that’s when my mind starts running through the checklist:
Pros:
Help with the baby. Someone to pick up the slack when I’m exhausted. Backup for midnight feeds and those dreaded nappy changes. Not waking up alone in a panic every time something feels off. And, well… the possibility of stress-relieving, no-strings-attached sex. Not that I’d ever admit it—but it’s definitely in the mix.
Cons:
Harrison and I are... complicated. The bickering could either stay manageable or spiral into chaos. Sharing space ironically means less privacy, between him and I. His loud music, his presence, just him—all constant. The risk that “no strings” could very easily turn into a mess of strings tied. What happens if things go south? We’re stuck under the same roof with a baby in the middle.
“I’ve thought about it,” I say, meeting Dad’s eyes. “There are pros and cons, but it’s not just about convenience. It’s about... not doing this alone.”
He watches me for a beat longer, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “You won’t be alone, Imogen. Not with me, not with Harrison. But you’ve got to make sure this is about what you need, not what feels easy or expected.”
“I get that.”
“I know you do,” he says, softer now. “And if it doesn’t work out, you always have a place here. But if you’re going to do this, go in with your eyes open. Make sure he’s ready, too.”
Ready. I feel like no one is ever really ready for this.