Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jason
She had dozed off by the time I came out of the bathroom, curled up under the covers, dreaming about being a mom, or maybe dreaming about what had just happened.
Wishful thinking, Isner.
As for me, I was awake and dreaming, because that was probably the hottest sex I’d ever experienced.
Was it the fact we didn’t like each other before?
Was it the sneaking around? Was it because she wanted this kid so badly that she was prepared to go to any lengths to get it, even hooking up with a guy she didn’t respect much?
Or maybe it was just super sexy to go raw and know your seed was making a mad dash for the finish line, that biological imperative taking over and making everything so goddamn fucking primal.
I had to say I didn’t object to her following my instructions, or how her eyes hazed over with my dirty talk. Honestly, I had loved every minute.
But now that I had fulfilled my function, I needed to go. Only my feet were suddenly clay, a bad trait for a hockey player. If I had skates on, could I glide my way out of here? Or would I be stuck at the bathroom door, staring at the woman who might soon be the mother of my kid?
I moved closer and took a seat on the bed beside her. She stirred, her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled.
That smile was something else. So she was in a vulnerable spot, well-fucked and sexed-out after the good time I’d given her. As she had never shown me anything close to that kind of affection, I had to blame it on the power of my cock.
Dick of a thousand smiles.
I couldn’t help myself: I had to touch her again. I pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She had removed her glasses and placed them on the nightstand.
“I fell asleep?”
“Just for a few minutes. I think you’re worn out with the stress of it all.” My fingertips liked where they’d landed. They continued to stroke the side of her head, and she leaned into my hand like a sleepy kitten.
“Are you leaving?”
“I thought you might want some time to process what happened.”
She blinked slowly. “We said we’d try again tomorrow before you headed off to morning skate.”
I nodded, weird hope taking root in my chest. “We did.”
“It might be easier if … you stayed.”
“I wouldn’t have to worry about getting caught going back and forth.”
“No. And while there’s no scientific evidence that multiple attempts in a twenty-four-hour period increase the chances of conception, there’s also no scientific evidence that says they don’t.”
I loved when she applied the science.
“If I stayed here, we could take another shot or two before the morning.”
No correction to my addition of “or two” to that proposal.
The coverlet had slipped, revealing those stellar tits cupped by that sexy bra. Jesus, I was getting turned on again, but I had to give her a chance to recover.
“I’m kind of hungry, though,” she said.
“You haven’t eaten?” I’d had dinner with the boys, but it seemed like hours ago. “What do you need, Doc? We need to keep your strength up.”
“It’s probably not great for pre-natal nutrition, but I’d love a hamburger.”
“Give the little one a taste of meat, huh?”
She looked prim. “I’m not going to even bother correct all that’s wrong with that statement. Any chance you’re hungry, too?”
Hell yeah, I was. For more of that sharp mouth and sweet pussy. But for now, I’d make do with room service.
“Let me grab the menu.”
We put in our orders—cheeseburger for her, double cheeseburger for me—and then we sat on the bed, side by side. She had covered up with her LU sweatshirt and leggings and insisted I do the same.
I got the impression she liked my body a little too much.
A few minutes later, she got a call. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“Go ahead.”
It sounded like her place of work, though it was kind of late.
I’d assumed her gig was more nine-to-five.
Her manner went from the playfulness of earlier to the gravity I expected she needed to project in her role as a serious academic.
I heard snatches—something about a form that needed to be signed, a scheduled video call with someone, an article she was writing.
I strained my ear for details, wanting to know more about her.
My brother Sean had the goods from years of friendship, and I was playing catch up. All I knew was that she wanted a baby.
She clicked off and gave me a tentative smile. “Work.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, just some questions about an article I’m co-authoring with a colleague in Edinburgh, and which journal we should submit to. My preference is for an open access publication, which means the department or I am on the hook for submission fees.”
“You have to pay to publish?”
“Not always. Most traditional journals will take a submission and, after a rigorous peer-review process, will publish if they think it meets their standards and the needs of their readership. Then researchers, but more often, university libraries pay massive subscription fees for the privilege of reading the article they or their own faculty wrote.”
That sounded screwy. I tried to wrap my head around it. “So, you do the research and provide the product, then the journal doesn’t pay you a dime but instead makes you or your university pay to read it when it’s published?”
“Exactly!” I had evidently hit a nerve. “And often the research is federally funded, so your tax dollars paid for the research and private companies, aka academic publishers, reap the profit so I can say I’m published in a peer-reviewed journal.”
“Hmm. I’m guessing the publishers tell you they’re providing a valuable service.”
“You know it. Which is why they hate open access journals. Those journals make the work available to everyone—no subscriptions required—but someone has to pay to keep the lights on. Lakeshore University funds some open access publishing submissions, but the chair of my department has to sign off on it. He and I have history—”
“What kind of history?”
She rubbed a cloth over her glasses. “We slept together a couple of years ago while he was working at another college.”
My pulse spiked. “Now he’s your boss.”
“Correct.”
“Was he on your list?”
“He was. But I wasn’t sure he would make a good candidate. He would want to be in a relationship. He didn’t like it when I told him we weren’t compatible.” She caught my eye. “Sexually.”
This was more like it. “Earth didn’t move, huh?”
“You could say that. It’s made things a little awkward since he became my department head.
Also, I applied for the same job, so there’s a weird dynamic.
Having to go cap in hand to ask him to fund the publication of my article is annoying.
He’s rather pompous about it and annoyingly officious in his new role. ”
Never good to shit where you eat. “So tell me about your research.”
“Oh, that would bore you.”
Maybe she assumed I wouldn’t understand. “Try me.”
She paused a moment, probably thinking of how to explain it to a dummy like me. “My current research is on the mating habits of gastropods, particularly pulmonate land snails and slugs. I’m studying how often self-fertilization occurs.”
I already knew mating was involved somewhere, and I had a ton of questions. “You mean snail sex?”
“Correct. Many species of gastropod—that’s the class name we give to snails and slugs—are hermaphrodites. They have both male and female sexual organs that are simultaneously functional. Basically they can impregnate themselves, if necessary.”
“And they do that?”
“Not always. That’s what’s interesting. Why don’t they?
Why do they go through mating rituals and seek out the company of others in their species to procreate?
We assume it’s because there’s a biological imperative to keep the genetic line varied and less susceptible to inbreeding.
Yet we don’t know for sure. If humans didn’t need a partner to procreate, and there were no biological risks to self-fertilization, would they dispense with the necessity of the mating ritual? ”
“Isn’t that what sperm banks are for?”
She shrugged. “But it would have been so much easier if I could produce my own sperm.”
I chuckled. “One woman shop, no need to even leave the house. But I have to say the way we went about it tonight was a whole lot more fun.”
She blushed and hot damn, I liked that. “That’s probably why slugs and snails go to the trouble. Fun.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Hatch.
Hey, you okay?
Me
Yeah, met a friend. Don’t wait up.
Hatch
Very suspicious, but okay.
“One of your teammates?”
“Hatch. I told him I was staying out for the night.”
Another blush, and while I wanted to tease, I held off. The vibe between us was too enjoyable, and I didn’t want to ruin it.
The food arrived and we settled in to eat as I asked her more questions about her research. Then she dropped this bomb.
“Another reason the mating ritual is dangerous for some species is the risk of apophallation.”
“Do I want to know?”
She had a sly smile on her face. “They can become locked together during mating and when wiggling apart won’t work, one snail bites the penis off the other.”
“Jesus!”
“Sometimes the penis-owner will even bite its own member off.”
“Seems a bit over the top.”
She assessed her half-eaten burger. “Some guys will do anything to avoid staying the night.”
I snorted. Christ, she was funny. How had I not known this?
“What?” she asked, because I was staring at her like a lovesick fool.
“It’s just strange that we never knew each other. Like this.”
Her smile was like a secret I wanted to unlock. “I suppose it is.”