Epilogue
Heather
I stretch up on my toes, reaching for the mixing bowl on the top shelf, but my very pregnant belly makes it impossible to get close enough to the counter.
I grimace. Between the belly and the fact that I’ve been moving slower than usual, exhausted from wrapping up last-minute details with my team at the shelter before my maternity leave starts next week, I feel more ungainly doing basic tasks than I’d like to admit.
I’m about to try again when Grant appears behind me, easily closing his hand around the bowl and bringing it down.
“You know you’re supposed to ask me for help with this stuff,” he says as he sets it on the counter in front of me.
“I can still reach things. I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
“You’re nine months pregnant and due next week.” He moves closer, bringing his hand to rest on my belly. “I’m not taking any chances.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. He’s been like this for weeks, hovering and watching me like I might go into labor at any second. Which, to be fair, is a distinct possibility now that we’ve hit the thirty-seven-week mark.
“You’re impossible,” I say, still half-smiling.
“And you love it.”
His hand moves across my belly, and right on cue, the baby kicks against his palm. Grant’s entire expression softens, and that look of wonder crosses his face like it does every single time he feels our son move.
“He’s active today.” Grant’s voice is just above a whisper.
“He’s been like this since last night. I think he’s running out of room in there.”
“Won’t be much longer now.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But in a good way. You?”
“Same.” I cover his hand with mine. “I keep wondering if he’ll look like you or me. If he’ll have your focus or my anxiety.”
“Hopefully my focus and your kindness.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
Grant leans down to kiss the top of my head. “April is at Margo’s for the afternoon, right?”
“Yeah. Learning the finer points of diaper changes. Margo said she’d keep her until dinner.”
“Good.” His voice drops lower, and I recognize that tone immediately. “That means we have the house to ourselves.”
“Is that so?”
“Damn right.” He turns me around to face him, then rests his hands on my hips. “And I plan to take full advantage.”
He pulls me close and kisses me, slow and deep. My hands come up to grip his shoulders, and I try to melt into him the way I used to, but my belly is in the way.
Still, Grant manages to pull me as close as I can possibly get at nine months pregnant, his hands sliding up and down my sides.
I turn in his arms to grind against him, and a needy sound escapes my throat when I feel how hard he is.
He breaks away from the kiss. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Now.” The word comes out breathless. “I need you.”
He starts to pull back, probably planning to carry me upstairs to bed like he’s been doing for weeks, but I’m not having it.
“Wait.” I grip the front of his shirt. “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. I know you’re worried about the baby, but the doctor said sex is fine. I need you to stop being so careful with me.”
His eyes darken. “Heather—”
“I’m serious, Grant. I love how protective you are. But right now, I need you to fuck me like you actually want me, not like I’m some delicate thing that might shatter.”
The war playing out on his face is obvious. He’s been so gentle throughout the pregnancy, so controlled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” I pull him down for another kiss, then bite his lower lip. “Please. I’m going crazy here.”
That does it. He turns me around without warning, then uses one hand between my shoulder blades to bend me over the counter as far as my belly will allow.
“Like this?” His voice has gone rough.
“Yes. Exactly like this.”
He works my maternity pants down—thank god for elastic waistbands—and slides his hand between my thighs. His groan tells me everything I need to know.
“Jesus, Heather.”
“I told you I needed you.”
The tip of his cock is at my entrance a second later. He eases in slowly, and I can feel him fighting his instinct to be gentle.
“Don’t hold back,” I tell him, gripping the edge of the counter. “I can take it. I want it.”
He slides almost all the way out and thrusts forward, harder this time, and the stretch of it is exactly what I’ve been craving.
“More,” I gasp. “Stop worrying so much.”
“You’re killing me here, Hurricane.” But his rhythm picks up, and his fingers dig into my hips as he gives me what I’m asking for.
“That’s better. God, that’s so much better.”
He fucks me faster, pulling me back to meet his thrusts, and the pressure inside me builds with every stroke.
“I’ve missed this,” I manage to say between moans. “Missed you like this.”
“Me too,” he growls. “You have no idea how hard it’s been holding back.”
“Then don’t. Not right now.”
He doesn’t. And when my orgasm hits, it’s so intense I can barely stay upright. Grant holds me steady, fucking me through it until I feel his rhythm falter.
He pulls out just before he comes, and I feel the warm splash across my lower back.
“Fuck,” he breathes, still stroking himself. “Look at you.”
He grabs a kitchen towel and wets it, then gently cleans me up while pressing kisses to the back of my neck.
“Better?” he asks.
“So much better. Thank you for not treating me like I’m fragile.”
“You’re not fragile. You’re growing an entire human. That’s pretty badass if you ask me.”
He helps me straighten up and pull my pants back into place. I turn to face him, about to suggest we go lie down, when a sharp, intense pain shoots through my abdomen.
I yelp and nearly double over, clutching my belly.
“Heather?” Grant’s hands are on me immediately. “What’s wrong? Was I too rough? Did I—”
A gush of wetness between my thighs cuts him off, and my sharp gasp fills the kitchen.
“Oh my god.” I stare down at the puddle forming on the floor. “My water just broke.”
His face goes pale for half a second before his training kicks in and he snaps into focus. “Okay. Okay, this is happening. Contractions?”
Another pain hits, sharper this time, and I nod. “Yeah. That was definitely a contraction.”
“Hospital. Now.”
He’s already moving, grabbing his keys, his phone, probably mentally running through the checklist we’ve gone over a dozen times. He helps me get ready and gathers everything we need in record time, then starts to lead me toward the door. “Can you walk? Do you need me to carry you?”
“I can walk. But Grant?”
He stops and looks at me, his brows furrowed. “What is it, Hurricane?”
“Maybe we don’t tell the delivery room staff that we had sex right before my water broke.”
Despite everything, he laughs. “Deal. That can be our secret.”
Another contraction hits as we reach the car. I brace myself against the door, panting and gripping his hand so hard I’m probably cutting off his circulation.
“You’re doing great,” he says, rubbing circles on my lower back. “Just breathe. You’re doing so well.”
When the contraction finally does pass, he helps me into the passenger seat and buckles me in. Then he’s in the driver’s seat, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway.
He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding mine, gently stroking his thumb across my knuckles.
“How are you?” he asks, glancing over at me.
“Okay. I think. The contractions are closer together.”
“I know. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Just keep breathing.”
Another contraction builds, and I squeeze his hand, focusing on my breathing like we practiced in the birthing classes. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In and out. In and out.
“That’s it,” he says. “You’ve got this. You’re so strong, Heather. So fucking strong.”
The contraction peaks and then slowly fades. I slump back in the seat, already exhausted and knowing this is just the beginning.
Grant pulls up to the hospital entrance and parks right in front of the doors. He’s out of the car in seconds, coming around to help me out.
A nurse with a wheelchair appears just as I’m unbuckling my seat belt. “Looks like someone’s ready to have a baby,” she says with a warm smile.
“The contractions are about two or three minutes apart,” Grant says, all business now. “Her water broke maybe thirty minutes ago.”
“Well, then, let’s get you inside.” The nurse helps me into the wheelchair while Grant grabs the bag from the backseat.
Everything after that is a blur. The nurse wheels me through the automatic doors, down a hallway, and into a labor and delivery room. Grant stays right beside me the entire time, his hand never leaving mine.
More nurses come in to help me out of my clothes and into a hospital gown. They get me into the bed and hook me up to monitors that track the baby’s heartbeat and my contractions.
“You’re doing great, Heather,” one of the nurses says as she checks the monitor. “Your baby looks good, with a strong heartbeat.”
Another contraction hits, and I grip the bedrail. This one is rough, and I have to grit my teeth to get through it.
Grant is right there, leaning over me, one hand in mine and the other stroking my hair. “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re doing amazing.”
“It hurts,” I gasp when the contraction passes.
“I know, beautiful. I know.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you’re so strong. You can do this.”
The doctor comes in to check my progress, and her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Well, you weren’t kidding about those contractions. You’re already at seven centimeters. This baby is in a hurry.”
Seven centimeters. Thankfully, we live close to the hospital. Otherwise I’d be doing this on the side of the road somewhere.
The next hour passes in waves of pain and brief moments of relief. Grant never leaves my side. He holds my hand through every contraction, whispering encouragement and love and promises that I’m almost there.
When I beg for an epidural, he relays the message to the nurses. When I cry that I can’t do this, he tells me I can. When I squeeze his hand so hard I’m sure I’m breaking bones, he doesn’t even flinch.