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I watch again. Holy shit, is this what I think it is? Is she about to give birth right here, in the flowerbed? I’m no doctor, but even I can see that she’s not far enough to be considered full-term. But then, another long moan of agony that sounds something like “Ohhhh,” escapes her lips, and this time, Freya falls to her side in a fetal position, clutching her tummy. Oh shit, oh shit! It’s an emergency!
I don’t even think twice. I dart out of my house and quickly run to the gate leading to her garden.
“Freya!” I call in a sharp voice. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t move from fetal position, her eyes closed as another wave of pain wracks her gravid form. “Unnnh,” she groans again. “Ow.”
I unlatch the gate and then stride in, hurrying to crouch by the pregnant woman’s side.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a panicked voice. “Oh shit, oh shit. Are you in labor? Can I do anything to help?”
Her eyes flicker open a bit, and I’m caught by the agony in those chocolate depths. Freya doesn’t answer, but she holds her arms out to me and immediately, I know what to do. I scoop her up into my arms, bridal style, and stalk into her home through the glass sliding door before depositing her on the couch.
“Are you okay?” I ask again. “Tell me if you want me to call 9-1-1.”
But she shakes her head.
“It’s too early,” she whispers, “and this isn’t an emergency. I’m just having some Braxton-Hicks contractions, that’s all.”
I stop and stare for a moment at her flushed face and panting, heaving body. She’s never looked so beautiful, her tummy round with child as those big breasts tempt me.
“What’s Braxton-Hicks?”
She breathes in deep through her nose, exhaling loudly through her mouth, before shooting me a watery smile.
“It’s just a woman’s body getting ready for labor,” she murmurs. “They’re false “practice” contractions, if you will. The baby’s perfectly safe, don’t worry,” she says. “But would you mind getting me a glass of water please? I’m utterly parched.”
I jerk into motion, striding over to her small kitchen.
“Yes of course,” I growl, immediately filling a glass. Then I hand it to her. “Just let me know how I can help.”
She drinks thirstily, and I watch as that slim throat pulses sensually with each swallow. Then, Freya puts down the glass and smiles at me, still flushed and panting a little.
“Thanks,” she murmurs. “You’re Mark, right?”
I nod.
“Over from next door,” I say, jerking a thumb in a backwards direction over my shoulder. She smiles.
“Yes, I know. I’m Freya, just in case you don’t remember.”
I nod.
“I remember,” is my low growl. She bites her lip, and I step in, sensing her indecision.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about what just happened,” I say in a low voice. “You’re pregnant, and it sounds like these practice contractions are totally normal, right? So everything’s fine.”
Freya nods slowly, her expression thoughtful.
“Things are fine,” she murmurs. “Except that I’m still suffering from nausea.”
I nod.
“That makes sense. Anyone going through intense pain usually experiences nausea too. Trust me. I’m a firefighter, and we all have basic knowledge of emergency medicine.”
Freya nods again.
“Yes, the nausea’s been with me the entirety of the pregnancy,” she murmurs again. “It’s really a problem because I wake up in the morning, and it hits, and it basically continues through the afternoon and even into the night.”
