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I glide my tongue up and down her slit, chasing the ripples of her need as her skin reacts to my attention. She grinds on me.
Christ, sweet girl.
That’s it.
Sit on my tongue.
Breathing through my nose, I single-mindedly suck and lick her to a shuddering mess. I gorge on her orgasm, lathering my tongue with her, wrenching more of her climax from her greedy little pussy.
I need more of her.
Though she is all over me, inside my soul, fuelling my heart and directing my body, I want more of her. My sweet girl—the one person in the world who handles my evil.
When I don’t stop as she shudders the remains of her pleasure away, her moans become a perpetual whimper. I don’t let up. I lick and suck her until her muscles can no longer hold her upright.
After I lay her down to sleep, I’m kept from slumber by our earlier conversation. Her dreamcatcher sways slightly by the bedpost, reminding me how these ideals are part of her passions. Of her humanity.
But a doula is not a doctor.
A home birth is archaic, impractical—Christ.
I turn to watch her sleep, heavy blonde lashes lay over her flushed cheeks, and she stuns my heart to a stop.
I love her.
There has never been a more lovely sight. I do not believe in her spirituality, but I believe in her.Still… her safety must always come first.
CHAPTEREIGHT
shoshanna
9thMonth
Everything hurts.
Being pregnant really tests my tolerance. I wouldn’t call myself an overly accepting person to start with; add a cocktail of estrogen and other pregnancy players, and I’m as temperamental as a lioness being woken up too early.
The sun blazes above us and green peppermint trees line the street. Thin leaves reach out, creating canopies that offer the footpaths shade.
I hold my large stomach as we walk the District Boulevard. My black dress flows over the mound.
It was my idea to head out for a sense of normalcy, to get an ice cream and some sun, but my swollen feet and whale-like physique are making me regret it.
Majestic? Like hell.
We’re winding down.
Baby will be here soon.
I look down at Stone, waddling.
Same, kiddo.
He holds my hand while in the other an ice cream dribbles over his skin. Smiling, I remind myself this is for him. We may not have much more time with just the three of us. Things will change, but that’s okay. I just know it can be hard on a firstborn.
I look over Stone to Bronson, who devours his cotton-candy-flavoured ice cream with the same enthusiasm his rumbustious son does. Both of them—nutcases.Purple and pink cream slides down the waffle to his inked fingers.
A man is ahead of us, moving fast and not looking down to see we have a toddler between us. When he bumps Stone, he mutters a grunt of an apology but continues on his course.
