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One conscious decision I took in order to maintain my blissful life with my husband was not to open the wooden box. Technically, I needed to do that a long time ago. Right after my wedding to Wolfe.
But I only had one note left, and Wolfe turned out to be the rightful owner of my heart with both previous notes.
I didn’t want to ruin his perfect strike. Not when I was so close to happiness, I could almost feel it at my fingertips.
Now I was feeling woozy and drowsy, still craving the milkshake, but also dangling my butt in my husband’s face, wanting him to satisfy my other need. Wolfe entered me from behind, sheathed and fully erect.
“My sweet poison, my gorgeous rival.” He kissed the back of my neck as he drove into me from behind.
I purred. When he finished inside me, he took off his condom, tied it up and strolled to the bathroom, completely naked. I collapsed on his bed facedown, a heap of warm flesh and lust.
He emerged ten minutes later, freshly shaven, showered, and already getting dressed in a full suit. By the time I rolled on my back to take a look at him, he had a tie on.
“I want a strawberry milkshake.” I pouted.
He frowned, flipping his tie and tying it without even looking at a mirror. “You don’t normally have a sweet tooth.”
“I’m about to get my period.” It was, in fact, a little overdue.
“I’ll have Smithy get you one before I go to work. You good for school? Need a ride?”
I was due to take my driver’s test next week.
“I don’t want Smithy to get me a milkshake. I want you to get me one.” I rose on my knees, walking on them across the bed and toward him. “He always screws my orders up.”
“What’s to screw up in ordering a strawberry milkshake?” Wolfe returned to his bathroom to put some of the delicious-smelling product in his hair.
One day, I was going to have a heart attack with how attractive he was and how tantalizing he smelled.
“You’d be surprised,” I lied.
Smithy was great. I just had an irrational need to have my husband do something nice for me. Since Artemis, he was careful not to show any signs of romantic gestures.
“I’ll get you your milkshake,” he said in no particular tone, leaving the room.
“Thank you!” I called out.
A moment later, Ms. Sterling, the number-one eavesdropper in North America, popped her head into the room.
“You two are the thickest smart people I know.” She shook her head.
I was still lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, basking in my post-orgasm bliss. The sheets were wrapped around my body, but I wasn’t particularly worried about what she saw.
She must’ve heard us hundreds of time by now doing what married couples did.
“What do you mean?” I stretched lazily, stifling a yawn.
“You’re pregnant, my sweet, foolish child!”
No.
It’s not happening.
It can’t happen.
Only it can. It must. And it makes so much sense.
The words looped in my head when I paid for my pregnancy test at Walgreens before I went to school.
