Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
“It’s not the mailman’s,” I joked lamely.
“You’re carrying my fucking baby,” Beau repeated, ignoring my joke.
Then he lifted me into his arms. I let out a squeal of surprise as he walked two steps to the bed, carefully lowering me on it.
He looked down at me with a reverence that stole my breath. Still not something I got over, a man looking at me like I was worth something. Like I was worth everything.
“Beau.” I was still clutching the pregnancy test for dear life. “The timing.”
“Fuck the timing,” he grunted, divesting me of my shorts. I lifted my hips on autopilot. “I’m not getting any younger.”
He actually looked like he was getting younger. The grays made him seem more youthful, the lines in his faces only accentuating his handsomeness. It would make me mad, this hot aging thing, if he weren’t my husband.
“I’ll be so busy,” I whined.
“I’ll be a stay-at-home dad. Bring the baby to you whenever you need to feed, if that’s your journey.” He took off my panties. “Clara will help.”
For the first time, being exposed that way to him didn’t fill me with fire and butterflies like it normally did. Don’t get me wrong, I felt something, I wasn’t dead. But the usual inferno wasn’t blazing.
“Clara is a child. She does not need to be looking after a baby.” I shook my head. “And what about your cookbook?”
“Fuck my cookbook.” Beau got onto his knees, breath hot on my bare pussy.
Okay, cue inferno.
“It’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.” I huffed out a breath, jutting up on my elbows.
Beau’s hand trailed up my inner thighs, cupping me there.
“No, baby, this is all I’ve ever dreamed of.” He looked pointedly at my pussy, then the pregnancy test. “You fast becoming the most talented doctor in the world—”
“Massive exaggeration, and I’m not even a doctor yet,” I muttered.
“Our daughter healthy, thriving,” he continued. His hand went to my stomach. “Our child growing inside you.” My body slackened at his touch on my still-flat belly.
“Are you happy?” he asked, expression serious. “Do you want this baby?”
“Are you fucking crazy?” I half shrieked. “Of course, I want this baby. I want a hundred of your babies, although I don’t think my body, or my vagina, could handle that.”
Beau let out a low chuckle. A chuckle from him was a gift, one I managed to rightly treasure, even in my current state.
“How about we start with one?”
“One will be great.”
We found out six weeks later that it was twins.
They came into the world two weeks early, with just a little fanfare—that being their father delivering them in our living room thanks to my lack of concern and their urgency to enter the world.
Both boys were healthy. Both were beloved by their father, their older sister, and their mother.
Me. I was their mother. To three perfect children.
On the night of the birth, with Beau holding one baby, Clara holding another, I pinched myself one more time, just to check.
No, this was not a dream.
This was my life.