Page 102 of This Woman Forever

I open my eyes, maintaining my tongue’s soft strokes through her mouth, wanting to see just how lost she is. So lost, completely in this kiss as I trace light hands across her back, humming my contentment, nipping at her lip before plunging into her mouth again.

And we go until my tongue aches and my cock aches harder. “Let me bathe you,” I whisper, slowing my mouth, Ava following my pace until our kiss comes to a natural stop.

“But I’m comfy,” she grumbles, burrowing deep into my neck.

“We can be comfy in bed, and you can fall asleep in my arms where you’re supposed to be.” Let’s keep up this closeness.

“It’s not even mid-af—” She stills against me for a brief second before she’s flying up in a panic. “I’ve not gone back to work,” she blurts, reality crashing into her.

For Christ’s sake. Work? She thinks of work now? I take her wrist and pull her back down. “I’ve taken care of it,” I say. “Unravel your knickers, lady.”

“When?” It’s not fair, but it bugs the shit out of me that my wife is answerable to another man. And I don’t care how chauvinistic that makes me sound.

“When I brought you home.” I put her between my legs and start soaking the sponge and squeezing it across her back. Would she agree to let me do this every day? Bathe her and wash her? Do all the things for her? Her tummy will grow, her mobility will suffer. I remember when Mum was expecting Amalie. Jake and I were only six, but I remember it vividly. She struggled, first with sickness—the reason for Ava’s aversion to my dick in her mouth recently is now confirmed beyond all doubt—her ankles got puffy, she was so tired, and getting up and down the stairs became a two-person job. She’s going to really need me. And I can’t wait.

“What did you tell him?” she asks, calm and accepting.

“That you’re ill.” But he’ll soon have the truth.

“He’ll be sacking me soon.” Ava’s head hangs heavily. Her words were without the despondency I would have expected. Is she now considering the merits of working for herself too? I can only hope. The seed was planted long ago. I thought it was dead in the ground, but perhaps...

I chew on my lip, discarding the sponge. Can she still be Little Miss Independent when she’s carrying our baby? Because surely I have some say in where my baby goes. Somehow, I don’t think Ava will agree, even after today when she’s been openly passionate about needing me. Which, come to think of it, is why? Why now, after all these weeks, has Ava come to her senses, opened up, and confessed she’s pregnant? What happened to instigate such an emotional confession? I don’t know, but whatever it was, I’m grateful. “Come on,” I say, sure I might rub her away with this sponge if I wash her anymore. I stand up and reach under her arms, lifting her to her feet and stepping out. She has a small ironic smile on her face as I pick her up and place her on the bath mat, quickly wrapping her in a towel. I ignore the smile. I can feel the cause between my legs, growing, yelling for some attention. It’s not happening yet, but when it does, it will be gentle. And another cause for a debate. I have a feeling there will be many discussions in the coming weeks while we navigate exactly how this is going to work. How we get through this pregnancy without me suffering a cardiac arrest or Ava killing me in frustration. But she can’t kill me. She needs me. I roll my eyes to myself. She needs me. Maybe today, but as soon as I make a... request, that need will vanish and defiance will bounce back. It’s going to be fun.

But first, I need to do something.

It’s been a roller coaster, and I feel like it’s just slowed down long enough for me to take a breath and brace myself for the loops on the horizon. I lift Ava onto the counter and peck her lips. “Stay there.”

“Where are you going?” she calls, her frown following me out of the room.

“Just wait.” I shudder, chills catching my wet skin as I hurry across the bedroom and enter the dressing room. I scratch around in drawers and behind clothes. Nothing. Where the hell are they? I moved them to here a couple of weeks ago. Definitely. Cathy found them in the laundry room, so I moved them to a cupboard in the kitchen, then moved them to the dressing room. “Ah.” I go to the end wardrobe where my suits hang and get on my knees, feeling at the back. “Bingo.” I pull out the paper bag and go back to the bathroom.

“What’s that?” Ava asks, eyeing the bag cautiously. I’m nervous. How can I explain what I need her to do?

I gnaw on my lip, opening the bag and holding it out for her to look, and she reluctantly peeks inside. “You don’t believe me?” she blurts, injured, holding her towel closer protectively.

I knew she’d draw the most negative conclusion. It’s a habit of hers. “Of course I do.” But she’s done one test. Just one. And I didn’t see it. Forgive me, but the past few weeks have been a seesaw of is she? isn’t she? and after everything, I’m feeling like I want to see it for myself. Need to.

“Then why do you have a paper bag with...” She takes it and upends it, sending the boxes falling into the sink. She then proceeds to count them while I watch on. I could have told her how many are there. Sixteen. “Why do you have eight pregnancy tests?” she asks.

I lift my shoulders on a half-hearted shrug and push the box she’s holding aside. “There are two in a box.”

“Sixteen?”

“Sometimes they don’t work properly.” I’ve heard stories before, women who have had false positives and false negatives. Again, I’m taking no chances. I’ll also be arranging a scan tomorrow. “They’re just backups.” I get one out and hold it up. “You have to pee on this bit here,” I say, pointing to the end. “Look.”

“I did one at the doctor’s, Jesse,” she moans, exasperated. “I know how they work. Why won’t you take my word for it?”

“I do take your word for it,” I assure her. The pregnancy test’s word, however, I don’t trust, which is ironic because my wife is the one in this situation who’s been misleading.

And you haven’t?

I still, holding back my scowl. I should have known Jake would have something to say during this conversation.

Fuck off.

No.

“I need to see it for myself,” I say to Ava’s indignant face. She can’t protest and she knows it, but rather than tell her what she knows and risk her sass coming out to play, I give her a cute smile and wide, hopeful eyes.

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