Page 47 of Because of Them

“Fuck, Audrey.”

She freezes, positioning her entrance at the tip of my cock.

“I intend to.”

As she impales herself on my firm length, I wrap my arms around her and pull her as close as I can. She kisses me furiously and rides my cock like she was made for me. Like I was made for her. My hands grab at her ass, her hips, holding tight to her. To this moment.

The gentle back and forth of her movements becomes frenzied, and when her lips start to tremble against mine, I take her weight off her. Bouncing her ass up and down in my lap, I slam powerful thrusts into her.

“Michael,” she gasps, arching her back once more as another release flows through her. With her inner walls fluttering around my dick, my balls draw tight. My own orgasm comes hard and fast, sending me to oblivion and back.

It takes an age for our breathing to settle, and we remain in our firm embrace while our chests rise and fall as one. I brush my fingers along her back, and she tangles her own in my hair.

“Stay,” she whispers in my ear.

So, I do. Because I will do whatever she asks, always.

AUDREY

The rest of November passes in a blur, edging closer to the end of the year. Creeping towards my due date; the date my whole life will be once again flipped on its axis. Maisie has orientation at her new school and I cry a thousand tears that she is about to become a big school kid. Spring gives way to a summer that already feels like it’s going to make me roast.

And even though I’m slowly getting used to the idea of having not just one baby, but two, it still somehow takes me by surprise each time it comes up. The midwife giving me a separate flyer on positions to feed both babies at once, the old woman at the shops who meant well but commented on how big my belly was when I told her I was only twenty-five weeks pregnant, the unimaginable twisting and pulling when they start to kick against one another and fight for room.

Each tiny moment throws the reality of having twins back in my face until I’m hyperventilating.

My stomach feels heavier with every day that passes. My feet swell. My breasts fill out. My back aches. None of it is fun, but I suppose pregnancy never really is.

So, no, I did not want to celebrate my birthday. I did not want to go out for dinner and worry if I was allowed to eat the food. I did not want to sit uncomfortably in a restaurant chair, hating the way even maternity jeans dig into my waist after I eat a meal. I wanted to curl up on the couch, put on a movie, and fall asleep by nine p.m. pretending I wasn’t another year older. No one cares when you turn thirty-three, and my birthdays have become more meaningless with each one I have.

Michael refused to let the day pass us by, though. It grated at my skin, the way he insisted we celebrate.

“Birthdays are the only day in the year you can celebrate you. Youhaveto do something.”

He had scrolled through event websites searching for the perfect—low key—way to celebrate.

I huffed, turning my back and calling for Maisie to come down for dinner, and I thought he had dropped the subject.

Only now, I’m sitting on my bed, waiting for him and Maisie to finish setting up whatever it is they have planned. The afternoon sun streams through the open windows. I follow a little sparkling piece of dust as it dances through the beam of light, wondering what it would feel like to be that carefree. To have nothing, and no one, depending on you, and nothing you ever had to worry about or think about or keep track of. What a life, to be a floating piece of dust, destined for the vacuum.

It’s miserable, really, to compare my life to such a tiny, inanimate, speck. My shoulders droop. How did my life come to this? Is this baby blues coming early? Should I expect them to hittwice as hard since I’m having twins, the same way everything else has?

I’m probably overreacting. Turning my annoyance at Michael’s insistence on making plans into a life-sized meltdown.

Maisie’s giggles float their way down the hall, followed by Michael’s low grumble.

“Can I come out?” I call.

Maisie’s squeal of a “no” rings in my ears.

Those two are up to something, and as frustrated as I am, I’m also thrilled that they are spending time getting to know each other. Michael’s plans for my birthday evening have been kept top secret. He wouldn’t tell me what we are going to eat for dinner, or what activity he is setting out for us. He wouldn’t even give me a clue.

The melodicding, ding, ding,of the doorbell rings and I push off the bed to see who has come. If he planned a surprise party, I might kill him.

I’m still struggling to sit up when he barrels down the hallway to the front door. Before answering, he pokes his head into my bedroom.

“Soon,” he says with a smirk, then blows a kiss and pulls the door shut.

I can’t make out the conversation, but when he closes the door, only his footprints track back up the wooden floors. The smell of grease and salt wafts through the gap under my door.

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