Chapter Eleven

Jenna

My pregnancy test appointment crawls closer. I itch with curiosity and anticipation, but I force myself to be patient and wait out the two weeks instead of raiding the corner drugstore for pee sticks.

I didn’t plan on contacting Emmett until I knew whether I needed another dose of sperm, but some combination of restlessness and horniness compels me to text him a few days after our last “meeting.” Before I know it, we’re texting every few days, although usually just to complain about work.

At home one night, I’m alternating browsing baby supplies online, trying not to eat a second bowl of butter pecan ice cream, and talking to Emmett. I’ve been in a shitty mood all week, and work today only made it worse. Luckily, Emmett understands. His company is apparently going through a rough merger with the competition, which only cements my conviction that selling out is the wrong thing to do.

After an hour of mutual bitching, I’m starting to feel somewhat better—until I go to the bathroom and find a big, fat, ugly red streak in the crotch of my panties. There’s even a slight smear on my white leggings, just to add insult to injury.

Dammit, this is the freaking icing on the cake.

I stare at the mocking stain. Everything makes sense now. Mood swings, food cravings, feeling fat and tired, wanting to drag Emmett back into my bed . . . I let hope lead me astray. I’ve been deluding myself into interpreting everything as pregnancy symptoms when it was just goddamn PMS.

I have never inserted a tampon so angrily in my life.

I ball up my bloodstained clothes and slam-dunk them into the hamper. Fuck my entire life. I need alcohol. I’m one hundred percent baby-free, so I’m allowed to drink. Hell, I’m entitled.

I change into a fresh outfit—with black leggings this time because, fuck you, Aunt Flo—pack up my purse, and head for the nearest bar, Crossroads Tavern. I’ve only been there a few times, but it’s a decent enough watering hole, and more importantly, it’s nearby so I can walk there. Drinking enough to dull my emotions without having to worry about driving home is my top priority right now.

The bar is packed, and as I squeeze inside, I see why. Everyone’s attention is glued to the big-screen televisions blaring a championship basketball game. Oh, whatever. I’m just here to drown my sorrows—as long as I can find somewhere to sit, I don’t care how noisy it is.

I shoulder my way through to the bar and shout over the noise of the crowd, “Double shot of tequila, please. And I want to open a tab.”

The bartender nods and trades me my order for my credit card. I take a gulp, shuddering at the burn, then sigh at the sweet warmth that spreads through my veins.

The crowd erupts in earsplitting clapping and hollering. Someone must have scored a crucial basket. Even though I don’t follow either of the teams playing, I turn my attention to the nearest television, just for something for my eyeballs to do while I drink. But I’ve barely finished my order before that gets too boring.

On a tequila-lubricated impulse, I pull out my phone and text Emmett: Hey, party at Crossroads, you in? I throw in a couple of random emojis for good measure, then get back to drinking.

I’ve polished off another tequila shot when a hand lands on my lower back. I whip around, prepared to deck whatever random asshole is trying to grope me, and stop short at the sight of Emmett. Looking agitated, he yells something unintelligible over the ruckus.

“What?” I shout.

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” he shouts back.

“I can do what I want.” My third shot arrives—or does it count as my fourth, since the first was a double? Doesn’t matter. I toss it down my throat.

“But what about the baby?” he insists.

My stomach squirms. “I can’t hear you,” I lie.

Emmett casts a frustrated glare at the huge, rowdy crowd. “Oh, this is ridiculous. Let’s get out of here.”

I set my jaw. “No. I want to get drunk.”

“You’re already drunk. I’m walking you home.”

Who does he think he is, my boss? I glare at him. “Fuck off.”

“Maybe later. Come on.” He calls to the bartender, “Excuse me, can I get her tab? I’m paying.”

I growl, but the bartender hands over my card, so I pocket it and grudgingly let Emmett drag me out of the bar. The sidewalk tilts under my feet but he holds me tight, not letting me fall to the pavement in a heap.

“What the hell is up with you tonight?” Emmett asks, staring urgently at me.

He has such pretty eyes. Like rich dark chocolate . . . and I’d kill for those long lashes.

“Hey, are you listening?”

Not really. “It’s fine,” I snap.

“But what if—”

“I’m not fucking pregnant, okay? I got my period. Happy?”

All the confused irritation instantly falls from his face. “Oh,” he says, his voice flat.

“Yeah.” Even though the quick motion makes me sway slightly, I look away, not wanting him to see how deeply this failure stings.

Before I know what’s going on, he pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m sorry.”

I stiffen, not expecting his comfort, then melt into it. The warm, solid strength of his arms brings a knot to my throat. My anger abruptly dissolves into being just plain upset. “It’s not fair,” I mumble, sniffing into his shoulder.

“I know,” he says gently.

“I t-tried so hard, I did all this shit, and it still didn’t work.” I know I’m whining, acting ridiculous, but right now I don’t care. If only for a few minutes, I feel like being fussed over. I feel like being a girly-girl who cries and gets emotional. “What’m I gonna do?”

He pets my back in long, calming strokes, as if I were a cat. “We can try again. For as long as it takes.”

“You’re being so nice to me.”

“Of course. We’re friends.” His hand pauses on my back for a second. “I mean, seeing you like this, who wouldn’t want to cheer you up?”

If I were any less sad and drunk and just generally discombobulated, I would start overanalyzing everything about this situation. But all I want right now is his comfort and concern.

No . . . that’s still not completely true. I don’t want just anyone’s sympathy. I want Emmett, and I don’t give a shit how it happens.

He leans away without breaking the hug, just enough to look in my eyes. “Feel better?”

I manage another long, wet sniff, and nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

And I actually do . . . better enough, in fact, for my mind to return to the problem at hand. There must be something more we can do, some way we can make sure we take a better stab at pregnancy next time. The alcohol-soaked gears start turning.

Smiling, he brushes a stray hair out of my eyes. “I’m glad I could help y—”

“How often do you jerk off?” I say, interrupting him.

He blinks several times. “What?”

I step back slightly to pull a tissue from my purse and blow my nose. “Jacking off can lower your sperm count, y’know. So, how often?”

“I-I’m not telling you that,” he sputters.

I cock my eyebrow. “So it’s a lot.”

“No. When someone says, ‘No comment,’ it doesn’t automatically mean the most incriminating possible answer.”

“Fine. Doesn’t matter anyway. Going forward, next month, I want to institute a new policy . . . all of your orgasms belong to me.” I pull his hand down to cup my crotch. “Anytime you need to relieve pressure, you’re only allowed to use my pussy.”

His eyes get wider with every word, and his mouth opens and closes a few times. When he removes his hand, he seems reluctant.

“You listening?” I demand.

“Yeah, I heard every word. Believing them was the hard part.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, believe it. Yes or no?”

He licks his lips in what could be trepidation, but I hope is eagerness. Damn, he has some nice lips. Full, soft. I’d like those lips to go places.

What was I talking about again?

Finally, he replies, “If that’s what has to happen, then . . . I guess I can do that.”

I pump my fist in drunken victory and wince when my lower belly protests with a cramp. Agreeing on a plan has cheered me right up. More sex has got to equal more chance at a baby, right? And the prospect of hopping back into bed with Emmett is like winning the lottery.

“Is something still bothering you?” he asks, his voice warm with concern.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just some cramps. No big deal.”

Some distant part of me is sober enough to wonder why I blurted it out like that. Normally, I’d hesitate to talk about Private Uterus Things with a man who’s not my boyfriend—hell, even some of my old boyfriends were jerks about it. But Emmett doesn’t seem grossed out, only sympathetic. And somehow, I knew he wouldn’t mind. Things have always been different with Emmett. Comfortable. Like I can share anything at all and he not only won’t react badly, he’ll actually give a shit about how I feel.

Must be because of our totally all-about-medical-stuff arrangement, and not at all about the way he smiles. We’re just friends. Not even friend-friends. Sex friends. Very sexy friends.

Shut up, brain.

Before I realize it, we’re walking, and soon we’re almost back to my apartment.

Emmett interrupts my increasingly dirty thoughts by suggesting, “Maybe I can lend a hand.”

I unlock the door and he follows me inside. We’re standing in my foyer, with only the dim lamp I left on to light our surroundings.

When I look up at Emmett, I see he has that gleam in his eye that I’ve learned to recognize. The sly, sensual look that means he’s cooking up some naughty scheme. But what he’s up to specifically, I have no idea.

“What could you do about cramps?” I ask. “You have some ibuprofen on you?”

“Nope.” He cups me hard through my leggings.

I gasp. “W-what are you doing?” Looks like he meant lend a hand very literally. My body votes yes . . . but the few brain cells that survived the tequila can’t forget the fact that I’m on my period and should be closed for business.

His fingers slide over my covered crotch, caressing up and down, making it hard for me to think. “Orgasms release endorphins and soothe menstrual cramps. It’s scientifically proven.”

“Oh, so y-you’re a gynecologist now?” My attempt at snark is undermined by the way his skilled teasing makes my voice shake. Damn, he hasn’t even touched my clit directly yet, but it’s already starting to ache.

“I dabble.” He licks the shell of my ear, making me shudder.

“But . . .” I sigh.

He presses me back against the wall, sandwiching me between its cool surface and his heat. “Let me make you feel better.”

I give in and roll my hips into his touch.

With a pleased sound in my ear, he slides his hand down into my panties. His fingers feel cool on my overheated flesh. I scoot my feet apart to give him more room to work—and oh, work he does. His fingers rub circles into my swollen bud as he kisses and nips a sensitive spot on my neck, sending tingles down my spine. I don’t care that we shouldn’t anymore. I’m drunk and horny, I want pleasure, I want Emmett.

“You like it?” His voice has turned low and rough.

“Mmm,” I murmur, panting. “Yes.”

I can’t hold back my whimpers. I bury my face in his broad shoulder and spread my legs wider for his exploring hand. My knees threaten to buckle, but I know he won’t let me fall. Ecstasy rolls through me and I bite down on the crook of his neck, muffling my cries. Emmett sucks in his breath and his steely erection nudges my stomach.

I come in a dizzying rush of endorphins that really do make me feel better—from head to toe.

When my trembling subsides, he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to my lips. “I’ll knock you up next month, I promise,” he says softly. “But for now . . . it’s time to get you to bed.”

His warm arm around my lower back steadies me as I toe off my shoes, and I realize I’m not depressed about getting my period anymore. In fact, I’m excited about what the next month holds—an open buffet of Emmett.