Chapter 8
FIONA
Three months later …
This morning I wake up in my own bed for the first time in months. I lie awake watching the early morning sun creep through my curtains as the thought of Dylan comes floating into my consciousness, and I smile to myself, reminiscing. Ever since that very first date, after we had filthy sex twice in two days, we’ve been almost inseparable. I stayed with him in his penthouse that night and essentially never left. We’d both go to work and then return in the evening, spending whole weekends together in bed and ordering in food.
Food. After that horrific incident with Ricky when he shamed me for eating my entire sandwich, I was a little wary about eating in front of another man. What would Dylan say if I devoured everything on my plate? Would he think it was gross? Unladylike? Or something even worse?
Because even though he was so different from Ricky, I just didn’t know. My self-esteem has been damaged, and it crossed my mind that maybe all hot guys hate girls who eat food. I hadn't really dated enough of them to know, so I was nervous.
But as soon as we got to the surprise restaurant during our first date, I knew I could relax and be myself. Not only was Dylan abundantly clear about loving my curvy body from the very beginning, but he encouraged me to order any and all food I wanted, including multiple desserts. Plus, the man took real pleasure from seeing me enjoy my food. Not only have I never experienced this with the few guys I’d dated, I also didn't know it was possible for a guy to be this okay with me being myself. I don’t know if that’s really sad to admit, but at least it’s all over now.
Because everything about the man is incredible. He’s so hot and thoughtful and gentle, yet commanding and sure of himself. He knows what he wants, and clearly, he knows what I want, too. And oh god, the things he does to me… I can feel my pussy tingle merely thinking about it. His cock is enormous and every time we have sex he makes me come harder than I thought possible. And what’s even more of a turn-on is how horny he is for my body. He can’t seem to get enough of my huge tits and wide ass. All I have to do is walk into the room with a slightly open bathrobe, or tight dress, or anything that shows off my curves, and he’s as hard as a rock. He’ll grab me and fuck me right then and there, no matter what we were doing. Bending me over furniture, pushing me up against the wall, pulling me down onto his lap as he pushes my tight pussy onto his rod, always wet for him. He never hesitates and I love it.
So lying here in my own bed, I miss Dylan. He’s away on business and even though he tried to convince me to stay in the penthouse and make myself comfortable, which was very tempting, I thought I’d better go home and get some laundry done. I basically haven’t been home since that first date three months ago, as crazy as it seems. And I can’t just let Dylan keep buying me new outfits, even though I now have a fully stocked, fabulous designer wardrobe at his place.
But I can’t help wondering about what’s going to happen between us. Because call me girly, but we still haven’t had “the talk.” The one where you “define the relationship” and put labels on things, such as “boyfriend,” “girlfriend,” “couple,” and “together.” Dylan clearly hasn’t felt the need to instigate it, and I’ve been reluctant to jinx things. Besides, I’ve been feeling nauseous the last few days and figured that if I was coming down with something, it would be perfect timing for me to sweat it out while I’m at my own place, and not his. No one needs to see me vomiting while running a fever, especially not someone as amazing as Dylan.
And suddenly I’m overcome with a strong wave of nausea. I scramble out of bed and rush to the bathroom, where I violently throw up into the toilet. What the hell? I clean myself up and feel a bit better, so I check for other symptoms of illness. But there are none. No fever, no sore throat, no aches and pains. Just this queasiness. So I step into the shower. Gross, chunks of vomit got into my hair, and my hands grab the soap for a good scrub down. But as I lather myself up, I notice that my breasts are very, very tender. I cup them gently, observing how they’re even bigger and heavier than usual, and painful to the touch.
Holy shit. I suddenly freeze, my soapy breasts in my hands and the hot water coursing down my back. Holy shit. It can’t be. I can’t be pregnant. But I can’t turn back time, all I can do is stand there as the reality of the situation comes crashing down over me along with the water. Because of course I could be pregnant. Dylan and I try to be careful about protection, but sometimes, we forget to use the condom. I hate being on the pill and resisted when he even suggested it.
So yes, I could be pregnant with his child. It’s not impossible. But then another crushing realization hits me. Maybe the child is Ricky’s. Because in fact, I had unprotected sex with not just Dylan but also Ricky, three months ago.
Holy shit! Quickly, my mind starts computing. Come to think of it, I haven’t had a period in a while, so I probably did get pregnant a while back. With shaking fingers, I pull out my phone and stare at the calendar. It’s possible. I had sex with Ricky, and then met Dylan two days later and had sex with him. Both times, it was unprotected. So this nightmare could actually be true.
Holy shit! What do I do? Limply, my form drops to the shabby couch. Because if I actually am pregnant, it would be impossible to know whose baby it was. As identical twins, Dylan and Ricky share the same DNA, and even a genetic test would be useless. Oh god. I’m going to be sick again.
But I make myself swallow the bile and stride to my bedroom. Once I’m inside, I open the window to blast myself with a cool breeze. It helps, for sure. I sit on the bed in my towel and try to get my mind around what to do. There’s panic bubbling up inside, but I force it down. There’s no point in completely freaking out until I actually know for sure that I’m definitely pregnant. First things first.
So I get dressed and head to the nearest pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. As I'm browsing the different brands, I think back on how I’d often pictured this moment. In my fantasies, I’d be strolling down the aisle shopping for pregnancy tests with a ring on my finger and my dapper, loving husband by my side. A husband of whom I was sure was the daddy of my baby. Oh god, I’m gonna be sick again. I buy three different brands of pregnancy test and get the hell out of there. It says on the back that the best time to do the pregnancy tests is during the first pee of the day, but I don’t have the patience to wait until tomorrow to take them. I bought three for a reason: for reinforcements.
But there is no doubt. I drink a ton of water and pee three times in one hour, and each and every single one of the pregnancy tests comes out positive. Oh my god. It’s true. I’m pregnant! Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. If I could be sure that it was Dylan’s, I’d be over the moon – and maybe he would be too. We could make things official, move in together, and maybe even get married. I have no idea how Dylan feels about starting a family, let alone with me. After all, we’ve never spoken about it. In fact, we’ve never even spoken about “making things official.” Shit. What do I do now?
None of this matters, though. The fact that the baby could very well be Ricky’s completely obliterates any chance of feeling happy about my pregnancy. I haven’t heard from him or seen him at all since he dumped me, and Dylan and I haven’t discussed his brother at all. Caught up in my sudden whirlwind romance with Dylan, I had been able to push away the memory of sleeping with both twins in such a short period of time. Initially it had bothered me. But it wasn’t as if I was cheating, and Ricky clearly wanted nothing to do with me.
But still - who does that? I had been able to lie to myself and tell myself if was okay, even if it’s the kind of thing I’d never be able to tell my grandchildren. But it’s all come back now to bite me in the ass. Here I have the most incredible guy ever, who makes me so happy. And yet I’ve ruined it all by potentially being pregnant with his twin brother’s baby. It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have thrown myself at Dylan that first time. I should have exerted more self-control. I should have made Ricky wear a condom. So many shoulda, woulda, couldas, and yet all there is are these stupidly positive pregnancy tests. I throw myself down onto the bed and finally allow all the emotions to take hold as I cry my heart out into the pillow.
What do I do now?