I lay my head against the arm of my sofa. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds at the moment. The week has been long and the day huge. I now own my own restaurant. I reach my arm around my chest to pat myself on the back.

“Ouch.” My unsupported neck kinks a little.

I use my hands to prop myself up in a more upright position. My phone chimes, but I don’t feel like answering it. Instead, I just sit and let my big, puffy sofa hug me.

After about five minutes, I get up and fish my phone from my purse.

“Come over,” the message reads. I smile and walk back to the couch. Finally, Randy decided to use my number. It’s been a long day, but the thought of his warm, sculpted body brushing up against mine could be just what the doctor ordered.

I tap my finger against the screen but wait for a minute before typing a message. I’m too tired to go anywhere tonight, and besides, I just went to his place. I think it’s about time he comes to mine.

“Why don’t you come here?” I punch into the screen and tap Send. I stare at the screen for several seconds, waiting for his reply. My stomach cramps a little or growls—I’m not quite sure which. I set my phone down and walk to the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. By the time they’re nearly finished in the microwave, my phone chimes again. I wait for the timer to buzz, grab my food, and head back to the couch to find a response from Randy.

“You want me to come to your place?”

“Yes,” I text back.

“But I was planning on you coming over here ;)”

“Really… Come here ;)”

Several more seconds pass, and I set the phone down and start in on my food. To kill a little extra time, I turn on the TV. My favorite husband-and-wife remodel team is in the middle of turning an old barn into something magnificent. I set the remote down. I just love her style, and she always gives me ideas on how to do stuff. Maybe I’ll get a couple of ideas for the café.

Finally, I get his next text:

“What’s your address?”

I grin victoriously and send it to him.

“I’ll be over in a few,” he texts.

* * *

The doorbell rings about twenty-five minutes later. I get up while watching the final minutes of the home remodel show and unlock the door.

“Come in,” I say, all of a sudden bone tired and barfy but concealing how I feel. If this is going to be the new pregnant me, I’m in for a long haul.

Randy walks through the entry and scans the room. “Not bad for an old house.”

“Thanks.” I close and lock the door. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

I go to the kitchen and fetch glasses of ice water for both him and me. “Feel free to have a seat,” I holler.

When I get back to the living room, he’s standing at the mantel, looking at my pictures. “Here.” I hand him his glass.

He points. “These your parents?”

I go down the line, naming each—my grandparents, parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles.

He takes a sip of water. “The place really looks nice.”

“Thank you. I did it myself.”

“Excuse me,” he says. His eyes are wide, but I have a hard time seeing their bright-blue color in the dim light.

I reach over and turn on the lamp. “I’m good at everything I do.” Except for passing the bar, of course, and I’m not going to remind him of that. I wink at him, and suddenly, I realize I’m not feeling so barfy anymore.

Randy chuckles, and then we stare captivatingly at each other. After a moment, he takes his fingers and moves my hair from my forehead.

“Now I can see you better,” he says.

Somehow, suddenly, we’re standing immeasurably close.

“So how was the rest of your day?” I say.

“It was a challenge.”

“It was.”

“Yes. But I’m not here to talk about the rest of my day.”

My body tingles. “I’m glad to hear that.”

It’s silent.

“So what are you here for?” The smell of his sweet breath and scent of his body have me intoxicated. He’s never made me wait like this before, and my patience has worn thin. I lift my heels from the ground so that I’m standing on my tiptoes and stop just before our lips meet. He takes the bait.

Within a split second, our tongues are intertwined. My desire overtakes me. I grab him by the back of the head and bring his mouth closer to mine. I even get a piece of his lip between my teeth.

He pulls back, as if he’s just as unaware of this side of me as I am. But he only studies me for a second before he meets my intensity with his.

Randy pulls my hair downward, exposing my neck. His mouth and tongue devour my throat as if his very life depended on sucking the blood pumping through my veins. His heavy breathing warms my skin down to my collarbone.

All of a sudden, his lips, tongue, and teeth abandon my neck. His head snaps back. Randy looks feverishly into my eyes, a conflicted expression is on his face.

I hold onto his look with every ounce of my soul. Randy’s eyebrow rises slightly, and he again gives in. He undoes my pants and practically tears them to the floor along with my panties.

Both our hands reach his fly simultaneously. I force his pants to his ankles and drop to put his penis in my mouth. It’s hard already. I look at it for a moment before I begin twisting my head and hand around his shaft.

"Ah," he moans. I've never provided him with this pleasure, and seeing him enjoy it turns me on.

I look up. His mouth has fallen open, and he’s smiling with absolute contentment. His penis is rock hard.

He looks down. “I want to be inside you,” he whispers thickly.

I take his cock from my mouth, and he helps me to my feet. “My bedroom is through there.” I point toward the hallway.

He unbuttons his shirt but remains standing in front of me. “I want you right here.”

I look over at my couch and then at the fireplace behind me. There’s a Persian rug in front of it.

I take his hand and walk him over to the rug. His dick is still like a missile. I slide off my tank top, get on my knees, and take his shaft back in my mouth. I kiss it, suck it, and stroke it with my tongue until he’s rock hard and pulsing. He moans with each pass, followed by my hand.

"Thank you, baby.” His voice is thick.

Randy meets me down on the carpet and guides me on to my back. He ceremoniously parts my thighs and enters me with his rock-hard penis—at first, only half of it. Each thrust sends aggressive sensations through my body. If my pussy could moan, it would. Instead, I moan as Randy’s desirous hands take turns passionately caressing my tits and thighs. I close my eyes to delight in each stroke. It feels so good, and then he stops. I open my eyes. He’s staring at my face.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I nod and do as he commands. He resumes shifting his hips—slowly, deeply.

My insides are so sensitive. I close my eyes to feel every bit of pleasure that his thick dick stimulates.

“Look at me,” he commands.

My eyes pop open like they are responding to my master’s voice.

Suddenly, he grunts and quakes. He’s coming hard, and I always like to watch him enjoy the pleasure he derived from my pussy.

When his orgasm ends, he falls to the floor next to me. I roll on top of him to lie on his chest. My head rises with each of his breaths. I feel as if I could go to sleep right here, bare chest to bare chest, straddling him with my legs. My body is limp like a wet noodle and seems to meld perfectly with his.

“Gina,” he says.

“Yes.” I sigh. My ear remains nestled against his chest.

“What is it we have here?” His voice is soft.

I close my eyes. My heart sinks. I know that if there is a time to tell him, this should be it. He has to know everything. I take one last breath and cherish the feeling of my cheek lying against his barely damp chest.

I free myself from his embrace and lie beside him again, staring up at my Havana ceiling fan. “There’s something I need to tell you.” I turn to my side and rest my hand on his chest, watching him with a frown.

“What is it?”

I gulp, close my eyes, and take one last deep breath. “I’m pregnant.” I open my eyes.

He just looks at me with a troubled stare.

“You’re what?”

“I’m pregnant.”

He sits up. “What do you mean you’re pregnant? By who?”

I sit up too and gently place my hand on his shoulder. “You.”

He pulls away. Fearing the worst is beginning to happen, my heart begins to tear.

“How long have you known?”

“Not that long.”

“How long?” he demands.

“Since last week.”

His expression is blank as if he’s staring at an oncoming train.

He looks back at me. I see the confusion, frustration, and pain behind his crystal-blue eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I want so desperately for something to say. I search myself thoroughly. There’s nothing except, I don’t know. I shrug my shoulders.

He takes several long hard breaths, just staring at the wall. Finally, he breaks his gaze, looks at me, and says, “I have to go.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. In silence I watch him dress and walk out away from me. I remain still except for my quivering lip, watching the door open and close. Once he’s gone, I get up and go to my bedroom. I fall face down on my bed, letting the tears of regret soak my pillow as I bawl until I fall asleep.