- GAVIN -

Want to know the worst thing that could ever happen in your life? Here it is.

Step one. Marry the girl of your dreams. For me, there was always only one person who met this criteria. Clementine Avery. The sweetest, most amazing, beautiful smart ass I’ve ever met.

Step two. Get your drop-dead gorgeous wife pregnant with twins. Twins! This has you thinking you’re a superhero and have sperm with Titan-like strength that charged up her body to create two human beings. So far so good, right? You tell yourself you’re the boss. A bad ass. A god among men.

Step three. This is the part that kicks you in the balls. You’re skipping along, thinking you can do no wrong… until you come home from work and find that lovely creature hunched over the toilet, sweaty and pale while she wretches because the pregnancy makes her so sick, she can’t even make toast. Toast!

“Oh shit. Baby.” I gently scoop her off the cold tile floor and hold her to my chest where her fingers dig into my shirt.

“I smell like puke,” she whimpers.

I brush her golden hair from her sweaty forehead. “I don’t care.”

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I place her on my lap and reach over for a washcloth and wipe her face.

Puffy blue eyes stare up at me. Her lower lip quivers.

“It’ll be okay,” I whisper. “You’re doing great. The doctor said the morning sickness should let up soon.”

“This isn’t morning sickness. It’s fucking six o’clock in the evening. I could deal if it were morning sickness.”

I kiss her before I remember I shouldn’t. But no way can I wipe my mouth because Clementine will freak out more.

Her eyes pop up to mine because she knows I hate puke. She studies my face, and after a moment, her lips turn up into a smile.

“You love me, don’t you?” she asks, almost shyly.

We’ve been married for two and a half years, and she still blushes.

“Of course I love you. You’re my wife. You’re carrying my children.” I’d sacrifice life and limb for you. I kiss her forehead. “You’re my golden girl.”

It’s possible I’m not a fair judge, but I happen to think I have the most amazing wife. In fact, my friend Daren and I have a bet to see who has the perfect wife, Clem or his wife Maddie. The girls think it’s hysterical. And secretly, I know they’re both vying to win.

As luck would have it, Maddie is also pregnant. But I get extra points because we’re having twins. A boy and a girl. See, super sperm.

The girls don’t know this yet, but the goal is to see which of our families can have a basketball team. Two down, three more to go. If you’re counting, we’re ahead here.

Clem’s arms wrap around my neck, and she sniffles.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, I kiss her temple. “Think you could eat a little Cream of Wheat? I can make it next door.”

“I hate that you have to go to the neighbor’s house to microwave something.”

“I was going to make it on the stove. Not the microwave.”

Her arms tighten around my neck. “Really?”

“Yes, really. No lumps for you.”

She hates lumps in her hot cereal, and if you microwave it, you end up with lumps. No bueno.

Before you go thinking I’m a dick for offering her Cream of Wheat, you should know it’s one of the few foods she can stomach. That and sourdough bread for some reason. She just can’t deal with the smell—of anything. We had to buy scent-free soap and shampoo. Scent-free detergent and fabric softener. I even have to run down to Starbucks to grab coffee because the smell of my favorite beverage percolating turns her into the Exorcist.

I hate torturing the girl because I know she misses coffee, so I’ve cut way back and only drink it at work.

And let me just say nothing—no convenience, no snack or beverage—nothing is worth making her sick.

Clem kisses my neck, and my dick goes to full mast, which she can probably feel on her thigh. But with all of the nausea, I can’t exactly break out my sexy-time moves on my wife.

“I miss you,” she mouths against my skin.

My eyes clench shut.

Here’s the Catch 22. She’s sick all the time. Like every five minutes. But the hormones also turn her into a sex kitten. Yes, my wife—my sweet, lovely, incredibly hot wife—is a total nympho.

Now that she’s pregnant, what had been a gorgeous body is now downright sinful. Because there’s a little more of her to love. Those slender hips? Just a bit curvier. That hot-as-hell ass? A little rounder. Those beautiful breasts? A lot bigger. This is where I thank Jesus, the Easter Bunny, Santa, that rock climbing wall at BU—whoever or whatever is responsible for her body. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

However—and here’s the kicker—we can never act on those urges because one minute, we’re ripping each other’s clothes off and the next, she’s hurling into the trash can.

She curls up closer and giggles. “Did I give you a boner?”

Clem thinks dicks are funny. Until mine is pounding away and she’s screaming my name. Then it’s not so funny.

“You know you did,” I growl.

A listless sigh escapes her. “I wish I could give you a blow job at least.”

My cock is all for it. Until I think of the projectile vomit that’s likely to ensue. “Hmm. Me too, babe.” God, me too.

Her soft hand runs through my hair. “Maybe we could try having sex later?” she whispers. “The nausea usually goes away around nine or ten at night.”

By then, she’s usually crashed in bed with one arm hanging off the bed and a little drool coming out of her mouth. Yeah, she’s adorable.

I’m about to talk some sense into her, but one look at her hopeful expression, and I can’t do it. I’ll suffer the worst case of blue balls known to man to make this girl happy.

“Your place or mine, hot stuff?” I kiss her nose.

“Really?”

Yes, it’s crazy. My wife is begging me to have sex.

“Whatever you want.” Just… please don’t vomit.

By the time we crawl into bed, the prayer is etched in my brain. Please. Don’t. Vomit.

Two months is a long time to go without sex when you’re married to someone this amazing. But I’ve found I really miss sex, not when we’re in bed, but when we’re talking about literature. She starts talking about figurative language, and I’m a goner. Shut up. Don’t laugh.

Tonight, she’s wearing this thin little t-shirt that’s snug around her breasts. The kind that’s soft and nearly see-through, so I have a great view of her rosy nipples. Her legs are bare, and she’s sporting white lace bikini underwear. When we first got married, she told me if I ever wanted to get laid, I could never call them panties. Not sure why that grosses her out, but I don’t need to be told twice.

I collapse in bed and pretend to snore, and she smacks my ass.

“No fucking way. We are doing this,” she barks.

Laughing, I roll over and grab her, and she squeals. I start to tug her down to me when I remember I need to be gentle. The girl is four and a half months pregnant, and although she has a little tummy, if you didn’t know her the way I do, you probably couldn’t tell. It’s easy to forget.

Slow down. You can hurt her or the babies. Fuck.

She stops mid-laugh and frowns. “What’s wrong?” Those blue eyes study my face, and before I can answer, her lower lip juts out. “It’s because I’m a whale already, isn’t it? You don’t think I’m attractive anymore.”

“What?” Seriously, what is she talking about? “Darlin’, nothing could be further from the truth.”

And then the tears start. “I can’t fit in any of my jeans anymore.”

“C’mere.” I tuck her to me and smooth down her mass of golden hair. “You look fucking perfect to me. Do you hear me? Perfect. I’ve had a massive erection for you since I got home. Would I be sporting this kind of wood if you weren’t the most beautiful, sexy creature I’ve ever seen?” I grab her hand and place it between my legs. “Exhibit A.”

Clem sniffles and blinks back a few more tears. “Really?”

“Yes, really. This is all for you.”

She strokes me, and I grit my teeth. It’s been way too long.

“Hey, I’m not feeling nauseous.”

“Oh.” Wow. We might really do this.

“I’m just feeling emotional. Because I want to have sex with my husband and I’m afraid I can’t.”

The tears start up again.

No no no no no no.

“Hey.” I nibble on her ear. “How about I kiss it and make it feel better?”

Her chest stills, and I dip down to her neck and open my mouth and suck lightly until her pulse kicks up.

She gasps. “That… that might work.” She sniffles again, and I will myself to go slowly. Even if I die, even if my balls explode in the morning because we couldn’t get there, I will make my wife feel better.

But before I kiss my way down her body, I get up and kick the bedroom door shut.

What? Did you think I was going to share all the details about how I have sex with my hot wife? Fuck, no. She’s my sex kitten. Go find your own.