Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I kissed her to shut her up. The woman I loved more than any other human was pregnant with my baby. Fuck the timing.
“Are you sure?” I set her on her feet and kissed her again, unbuttoning her blouse.
She giggled.
“Because,” I kissed down her neck, walking her backward toward the bedroom, “we should make sure you stay good and pregnant.”
Her giggles multiplied as we lost all our clothes.
As we fell into bed.
As I filled her.
Then they stopped, replaced with soft moans. Her fingers curled into the muscles along my back. I ducked my head and sucked her breast, bringing her nipple into a hard pebble between my teeth.
She hissed. “Shit … my nipples are sensitive.”
“Sorry, baby.” I softly kissed it.
She pushed at my chest, nudging me to roll onto my back. Amelia enjoyed being on top. And I fucking loved the view. I couldn’t wait to see her riding me with a little baby belly.
I licked the pad of my thumb before pressing it between her legs right where she liked it. Her fingers tangled in her hair, eyelids heavy and intoxicated. I could come just looking at her.
“God, I love how deep you fill me.” She hugged herself.
Played with her breasts.
Sucked her fingers and smeared saliva over her nipples. Taunting me. Reminding me I could no longer touch them.
My wife had no inhibitions. She was sexy as fuck and knew it.
I gripped her hips, thumbs caressing her belly. We were having a baby.
I met Amelia Havana Armstrong a month before I graduated from college. She was turning right in her red Mini Cooper; I was zooming through the intersection on a bike.
Thunk!
I dented her Mini. She broke my arm and clavicle.
She always hated how I told the story, but it’s how I remember the moment. As I stared at the partly cloudy sky, she and her golden blonde hair appeared above me like an angel. I heard harps and birds singing a heavenly tune.
I was dead. And that was good because the bike was my roommate’s—a ten-thousand-dollar Cervélo.
She unfastened my helmet, throwing spinal injury caution to the wind.
Pinched my nose.
And covered my mouth with hers, blowing entirely too much air into my lungs while I tried to exhale.
I coughed. She coughed.
“Oh, thank god you’re alive! Someone call 9-1-1,” she yelled, not leaving my side. “I’m so sorry. Reeeally sorry. You came out of nowhere. And the sun was bright, and … oh god … what if you don’t make it? I’m so sorry.”
Jesus, I thought. How bad was it?
I could wiggle my toes and most of my fingers. My left digits were a little more of a challenge.
“My … arm …” I gritted past the pain.
“This one?” She lifted it off the ground.
“FUCK!” I cried.
“Oh, god! Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose, resting my arm on the ground as I began to pant and moan like the injured wildebeest taken down by an African wild dog I’d watched on a National Geographic documentary.
“If you live, please don’t sue me,” she whispered an inch from my face, her hair tickling my cheeks. “My dad said he’d cut me off if I got one more moving violation. And I don’t know where hitting a biker falls, but I was moving in my car, so …”
“Miss, can you give us some room?” the police officer said as more sirens sounded in the distance.
“Listen, I work at a big PR firm. I can get you the best tickets to the Eagles, the 76ers, or the Phillies. I’m talking VIP seating. How does that sound?”
She smelled like a flower. Not a rose, more like my favorite fabric softener scent. Maybe honeysuckle?
“Miss, please step aside.”
“I’ll meet you at the hospital. We’ll get this all figured out.” Her smile reached her blue eyes, one with a tiny brown mole just below her lashes on her cheek.
Amelia remained at the hospital for both nights of my stay despite discovering my father was an attorney. She brought me food, flowers, balloons, and tickets to all the best games. During my recovery, she dropped food off at my parents’ house and offered to help me across the stage if I needed assistance receiving my diploma.
My dad quickly determined we weren’t suing her because my mom was already planning our wedding. “Nicest young lady we have ever met,” they concluded. “And she’s one hell of a cook.”
A week into physical therapy, I asked her out on a date—I drove.
Three months later, I proposed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DYING TO LAUGH.
“You saved my life, only to watch me die,” I say.
Amelia doesn’t turn. She continues cutting up the pineapple on the cutting board. It’s nine on a Saturday. I’m still exhausted, stiff, and sore from sleeping with Astrid all night, but it was worth it to have her in my arms for so long.
“She still asleep?”
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder.