Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
“No kidding. You’d think with all the papers they take in, the hospital would switch to an electronic questionnaire of sorts or ask you to do it online before you come.” He takes the clipboard from my hands, his lips grazing my forehead as he stands. I could cry with the way he handles me and this current situation. One minute I’m pissed off, at what? Nothing, literally nothing. Sure, the man went silent. I get it; he was protecting me. It still hurt, and there’s so much left unsaid. Me falling pregnant isn’t really helping matters. The other minute, I’m riddled with desire, ready to tear our clothes off and ride his face, fingers, or cock, or all three, preferably the first two at the same time, the remaining orgasm being left for Boston’s thickness. Then there’s another part of me which is ready to break down and cry buckets of tears. Mental headcase is what I’m going with. It’s not a diagnosis, but it should be, for me at least. I’m sure other pregnant women don’t go through this, right? I watch as Boston walks to the reception desk. Gone is his jacket. He still remains in the suit, black long-sleeve shirt tucked in, black pants that showcase his firm ass and thick thighs, and once again, he’s setting off a desire inside me that needs to stay locked up until after this appointment.
“Amelie Boudreaux,” my name is called out. Boston turns around, and I watch the entire process as fierce protectiveness is written all over him. I nod, mouthing, I’m okay. This is normal. Either he really is right about his father, or the man has another worry, one he hasn’t spoken about.
“Hi,” I tell the nurse, stepping toward her.
“Hi, this will only take a minute. We’re going to do a urinalysis, then we’ll call you back to a room once it’s run and a room is available,” she explains. I feel Boston’s arm slide around my lower back.
“Thank you.” I take a step to follow her, feeling Boston take a step with me. “Boston, I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” he responds,
“To pee in a cup. You can’t come with me.” I’m sure my cheeks are flush with color. The look he gives me, the cocking of an eyebrow, the uplift of his lip are all too telling. The man absolutely would follow me to the restroom and watch me pee in the most un-lady like manner if I’d let him.
“I can, Amelie, don’t test me on that. Go take care of your business. I’ll stand here and wait for you.” So much for stopping him from walking to the back of the office. The man is really going to stand outside the bathroom door, hearing me pee, fiddle with a specimen cup, and give me zero space. Jesus, what did I sign myself up for?
“Don’t worry, honey, he’s not the first one to do this. He won’t be the last.” The nurse hands me what I need. I huff out another breath of air, feeling like I’m a teenager in a snit about my curfew. Boston chuckles and mans his post. I ignore him. Damn alpha male pride; he’s really testing my will to live today. Of course, in my tirade, I try to open the restroom door with attitude. It doesn’t work out well for me with it being on a hinge and all; my dramatic ass is shown up by none other than wood. The automatic lights flicker on, and the door closes softly behind me. I roll my eyes. I’m well aware of the breath I’m holding, mainly because I’m trying to relax. Who knew going pee with the father of your child standing so close to door would give you stage freight? Me, that’s who. I release my breath. There’s no time like the present. I ignore the mirror. There’s no way I’m going to look at myself. Today has been a day, almost like a Monday, except it’s not. It’s just a normal day. I should be doing normal things. Morning sickness, fainting, telling Boston he’s going to be a father, dealing with my own father, yeah, it’s been one of those days.
I do what needs to be done as I follow the instructions that are printed in bold print right in front of the toilet, trying to block out the outside noise that comes through, going so far as to hum to hurry this along. A few moments later, the specimen cup is in the metal container that has a door on each side wedged between the walls, I’m washing my hands, and then I’m out the door.
“Everything okay?” Boston asks the loaded question.
“Your room is already available. I’m going to take your vitals, then the doctor will be in with you shortly.” The nurse saves the day from me word-vomiting all over Boston and how annoyed I am at the slightest provocation. We follow her into the next alcove. “First, we’ll take your weight, blood pressure, and temperature.” Without being told, Boston turns around, hands in his pockets. I’m thankful for one thing going my way. I was really worried my mouth was going to run away with me should he exert his dominance in watching how this whole thing goes down. I kick off my shoes. They probably don’t weigh a lot as it is, but every little bit helps. The nurse types it on her laptop, then I step off.