Philippe winks at me. “Good?”
“Yes,” I wheeze. “Of course. Or did you think that was me saying I hated it?”
“I was just checking.”
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s moving off the bed and picking me up so gently that I nearly weep. He cradles me against his chest, and we’re moving, moving through the room. I realize he’s taking me into the bathroom. He flicks on the light, and I think we both stare at the glassed-in shower at the same time.
“Are you for real?” I gasp.
“I promised you that you could ride my face. Do you think I’m not going to make good on my promise?”
“Holy. Freaking. Shit. I don’t think I can even stand up.”
“That’s alright. I’ll hold you up.”
He stalks towards the shower, and I know, for a fact, he’s going to have to hold me upright. I have absolutely no bones left in my body. All I can do is cling to him and bury my face into his chest, which smells all manly and woodsy. I feel like this is a dream. A really insanely good dream. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up and know it’s not real. Tomorrow, no matter what my squishy chest and my heart might have to say about it, or even what my va-jay might have to say, I know my head is going to say something different. This is going to be another night we have to forget.
Another night that didn’t happen.
Because this is fake. I’m the fake girlfriend, and tomorrow, Philippe is going back to being my boss, and I’m getting a raise. This night doesn’t fit into that equation. It was never supposed to happen.
Sometimes, remembering is more painful than forgetting, even though I know it isn’t really possible. Forgetting, I mean. I could possibly, maybe, one day, forget the best orgasm of my life. I could possibly forget how Philippe’s hands and tongue and—uh—other things are beyond magical. I could possibly forget all of it, but I will never forget the fluttering or the ache in my chest, because I know I’m falling for a man who is completely off-limits.
CHAPTER 15
Sutton
Well, shit. Granny was right. This really is how babies are made.
By dancing. By drinking a few glasses of wine. By not using common sense. By touching. By kissing. By getting naked together in a Jacuzzi. By getting carried away. By sticking certain objects into other objects. And apparently, by NOT FREAKING PULLING OUT ON TIME.
I stare at the two blue lines on the cheap home pregnancy test I bought right after I got off work. When I got home, I went straight into my bathroom and forced out the few drops of urine I could. I had bought three just in case I wrecked the first two, or in case they gave false negatives. I’m three days late. I’m never late. Ever. I don’t think it’s ever been more than a day off in my entire life. And now. Three. Days.
I had bought the tests with a dawning horror. I could do the math…three days late, and two and a half weeks after the night that I slept with Philippe at his sister’s wedding.
Yup. Those lines are definitely blue, and there are definitely two of them. I’m most definitely screwed.
Philippe might get to pretend like that night never happened. Another night that never was. It just dropped off the face of the earth for him. That and the night where he shoved me up on his bathroom counter, and I let him lick me to orgasm paradise. For him, he gets away with pulling out too late. Or something. Although it really looked like he was careful.
I’ve gone through it a thousand times. He pulled out. It was at least ten or twenty seconds of him touching himself until he came on me. It was hot, and it just about sent me over the edge, watching him stroke his own cock. Watching him come and watching every single detail of the whole process. One thing I am certain of is that he did pull out in time. Obviously, it’s called the pull and pray method for a reason. It’s also why everyone says you shouldn’t do things like this. Because it doesn’t freaking work. Obviously, there was something going on the whole time he was inside. Accidental spillage. Precum. It’s what everyone warned about back when I was in high school.
Use condoms. Don’t get STD’s. Don’t be stupid. And don’t get pregnant if you don’t want a baby.
Granny is going to kill me.
I know tests can give a false negative, but I’m one hundred percent sure they did not give me a false positive.
So now I have two options.
Tell Philippe or don’t tell Philippe.
Really, it only leaves me with one option. Don’t tell Philippe.
I’ve heard him say, on multiple occasions, that he doesn’t like kids. He doesn’t want kids. He thinks people who have kids and have to take sick days to look after them are annoying. He gets bothered when people have family emergencies involving their kids or when they can’t get to work at eight and have to leave before four because their daycare sucks. He also has a ton of things going on in his life right now. The panic attacks. The nightmares. And he’s still grieving his father, or rather, learning how to do that because I don’t think he ever did it properly. He’s going to therapy now to deal with it, but a kid? It is the last thing he needs.
Philippe, so I know we don’t really even like each other, and beyond work and the occasional humping sessions, we hardly know each other at all, but are you ready to try and figure out how to raise a baby together?
