I take one onto my lap and pull a box cutter out from my drawer. A few swipes later, and I’m looking at an array of handmade Star Wars onesies and a letter from an Etsy seller, thanking me for my purchase.
Toxic shops on Etsy?
I open the second box and find a Star Wars baby sling, mobile, and an array of small toys, many of which feature BB-8.
Because of course, they do.
The third box is for me and contains thoughtful gifts for expectant mothers, which seems sweet until I pull out a BB-8 maternity shirt, which is horrifyingly created to enlarge the BB-8 ball as your belly grows.
To add insult to injury, there is a bra inside with the cups made to look like BB-8’s bulbous body, its head attaching where the cups meet the straps. The matching panties are not nearly as offensive.
How-flippin’-dare-he!
How dare he make me think of him! Make me want him. He’s weaseled his way into my thoughts, my dreams, my goddamn shower.
Pregnant women have insatiable appetites,he’d said.
It wasn’t a lie.
Thank the Holy Droid for the removable shower head in my bathroom, because I’ve yet to resuscitate my bullet vibrator back from the dead.
But the shower head is nothing compared to the Daddy of Droids, who’s offered his body exclusively to me during the entirety of my pregnancy.
Is it possible that he’s held true to that promise? For most men, I’d say no. But Toxic truly is a different breed.
And to my ever-growing consternation, my body knows what’s on the table, and reminds me of his salacious offer every chance it gets.
Before him, my lust wasn’t the deepest well. Sex was…okay. Sometimes good. Never great.
With Toxic, it’s a nuclear explosion.
And that’s what I need in my life. Desperately.
Scanning his schedule, I find the perfect time to meet up, and it’s only three days from now.
Because I’ve lost my damn mind, I go to my bathroom, put on the BB-8 bra and panties, pose seductively, and snap a pic in my full-length mirror.
I type up the perfect reply to his message and insert the image, but hesitate to hit SEND, because I don’t want to seem overeager.
Which I totally am.
Patience. Just a little bit of patience, and I’ll get exactly what I want. I’ll spell it out for him, in fact.
Because this Hunk needs to know what we are and what we aren’t, and while we might be great together in the sack and he stands a fair chance at being a good dad, I can’t afford to let him think there’s anything more between us.
ELEVEN
Toxic
“Care to get a workout in?”Armando asks.
I’m dead tired from all the extra shifts I’ve been taking, but I know how important it is to maintain my appearance, so I put on my workout gloves and commit myself to a short session.
Armando does his set with ease, doing more reps than what’s typical. He’s been pumping iron nonstop for weeks, and I have to hand it to him, it shows.
When it’s my turn, everything feels…new. Like I’ve never lifted before.
I’m teleported back years, to a time when, with every lift, I used to think nonsensical thoughts, such as:if you can’t lift this weight, your family will disown you,ora nuclear strike is going to hit,orthe Hunks will be kidnapped and forced into a sweatshop.
