Now, I push him away. “You can take your hard dick away from me and sort it out yourself. And I’d recommend signing up for aSandwich Making 101class while you’re at it, because telling me I’m ragged and that I have a birds nest in my hair makes me want you far, far away from me. Your sandwiches will all be on you for a while now.”
The sound of him laughing as I stalk down the hall away from him only annoys me more. When he calls out, “Merry Christmas, baby,” I slam the bathroom door behind me and call back, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! It’s not Christmas. There are no presents for you!” I then promptly vomit into the toilet.
I am never getting pregnant again.
Never, ever, ever.
Not even if Wilder tricks me into it.
I refuse.
Morning sickness is hell.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and sort the mess of my hair out, all while trying to move on from the nausea I’m feeling.Wilder was right that I look ragged but there’s no way I’m telling him that.
I find him in the kitchen with a sympathetic look on his face. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I want to hurt you for putting a baby in me.” At the serious look on his face, I relent. “I’m okay.” My morning sickness has eased greatly from what it was like in the beginning. These days, it doesn’t tend to last long. “But you should know that I may never let you near me again once we’ve had this baby.”
This earns me a grin right before he catches me by surprise and pulls me in close. “What I’m hearing is that I should fuck you as often as I can while you’re pregnant.”
“Naturally that’s what you’re hearing. You are such a guy.” I put my hands to his chest. “Let me go. I’ve got stuff to do before your parents arrive.”
He doesn’t let me go. “I’ve done it all.”
“What?”
“Everything’s ready for them. All you have to do is get dressed.”
I don’t believe him. Besides, he’s a man. He would have forgotten half the stuff on my to-do list. “Did you vacuum underneath the couches?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fold up all the laundry and put it away?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cut all the food for the platter?”
“Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Did you clean the tops of the ceiling fans?”
His lips twitch. “It’s all done, Scarlett. I even crossed every job off your list for you after I did it.”
“Show me.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I feel sorry for our kid. Fuckin’ nothing gets past you.” He lets me go and drags my notepad across the kitchen counter to show me that every job has indeed been marked off as done.
I narrow my eyes at him again. “If you did this so we’d have time for sex this morning, you’re out of luck. I’m not in the mood.”
Wilder has proved to me over the last few months of our pregnancy just how patient he can be, and today is no different. Even when he jerks his head toward the bathroom and bosses me, he does it with more patience than any man I’ve ever met. “Get in the shower, Cherry Bomb. I’m not planning on fucking you this morning.”
Five minutes later, I’m in the shower, thinking about how moody I’ve been this week. Even I can’t stand myself half the time. I’m unsure how my husband stands me. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. It may be a miracle if I’m still a married woman by the time I give birth.
I shower and get dressed and meet Wilder out on our back deck where he’s doing some final cleaning up of the plants.
“I’m sorry I’m so moody. I honestly don’t know how women survive pregnancy.”
