Lady and the Champ (39 page)

“You can trust me.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“I won’t hurt you. I swear I’ll never raise a hand to you or our child when it comes.”

She nods, and then she’s silent, studying my face.

“What are you thinking?” I ask after a while.

“I’m thinking I want you to fuck me.”

I grin. Good answer. “Roll over.”

One of her eyebrows quirks, but she does it. I grab her pants and drag them off her, not even bothering to undo the buttons. They slide off easily, leaving her in that little scrap of cotton she calls underwear. Lying there on her stomach, she looks so vulnerable. I want nothing more than to drive into her, fuck her into the mattress, but I’m trying to prove a point here.

I unfasten my own pants, fumbling a little with the zipper because I’m trying to go too fast. I shuck my shirt, too, and when I’m done, I’m naked and she’s not. I’m not sure I want her naked.

She turns her head to the side so she can see me. I know the angle must be bad, and I shift a little to make it worse.

“What are you doing?” she asks me.

“Getting ready to fuck you. What do you think I’m doing?”

I take hold of her feet and move her legs apart, sitting on my knees between her thighs. There’s nothing to those panties; I could rip them off her with almost no effort. But instead I move the cotton aside and push two fingers inside her.

She’s hot and wet—so wet. A small sound comes from her, and I know I’ve hit her sweet spot without even trying. Using the wetness that’s all over my hand, I slick up my thumb and press it into her ass.

She lets out a gasp then, her body arching up from the bed. “Nick—”

“Trust me,” I tell her. “Relax. If it hurts, it’s because you’re tense.”

With my free hand I stroke her ass and the back of her thigh, easing her. My thumb has barely breached her, and, yes, she’s too tight. Too tense. After a few seconds she settles down again, melting back into the mattress.

I slide in deeper as her muscles soften around my thumb. I’m still stroking her vagina as well, and the insides of her thighs have started to shake. Thrusting with my thumb, I feel her pussy getting tighter and tighter, clenching on me. As much as I wish that clenching was happening on my cock, I keep doing what I’m doing. I want to watch her fall apart.

And she does, suddenly, and it’s an explosion. She gasps and starts breathing so hard I’m afraid for a minute she might hyperventilate. I keep thrusting into her, driving her higher and higher.

Just as she starts to come down, I bury my face in her cunt.

She shouts as if she’s startled. I lick her, suck her, stroking my tongue the length of her pussy. I lick her labia, thrust inside her, still teasing her asshole with my thumb.

“Nick, Nick, Nick…” She’s got her back arched, her face shoved deep into the pillow.

“Yes?”

“I need you inside me. Right now.”

With a chuckle, I ease up and away from her, lifting her hips. There’s a pillow nearby—I grab it and put it under her to hold her ass tilted up. Those damn panties are still in the way, so I go ahead and tear them off her.

She’s so wet and open for me there’s no point easing in. I just pound right into her, balls deep, and start thrusting. Her asshole is right in range, looking at me, so I tease it again. She seemed to like that.

Regardless,
I
like it. I also like the way her body just lets me in. I stroke hard and long, deep with each thrust. The novelty of fucking her bareback hasn’t worn off; I’m still almost overwhelmed at the feel of it.

She shudders again, and this time the sound that comes from her is damn near a scream. Laughing, I push my thumb deeper inside her asshole, my dick deeper inside her cunt. When I let go, it’s a harsh surge of pleasure that clenches a fist on my balls, rips its way up my spine.

When I come back to myself, she’s breathing hard again, and I can see the corner of a smile on her face. Her hair has gone damp around the edges, a sweaty tendril stringing over her eye.

I lean forward and kiss her back then move to lie next to her.

“Do you trust me now?” I ask her.

Her smile deepens. “I’m not sure, Nick. Maybe you should demonstrate again.”

With a chuckle, I press a kiss to her forehead and draw her close.

 
T
he next few
weeks go more smoothly than anything’s gone in my life for at least the last five years. Nick has been busy with his work, but he makes time for me—we go out to dinner at least twice a week, where he wines and dines me and makes me feel special. At first I figured it was so we’d be seen out and about, so Sal would hear about what we were up to. Then I realized he doesn’t always take me places where Spada’s guys hang out. In fact, he’s started asking me where I want to go rather than planning it ahead of time. Asking what kind of food I’m craving, that kind of thing. It’s nice.

Of course, when I start waking up sick in the morning, I wonder if he didn’t have an ulterior motive for that, too. Maybe he’s been cataloguing my cravings in a diary or something to see if he can figure out if I’m pregnant.

Well, he can stop. Because I’m pretty sure there’s something cooking in the oven. It seems an appropriate figure of speech for me. So much for taking months to get pregnant. It figures that when I’m hoping it’ll take a while, I turn out to be a fertile Myrtle.

I don’t tell Nick right away. Every time I think about telling him, another tremor joins the nausea in my stomach. I know exactly what it is. It’s fear. Why I’m afraid to tell him, I don’t know. That’s the plan, right? For me to provide him with an heir? That was the bargain I struck with him, so he should be happy I’m holding up my end of it. But I’m still plagued by the fear that he’ll find something wrong. It’s too early, or I took too long, or he’ll just change his mind when faced with the reality of a child.

So I want to be absolutely sure before I tell Nick anything at all. I mean, there’s a slim chance I’m reacting to something I ate or nursing a low-grade case of the flu. I pick up a pregnancy test at a grocery store as discreetly as I can, even driving out of the immediate neighborhood to a place where I’m fairly sure there are fewer prying eyes than there are close to home. No point risking any rumors getting back to Nick before I’m ready to deal with the situation. Then I stress about everything, knowing I have to wait until the next morning to take the test to make sure it’s as accurate as possible.

The test is positive. Of course. I stare at the two blue lines, and my hands shake. I’m suddenly not just nervous about telling Nick, but scared to death. About everything. I’m having a baby. Nick’s baby. No matter what happens, nothing in my life will ever be the same.

This changes the game. This will make it harder for me to get away. I know myself too well, and I know it’ll be far too difficult for me to leave him once I’ve had his baby.

Okay. So I won’t leave him. I’ll make sure he has to hold up his side of the bargain. He made promises, and now he’ll have to keep them.

I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to eat breakfast, but I know Nick always sits down for at least some coffee and toast before he heads out to work. I’ll tell him while he’s getting caffeinated.

I’m still on edge when I join him at the breakfast table. He smiles at me, reaches out to take my hand. I have the pregnancy test clutched in the other hand. “Hi.”

“Good morning,” he answers.

I swallow hard. The morning sickness is starting to kick in, and I’m feeling more than a little off kilter. Woozy. Not my best, by any stretch of the imagination.
Please, God, let him be at least a little happy.

I hold out the blue stick. “I have some news.”

“Good or bad?” He doesn’t seem to immediately understand the significance of what I’m handing him.

“Good, I hope.” I poke the air with the stick and he finally takes it.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a pregnancy test. I took it this morning.”

He’s silent a moment, and his easy expression has folded into something close to a frown. “This morning?” Peering at it, he turns it back and forth, obviously trying to figure out how to read it. My stomach’s going into knots waiting for him to react, but there’s still no real response on his face, just that thoughtful frown.

“Yes. You’re supposed to take them in the morning.” He still looks puzzled. “See the two blue lines?” I explain. “If there was just one, that’d be negative. So this one’s positive.”

He’s very quiet for a few long seconds. “How accurate are these tests?”

My voice comes out in a nervous near-whisper. What is he thinking? “Really accurate. False positives are super rare.”

He finally looks up. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”

“Nothing. I just…” I stop to swallow the tears that have suddenly risen in the back of my throat. “You’re happy, right?”

A wide smile creases his face. “Of course I’m happy! This is wonderful. Sarah, this is fantastic!” He practically leaps to his feet and comes to my chair at the table, hauls me up into his arms. “I thought it would take a lot longer than this.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, since I’d been thinking the same thing. I let my head fall against his chest, just breathing in the relief. “Well, it didn’t. Probably because you keep dragging me to bed every chance you get.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.” He sets me back from him a bit and gives me a firm kiss on the forehead. “We need to go to the doctor right away. Make sure everything’s going all right.”

“I’m sure it’s fine—”

“No, no, no. Only the best for my girl. And my boy.” He lays a hand on my stomach.

“Or girl.” I don’t understand the obsession men have with fathering sons. It’s like we’re living in the Middle Ages. Of course, the mob isn’t much different, I guess.

He doesn’t seem to register my words. “I’ll go call the doctor. Or do you want to?”

I’m surprised he asked, even after the time he’s spent giving me more and more freedom. He doesn’t seem to want to control every inch of my life like Sal did. Or maybe he doesn’t want to have to talk to a gynecologist. Either way, I’m still almost giddy with the knowledge that he’s actually happy, that he’s not going to find some reason to berate me.

I dash a few stray tears from the corner of my eye. “I’ll call. Just give me the number.”

“And I want to come,” he adds.

“I could probably go on my own. I don’t think they’ll do much.”

“No. I’m coming. Let the doctor know.”

He walks off whistling. I smile at him, and a few more tears leak free. I didn’t expect any of this—not Nick taking me away from Sal, or Nick’s wanting a baby, and certainly not this feeling growing under my heart, that maybe I’m actually building something here. Something that will last.

* * *

A
s I suspected
, the doctor’s appointment goes smoothly. There’s not much for me to do right now except rest and take my vitamins.

Nevertheless I’m feeling considerably less sure of things when we get home. I head straight into the kitchen and get a bottle of water out of the fridge.

“You okay?” Nick asks.

I take a long swig out of the bottle and then say firmly, “I want to get married.” He nods slowly. Before he can protest, I go on. “Before the baby comes. I want to be married before he’s born.”

“He?” He smiles a little, and I know he’s teasing me.

“He, she…doesn’t matter. I want us to be married before I give birth.”

Nick eyes me for a long moment, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to at best say no, at worst fly into a rage at me. But I forget—he’s not Sal. How many times will I have to remind myself of that before it sinks in?

“Okay,” he says. “When do you have in mind?”

I just stare at him, not quite sure I heard him right. “Yes? You’re saying yes?”

“Well, I might have liked a more formal proposal. I mean, you could have gone down on one knee…”

I glug at the water to regain my composure. We’re getting married. He didn’t even argue about it.

“We did discuss it earlier, if you’ll remember,” he says when I set the empty bottle down on the cabinet. “And you’re right. It’s the right thing to do. So…when?”

“As soon as possible.”

“All right. I’ll get on it and let you know.”

* * *

I
don’t know
how he does it, but Nick pulls everything together for the wedding in a week. He’s not half-assing it, either—he has me picking out flowers and bridesmaids’ dresses and food and music and cake toppers and icing colors. It’s a whirlwind, and for the most part it swirls all around me while I try to hold it together through bouts of fatigue and morning sickness. I even let Nick close the bakery for a while. It actually seems prudent, given the sabotage Sal committed. We need to be sure everything’s safe before I let customers and employees in again. Still, it hurts.

But there are so many other things to think about, with the wedding and the baby. It seems like only a day or two has passed when I’m standing in front of a mirror at the church, making sure my dress looks just right.

It looks more than all right. It looks perfect. And maybe it’s just the hormones, but suddenly I start blubbering like an idiot. My maid of honor, who I barely know (she’s a friend of Nick’s, not mine) grabs a box of tissues and starts dabbing my eyes. “Your mascara’s going to be everywhere,” she admonishes, and I try to get myself back under control.

“I just…” But I can’t express what I’m feeling. Not even close.

“It’s okay.” She pats my shoulder. “It’s an emotional time. It’ll all be okay.”

“I hope so.”

I can’t help but wish I had family here, but my parents probably wouldn’t be impressed, anyway. They’ve never been happy with my life choices, and I’m sure marrying a wise guy isn’t top on their list. It feels okay to me, though. No, more than okay. Strangely enough, it feels right.

It still feels right when I’m standing in front of the priest. I suggested something a little more modern, but Nick wanted traditional vows in the Catholic church. I had no real reason to say no other than that I’ve been a lapsed Catholic most of my adult life. As it turns out, it’s nice to hear familiar music, familiar words. Even the familiar smell of the incense keeps me grounded and makes it easier to hold back the tears that are threatening to once again destroy my makeup.

Finally we finish our vows, slide rings on each other’s fingers. Even the rings are traditional—plain gold bands, although mine has a tiny diamond chip in it. The priest declares us man and wife, and Nick kisses me in front of God and everybody. And then I’m Mrs. Sarah Angelino, and it makes me happier than I ever dreamed it could. I look up into his eyes, and maybe it’s my imagination being swept away by the atmosphere, but I swear I see something warm in them. Something like affection. He kisses me again, on the forehead this time, and we head back down the aisle, hand in hand.

Even the reception hall is decorated perfectly. There are flowers dripping from every corner, champagne flowing like it’s water, a huge table filled with hors d’oeuvres in preparation for the sit-down meal in a few hours. There’s even a chocolate fountain in the middle of everything, and the live band is warming up in the corner. In the other corner is the wedding cake—four tiers of pink, red, lavender, and white icing, with giant roses spilling down the side and a ceramic topper with a bride and groom surrounded by a huge heart. It’s very traditional, but it’s one of the prettiest cakes I’ve ever seen. Pretty enough I don’t even feel all that bad about not having made it myself.

Nick pulls me to him for our first dance, and I lay my head on his chest. I can almost hear his heartbeat, and his arms are strong around me. I feel protected, like nothing will ever hurt me again. He moves me into an honest-to-goodness waltz, and I laugh as we slide around the dance floor, guests clapping all around us. I don’t know most of them, except from seeing them in passing at parties and other events Sal made me go to. It’s a mob wedding, all right. There’s probably not a single regular civilian in the bunch.

I can’t drink the champagne because of the baby, so Nick makes sure I have plenty of sparkling grape juice. After a while I start to wonder if it doesn’t have a bit of alcohol in it, too, because I’m lightheaded and floaty. That’s probably just emotions, though, and the fact I’m tired from not sleeping well. Thank God the morning sickness has held off today, at least.