Nine Month Contract, page 10
Provided I can actually get pregnant.
I wander back into the kitchen and spot Everly’s senior photo pinned on the refrigerator. She’s sitting on the edge of a pool, her feet in the water, blond hair off to one side, smiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Probably because she doesn’t. Although she seems awfully invested in her uncle’s well-being if she was willing to hit the streets and find me. That’s sweet, I suppose. Not psycho.
The photo beside hers is of a little brunet boy who can’t be more than eight. This must be his brother Max’s other kid, but I’d swear I was looking at a mini Wyatt. Same dark lashes and blue eyes, same sullen, moody expression. It’s uncanny. I wonder if some version of this is what we’ll possibly be making tonight? Kind of a crazy idea to think about.
But I’m not going to think about it.
I’m an incubator and nothing more. I’m like an artificially inseminated cow. My body is meant to house this human for another and nothing more. I can’t care what this child will look like. I just need to focus on getting this child created because this job doesn’t exist without me getting knocked up.
Let’s get this farm animal knocked up!
A throat clears from behind me, causing me to jump out of my skin. I twirl on my heels to find Wyatt standing awkwardly in the kitchen with a sheepish look.
“It’s done,” he murmurs, his cheeks looking flush under his trim beard as he struggles to make eye contact with me.
“Great! Where’s the syringe?” A strong sense of light-headedness engulfs me as I walk over and hold my hand out expectantly. Maybe it’s the wine. Yeah, we can blame the wine. Not the overwhelming panic that this is actually all fucking happening.
“Um...it’s still in the bathroom.” He grips the back of his neck and shoots me an uneasy look. “I didn’t...you know...transport it into the thingy yet.”
“Do you expect me to suck it in there?” I exclaim, my voice high-pitched and accusing.
“I don’t know,” he answers with a growl, his entire body radiating discomfort. “I didn’t want to touch anything you might have to touch...”
“Good Lord,” I grumble and push my way past Wyatt to find whatever mess he has going on back there. “The sooner we get this inside me, the better.”
I can’t believe I just said that out loud, but it’s the truth. The quicker, the better because this whole evening feels like an out-of-body experience, and I need it to come to fruition. This is the climax we’ve been waiting for.
I giggle at my inner joke, hearing his boots heavy on the wood floor as he follows me down the hall and into his bedroom. My eyes widen briefly as I take in the large king bed with a white bedspread. Knotty wood accent tables decorate the space, and I note that he manages to pull off that contemporary-rustic vibe nicely in here as well. I wonder if he had a designer because this place screams, “Woman’s touch.”
“What the hell is that?” I ask, stopping dead in my tracks at the foot of his bed to point at the weird little window above his headboard with weeds stuffed inside it.
He harrumphs as he barrels into my back, his hands grabbing me around my waist for balance before he yanks them away. “It’s called a truth window.”
“A what?” I turn and wonder for the first time if I’ve perhaps read this man all wrong. “Is that like some sort of sex thing? Like a glory hole? What the hell do you do with it?”
“It’s not a sex thing,” he snaps back, his jaw taut with anger over my accusation. “It’s a design thing. It reveals that the walls have straw bale insulation. It keeps the sleeping temperature in here comfortable year-round. It’s eco-friendly. This whole house is built with recycled and sustainable products.”
I exhale with relief. It’s not a sex thing. In fact, it’s possibly one of the unsexiest things he could have made up. I smirk and elbow him playfully. “We really are doing this the ‘farm way,’ aren’t we? Should I let out a loud moo when I inseminate myself?” I laugh nervously, wishing I could just shut my mouth.
Wyatt doesn’t laugh.
Wyatt looks grumpy.
Poor Mountain Man.
Unbothered by his surly demeanor, I march into his bathroom and discover the ranch cup on the counter. Filled to the brim.
Gross.
Lips pursed with determination, I unwrap the sterile plastic syringe and hover over the pearly liquid.
You’ve washed rescue dogs with mange before, Trista. One even had a sore with maggots crawling in it. This is nothing!
I pull the fluid into the syringe until I can’t get any more in it. My body shudders when it touches the tube’s plastic to find it still warm. I swallow the lump in my throat. “That there’s a fresh batch, ain’t it?”
“Jesus Christ,” he expels, unable to look at me.
He’s kind of cute when he’s mortified.
I carefully make my way back into his bedroom, holding the syringe in my hands like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled. “Guess I’ll just...oh, fuck!” I exclaim when a thought hits me.
“Jesus, what? Did you drop it?” Wyatt stomps over to me like a giant lurch.
“No, no. I forgot my um...my vibrator.” I bite my lip nervously. “It’s in my purse. Do you think you can go get it?”
Without a word, Wyatt turns on his heel and practically runs out of the room to go get my toy. He looked almost relieved to finally have something to do other than grunt and turn beet red.
When he returns, I have to bite back a laugh because I didn’t expect him to actually grab my vibrator out of my purse. I thought he’d just bring me my whole bag.
He’s a mess.
His giant hand dwarfs my tiny pink vibrator as he holds it in front of him like another grenade with no pin.
And there we both stand, face-to-face, staring at each other with bombs in our hands and no fucking idea what we’re about to get ourselves into.
“Bombs away,” I reply and take the vibrator from him, noticing it’s now warm from his touch.
“Here’s to lucky thirteen,” he says with a wobbly smile and turns to walk out the door.
“Thirteen?” I call out.
He turns and leans on the doorframe with a shrug. “You were my thirteenth interview, and, well...thirteen has always been my lucky number.”
I feel oddly jarred by that sweet remark, but those warm fuzzies disappear entirely when the door clicks closed, and I’m left alone with his big, ominous bed. Should I get under the covers, or is that weird and creepy? I mean, since I’m going to sleep here the first night, I guess it’s expected I’ll use the blankets.
And what if some of his semen leaks out? Should I lie on a towel? I mean, it’s his jizz, so I don’t think he’d mind a little spillage. But what if he thinks it’s from me? What if he thinks I get so hot and horny in here I spray the walls with my horniness?
Oh my God, I’m drunk.
“Just get your shit together, Trista. You’re a cow. You’re a cow, you’re a cow, you’re a cow.”
Setting the vibrator and syringe on the nightstand, I peel back the covers and undress quickly from the waist down, grateful for my big T-shirt because it serves as a good nightgown.
Doing as the blogs instructed, I lie on my back with my knees bent and legs shoulder width apart.
“Just like inserting a tampon,” I tell myself as my hand trembles while grabbing the warm splooge.
I stare up at the creepy truth window and cringe as I inch the hard plastic vessel between my lower lips, pushing past the small wall of muscle down there because I’m tensed like a motherfucker. All the blogs said my cervix is way too high to poke, so I should be able to insert up to my fingers, but Jesus, what if it gets lost inside me? Good God, can you imagine?
Patient enters ER with lost Tylenol syringe full of stranger’s semen. I must have missed that episode of Grey’s Anatomy.
With one horrifying quiver, I quickly depress the plunger like I’m a fucking Hostess cupcake and recoil as the warm liquid fills my center. A slurping noise echoes in the quiet room as I pull it out and stare at it, pearly liquid dripping off the tip and onto my shirt.
I feel it sliding out of my vagina already, so I quickly twist to grab my vibrator. The buzzing noise is deafening, and I picture Wyatt sitting in his living room, hearing the sound like it’s on a megaphone speaker.
God, this is awful.
But as the suction cup vibrator works over my clit, I begin to have other thoughts...ones that don’t feel quite so horrifying.
What if Wyatt wasn’t disgusted by me masturbating in here? What if he was turned on by it? What if he imagined me in this position while he came? What if I opened the door and let him watch me?
I prop my head up and look at the closed door, allowing my lust-filled imagination to see his large frame standing there. He’s propped his arm on the frame in that way that only big, strong men can pull off. He’s leaning against it, his eyes trained on me and what I’m doing to myself.
I bet Wyatt is a dirty talker. I bet that man of few words doesn’t know how to shut up in the bedroom. I bet he would tell me to use that syringe with a little dab of semen left inside it and rub it over my clit for lubrication.
Shamelessly, my free hand reaches back to grab the discarded syringe, and in horror, I do as my filthy mind begs me to do. I smear the remaining seed over my throbbing clit and debate shoving the syringe back up inside me to fuck myself with it while picturing Wyatt’s cock.
I bet he’s bigger.
I noticed his package in the kitchen earlier, and something tells me Wyatt has plenty to work with. I drop the syringe and press the suction tip over my clit again. My eyes go back to the door and picture Wyatt standing there, his dick hard in his jeans as he rubs himself over the denim, the veins in his forearms bulging as he shows me what watching me does to him.
God, would he like this? Would he like me? Would I be someone he’d fuck in real life? Could we have done this the old-fashioned way and not the farm way? Was this a completely missed opportunity?
The image of his cock plunging inside my semen-drenched center causes a groan to echo from my lips. Fuck, that was loud. Too loud. I’m sure he heard it. Then again, he knows what I’m doing in here...it’s not a secret. The jig is up... I’m masturbating! What do I care if he hears me? At least he knows I’m giving it my all. Maybe he made some noises when he jerked off too. I should have listened at the door instead of shoving a whole-ass pizza in my mouth.
I like the idea of him hearing me. The thought makes my inner muscles clench around his spent cum. I can feel myself growing wetter at the thought of him in the other room, listening to every breathy moan I expel, a feral, animalistic look on his face like a caged animal.
A wicked smile teases my lips, and I decide to throw my manners and professionalism and insecurities out the window. I decide to give Mr. Mountain Man an aural delight.
I let myself completely go, not holding back a single breath, moan, groan, or gasp. I rattle the fucking creepy truth window with my climactic cry because, dammit, I’m feeling lucky tonight.
Chapter 17
Inseminations: 4
Wyatt
“Sundown,” Trista says as she waltzes into my house one week later.
“Sundown,” I repeat stiffly and head to the drawer in my kitchen where my ranch cups are stored. “Give me five.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Only five minutes? Took you ten the other night.”
I cross my arms and prop myself on the counter to glower at her before stating through clenched teeth, “I told you I was stressed at work that day.”
“And today was a good day?” Her eyes wander down my body before snapping back up to my face.
She’s been doing that a lot lately...inspecting me. I swear it’s like she’s waiting for me to run out of sperm or something. Or maybe she can read my dirty thoughts and is going to call me out for being a creep any fucking second.
The first night we did this, I was untethered and completely out of control. I let myself get off to fantasies of the woman I hired to carry my child. The woman I’m clearly obsessing over.
Even after she closed the bedroom door to do her thing, I still couldn’t get control of myself. I felt my cock getting hard again just at the idea of hearing her vibrator. Then she started moaning. She started gasping and making these little fucking noises like she was having a goddamn party in my bed.
And I wasn’t there.
A flash of me opening the door and offering to make her scream even louder meant that I had to go for a walk in the woods.
Immediately.
Before my horny, buzzed thoughts had me doing exactly that.
I ended up at the natural spring that flows through the mountain. I was fully dressed and did a cold plunge on my aching balls that had already emptied themselves more than I’d ever seen before. I came back to my cabin soaking wet to find her fast asleep and curled into a ball, her knees at her chest, her hair cascading over my pillow. I covered her up and stared with jealousy at the vibrator on top of my duvet.
I was losing it.
I was an unbridled, horned-up animal that couldn’t get the sounds of Trista’s raspy moans out of my fucking head. And smelling her on my sheets every night this week after she waddles her way back to the barn with her vibrator in hand and my seed in her cunt hasn’t helped with my obsession.
She always smells like roses.
I keep telling myself it’s the thought of her carrying my child I find so unbelievably attractive. And I do...but a small part of me wonders if this fixation I have on her is more than that.
Let’s just say I’ve been doing a lot of cold plunges this week.
We’ve been doing this insemination song and dance every other day for the past week now, and I’ve been trying to play it cool. Be detached. Aloof. But the more she invades my space, the more she invades my thoughts.
It’s becoming a problem.
Thankfully, the blogs say one week is all you need to cover your bases. After that, it’s up to the human body to finish the job. Her human body. And what a body it is.
My eyes wander shamelessly over to her, eating up her full figure that’s always covered in way too many fucking clothes. She’s dressed in her standard boots, loose T-shirt, and baggy, ripped jeans. Most women buy their jeans with holes... Trista seems to make those holes herself because if I’ve learned anything about her this past week, it’s that there is nothing this woman won’t do on her own.
The other morning, I heard Millie bleating like a banshee before the sun was even up, which was unusual for her. I slipped into my boots to figure out the problem, only to discover that Millie had gotten her head caught in the metal fence that runs the forest line on the backside of the pasture.
Trista had beaten me down there and was in the process of freeing her when I approached. The force of Millie yanking her head out caused Trista’s jeans to snag on the metal fence. I had to stand behind her to help tear the denim loose, and the process of it revealed a good deal of her leg to me.
Legs I should not be looking at.
Her thigh was bleeding, and I tried to help her out. Begged her to come back to my house so I could clean it up, but she just waved me off and headed back toward her apartment. It fucking pissed me off, honestly. It was my damn goat. She didn’t need to be rescuing it in the dark when God knows what other animals could be lurking outside.
She’s been driving me fucking crazy doing the absolute bare minimum.
I was fucked.
The mountain was a hell of a lot quieter before she arrived. For example, the other morning, Trista must have been running late for work because I came out early to do chores for Millie, and she barreled into me with the barn door. She had one boot on her foot, a donut in her mouth, and a jacket half on her body. Her wild curls swung loose, but she was too quick for me to get a good look at her.
Irritating as fuck.
And I don’t know when the woman sleeps. She has to leave the mountain by six in the morning every day to have even a chance of making it to Denver in time for her work at the rescue center. And she doesn’t get back until damn near dark and doesn’t shut her lights off in the barn until nearly midnight. She’s burning the candle at both ends, and I don’t like it. Should I have included sleeping hours in my contract with her? Surviving on less than six hours of sleep isn’t healthy.
She’s this untamed, wild little creature that I just can’t seem to get out of my head...or my cock. And she’s only been on my mountain a week.
“What made today such a good day for Mr. Mountain Man?” she asks again, blinking her green eyes at me like a puppy dog.
Ignoring that unimpressive nickname, I answer, “We sold a smart house on a new development we’re working on, and hopefully, it’s the first of many more to come.”
She might not notice it, but there’s pride in my voice. These energy-efficient houses have been a passion project of mine for the past couple of years, and it took some convincing to get my brothers on board with it. We’re the first ones doing it in the Boulder area, and I think it’s going to be huge for us and the environment.
Trista frowns at me. “Why don’t you seem happier about that?”
My body tenses. “I am happy. What do you mean?”
“You seem sad to me,” she says as she watches me thoughtfully.
