Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Deal.”
The lack of further pushback shoots my eyebrows into the air.
“But stuff a pillow under your shirt so that you’re pregnant during this nightmare, too.”
Initially, I laugh, but when she doesn’t join me, I abruptly stop. “Oh shit, you’re fucking serious?”
“Like a midseason trade.”
“Alright,” I naturally cave and snatch up one of the nearby throw pillows. “Get over here and knock me up.”
Harlow enthusiastically bounces my direction, takes possession of the object, and yanks up my white t-shirt. Her fingers help themselves to more than a handful of my abs during the process of securing it between my boxers and shorts and no part of me wants to complain. She’s simply offered a wicked grin.
A low groan.
And of course, my tongue in her mouth for a brief penalty period for toying with my patience, something that I’ve learned over our few past weeks together is her favorite thing to fucking do.
Once the item is secure, we step on our respective mats, and I hit play.
It doesn’t take more than thirty seconds for Harlow to ask, “Can we fucking mute her?”
“On it.”
My prompt doing so has Harlow instructing Alexa to play Pitbull over the speaker system.
Not at all surprised, I focus back on the screen where the adorable, pregnant brunette who can’t be any older than me, is getting into the first position.
It’s a basic sitting pose.
Not bad.
Reading the closed captioning about opening up my non-existent vagina muscles while Pitbull raps about fucking in the background…is a little fucking awkward.
Add in Harlow scolding me not to break the baby each time we shift to a new stance and the whole thing becomes a when is last call situation I hate being in.
Being on all fours to the ass song playing is—yet again—fucking uncomfortable but seeing Harlow really get into the stretches and push herself to properly pose makes it a bit easier to disregard.
“Keep those abs and that pelvic floor tight, Brendan,” she playfully taunts while leaning to one side, hand stretched up to the sky.
“Yeah, I don’t think you should say shit like that to me,” I lightheartedly jab back. “The last thing we need is me going into early labor.”
She snickers and switches sides as the instructor does.
“But I’ll admit it. I do love the view from here.”
Her gaze cuts over to me admiring her perky ass that’s trying to peak out from underneath the very edge of her shorts. Rather than give into the compliment or thank me for it, she impishly states, “That makes one of us.”
I dramatically gasp and plant my palms gently on my protruding stomach. “Be careful, little Gretchen can hear you.”
“Gretchen?!” Harlow spreads her legs wide and bends forward so that the top of her head is resting on the mat. “Why would you fucking name her Gretchen?”
“’Cause I can’t name her Gretzky!”
“You could’ve named her Paulina after his actual daughter.”
Bending over to do the weird headstand beside her occurs at the same time I confess, “I didn’t even know he had a daughter.”
“Or Gordie could’ve been cute. You know after Gordie Howe.”
“Why do I get the feeling that our boys are going to have hockey names regardless of how I feel?”
Her head turns towards me. “Because they will.”
“What if I wanna name them something different? Like after my favorite chef? Or a name I saw in a book?”
“Well, you’re pregnant now, too, Whora the Explorer, so go ahead and name your pillow after whatever Power Ranger it was you grew up watching.”
The two of us rise to a standing position which I use as the perfect opportunity to remove the object from my pants and pop her on the ass with it.
A tiny gasp is followed by a narrowed gaze. “You know what this means, don’t you, Bam Bam?”
“Bring it on, Betty Bubble,” I goad with a point to her stomach.
Outrage bursts in her expression a split second prior to her popping me across the face with a pillow I didn’t even fucking see her pick up.
Fuck me, did I marry a ninja?!
Another hard swing makes its way to the same space, landing an equally severe hit. It isn’t until she goes to swing for a third time that I manage to dodge and counter, landing another blow to her backside. She squawks. Rotates. Attempts to repeat the action delivered to her only to fail and receive a pop to the forehead. Now more fired up than ever before, Harlow lowers herself to a better attacking position and engages in an intense pillow duel that somehow manages to take place around all the laughing we’re doing. My strikes obviously avoid her stomach while hers are primarily concentrated on my face only stopping when I manage to rip away her weapon all together and toss it towards the kitchen. More squeaks of unhappiness are thrown my direction along with several attempts to return the disarming.