With my free hand, I reached up to stop her retreat, encasing her tiny jaw in my palm. “I love you. Happy Mother’s Day, honey.”
“I love you too,” she responded immediately, her face softening in a way that it only ever did for me. My woman was hard and fast, but her heart—the part I’d claimed as my own—was all warm and squishy through and through.
She was everything. And I couldn’t imagine a time when I’d ever feel differently.
The moment was so special, so poignant for the two of us smartasses, it was almost unbelievable.
But the four-year-old little asshole we’d created didn’t have any trouble ruining it, and that wasn’t a surprise at all. In one smooth motion, Ace’s arm shot forward and connected with my already abused balls. All of the air in my lungs left in a rush.
“Oh, fuu—fluff. Christ in a tourniquet, mother—”
Ace fell safely to his feet as I released him, and he shot out of the room. And of course, right on cue, Cassie smiled. As always, it was part evil, part irresistible. “Don’t worry, T-bag. I’ll do my best to make the little guy feel better tonight.”
“Hey,” I coughed past the pain as she skirted around me and out the bathroom door to leave. “Fluffing little guy, my as—” God, some of these mock curse words were hard to come up with in the moment.
She turned back at the door to our room and waved, mischief and love swirling in her eyes like the perfect cocktail.
“See you later, T.”
“You bet your sweet titties, you will.” You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.
One hour into this photo shoot in Manhattan with seven hunky versions of Snow White’s dwarfs and my lower back screamed for relief. Taking pictures of half-naked muscly men wasn’t all it was cracked up to be when you were seven months pregnant and crabby from missing your daily orgasm quota.
“Cristiano, move a little to the left,” I instructed as I simultaneously moved myself—and my giant belly housing a fetus—a little to the right.
He took three steps, but his million-dollar model smirk never faltered. “Like this?” he asked once the perfect amount of sunlight started to beam across the smooth and firm muscles of his shoulder blades.
“Perfect.”
Well, he was perfect. I was just uncomfortable trying to navigate around my stomach and modify my normal shot positions. Before I got knocked up, it wasn’t abnormal for me to be lying on the ground and using my camera to snap amazing photos from below.
But now, if I lay on the ground, there was a chance I’d need one of those Life Alert bracelets. Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
Pregnancy was a motherfluffing bitch.
Well, I wouldn’t say it was always a bitch, but when you were seven months pregnant with the Jolly Green Giant’s baby and you had to run around on a set for a last-minute, but very important photo shoot, it really was a motherfluffing bitch.
I already know what you’re thinking.
You’re having another baby? Another baby with Thatcher?
Yes, I’m aware that procreating with a man that size is pushing the limit, and procreating with him more than once is downright crazy.
More crazy than me, to be honest.
Don’t worry, I’ve been forcing Georgia and Winnie to have prayer circles for my vagina every Tuesday night at eight p.m.
Seriously. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers?
Both of us would really appreciate it.
Did I mention I was a little crabby today?
No orgasms make Cassie an annoyed girl.
I adjusted my position on the ground, pulling my legs forward and up so that I could rest my camera on the tops of my knees. Instantly, I groaned, and my lower back screamed its disdain. The pain was sharp enough to steal the breath from my lungs, and I decided it would be better to take a quick break to regroup before I started getting bitchy with Cristiano.
“Let’s take five, guys,” I announced to the set and slowly—and with a lot of determination—I got myself off the ground and headed toward the snack table.
If there was one thing that could help ease my frustration, it was a motherfluffing donut. Plus, it wasn’t like anyone on this set would be eating the glazed and gooey goodness besides me. The majority of these models were on diets that had more don’ts than dos. No processed sugar, no simple carbs, no gluten, no dairy… I often wondered what it was they actually ate. Chia seeds, I decided. They must survive on nothing more than chia seeds.
With a donut in my hand and my back against the exposed brick wall of our quiet alleyway in Midtown, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent Thatch a quick text.
If there was one person on the planet who could pull me out of this funk, it was my husband.