Mr. President:A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiance Romance(148)

"A goldfish? I... No, I don't have one," she replies, not knowing what else to say.

"That's a pity. Because if you had one... You could take me to your  apartment... so that you could show it to me. I have a weak spot for  goldfish." Her eyes widen some more, but then she smiles, realizing what  I'm saying. Yeah, it's true; these girls will go for something as dumb  as what I just fucking said. It's not like I needed to say it, though,  she was already down for taking me to her place... But why ruin the fun?  I just fucking love to mess with cock-hungry women like her.

"Oh. I was being silly. Of course I have one... I completely forgot  about. And I'd love to show you my goldfish." Oh, I bet you would... I  bet you fucking would. Maybe seeing her, ahem, goldfish is exactly what I  fucking need right now.

"Well, lead the way," I tell her, downing the rest of my whisky in one  single gulp and giving the bartender a neatly folded bill, tip and all.  She grabs my hand and pulls me in, turning her back to me and guiding me  through the crowd. I follow after her, and a few girls stop dancing as  we go through-first they fucking eye me, and then they turn to Samantha,  jealousy flickering in their eyes. Fucking nasty creatures, women.

Finally emerging on the other side of the fucking dance floor, we go  past the bouncers and out the door, into the cold air of the street. She  holds my arm as if I were her fucking boyfriend, her body close to  mine. I hail for a taxi, and we get inside; she tells the driver the  directions, placing one hand on my knee as she leans toward the opening  in the divider. I'm definitely in a fucking off mood; if this was any  other day, I'd already have my hand on her pussy, and I would make her  cum at least once before we got to her place. Well, at least I'm going  to her place, so I guess that's a fucking victory.         

     



 

Just like she said, five minutes and the taxi stops in front of an  apartment building. I pay the driver. a rastafari guy with a thick  accent, and he gives me a fucking wink and a nod, knowing that I'm about  to fucking score. Thanks, random taxi driver, I appreciate the fucking  support.

Samantha and I leave the taxi and I follow after her as she gets inside  the building. She calls the elevator and we step inside as the doors  open with a subtle ding. Inside the cramped metal box, she grabs my arm  again, looking up at me expectantly. I simply smile, not giving her the  fucking reaction she's expecting. If this were a good day, she'd be  having her second orgasm of the day before the elevator reached its  fucking destination. As it is, all I manage to do is fucking smile at  her. Fucking pathetic.

We get inside her tiny apartment, and she doesn't even bother with  turning the lights on. The moment she shuts the door she's on me, her  huge tits pressing against my chest as she looks into my face  expectantly. Her eyelids start to droop, and she parts her lips, waiting  for me to lean in and kiss her. Jesus fucking Christ, why is my heart  racing? Fuck, and it isn't racing because I'm getting fucking hard, let  me tell you that. It's fucking racing because this is fucking wrong!  What the fuck am I doing here? Fuck!

I take one step back, pushing her away from me. Her eyes widen, confusion taking over her face.

"Is there something wrong?" she asks, fear settling in.

"Yeah," I say at once. "Where's the fucking goldfish?" With that, I turn on my heels and fucking bolt.

I leave her there, completely stunned, and enter the elevator without  even bothering to look back. This was fucking harsh of me, I know, but  fuck … ! When she pressed her body against mine, one name echoed in my  mind: Jocelyn's. I fucking love her. What the fuck was I thinking, going  out at night looking for fucking trouble? The woman I love is at home.

She told me it was over. She told me I was nothing more than a fling.  But her words don't ring true, and fuck me if I'm going to give up on  her without going to the bottom of this!

As I step out into the cold New York streets, there's a look of  determination on my face. I feel fucking renewed. My head is clear, my  heart is in the right place: I'm not giving up on the woman I love. The  situation might be a fucked up one, if I take my father into  consideration, but I don't give two fucks about that.

For the first time in my fucking life, I know what the word love means. And it means everything.





119





Jocelyn





This is my first major appointment. Where is he? I take my phone out of  my purse and tap it on. The screen comes to life and my eyes scan for  the time. 2:15. Michael's late. It looks like he isn't even going to  show up, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He wasn't particularly  interested in joining me today, but during breakfast this morning, he  opened his newspaper and without so much as looking in my direction, he  agreed to come to keep up appearances. "Maybe a reporter will see us  walking out of the office," he said, almost to himself. Is that really  all he thinks about?

"Mrs. Anders, we're ready for you." My mind snaps back to the present.

I look up from my phone and see a nurse holding a clipboard. Well, it  looks like I'll need to handle this appointment solo. He's definitely  not going to show up. I gather my things-phone, keys, and purse-and head  back. The nurse begins by taking my vitals-weight, temperature, and  blood pressure. She asks me an assortment of personal questions, such as  when my last period was, and whether or not I smoked or drank prior to  conception, and if I'm taking pre-natal vitamins. It almost feels like  an interrogation. I'm not used to this. After answering, she instructs  me to undress and put on an unflattering paper gown-it' a far cry from  the dresses in my wardrobe-and then she says that the doctor will be  with me shortly. As I'm lying on the exam table, my mind starts to race  again. I mean, here I am, pregnant with another man's baby, and to top  it off, that man happens to be my stepson. How in the hell did my life  take this turn? But before I can mentally answer that, I hear a soft  knock at the door, and my OBGYN walks in. He's in his mid-50s with a  bushy white mustache. He has a jovial twinkle in his eyes.

"Are you ready to see your baby today?" he asks with more enthusiasm than I expected.

Wait. I didn't realize I was going to see anything at this appointment,  and I'm immediately nervous. "I am," I say, simply. Shouldn't I be  feeling more excited?

"There won't be a whole lot to see, but because you are at approximately the 6-week point, we should see a heartbeat."

"Oh wow."

"Pretty great, right?"

I nod my head.

"But before we take a look, I'd like to review your chart with you. I  see that you're 36 years old. I don't want to scare you, but we consider  that advanced maternal age, so we need to closely monitor things."

Did he just say 'advanced maternal age'? What is that supposed to mean?  Am I really that old? He notices my alarm and quickly finishes with,  "But you look fantastic. I see you're in great physical health and I  don't foresee any problems, so let's go ahead and take a look. Lie back.  I'm going to use this wand. We call it a 'magic wand.'" He says this  and chuckles. I'm not sure whether to laugh or not. Is he planning to  stick this wand inside of me? I watch as he rolls a condom down the wand  and lubes it up. Yep, he's definitely sticking this inside of me. I try  to relax and keep my eyes on the small screen to my right side. Within a  few moments, a black and white image appears, followed by a fast,  rhythmic sound that seems to glow white.

"That's the baby's heart beat."

I squint my eyes and gaze at the screen. There, right in the middle, is a  small image that resembles a gummy bear and sure enough, there is a  beating heart. I'm not an overly emotional person, but when I see that, I  cry. A mixture of emotions are surging through me-love, fear, resolve,  courage-you name it. I wipe my eyes, carefully avoiding my mascara.

"It happens to everyone," the doctor says. "The first appointment is always emotional."

"You can say that again," I laugh. I wonder what Michael would've  thought or felt, standing in this room today. But now I'll never know.

Once the appointment is over, I drive back home. On the seat next to me  is a printed sonogram picture. The doctor gave it to me so that I could  share it with Michael, although I doubt he'll care. I keep this picture  in my hand as I walk into our home. The hall light is on, which is  strange. Michael must already be here.

"Hello?" I call out. There's no reply. I walk upstairs. I still don't  hear anyone, but I can smell a hint of cologne and there are a number of  different lights on throughout the house. It's not Michael's cologne  that I smell, but still something familiar. Where do I know that smell?

I walk toward his study. There's a light on. He must be answering emails  or reading one of his books. I turn the knob and push the door open.  What I see in the middle of the room makes me drop the picture in my  hand, and it flutters to the ground.