The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(80)

“Yeah.”

Shit. What would she do if I moved my hand lower? Or higher? If I put it between her legs?

It stays firmly planted on her abdomen.

“That’s a thing, you know—the increased sex drive from all the raging hormones,” she says it with authority. Confidently.

“I, uh, didn’t know that.”

“It’s an entire chapter in the baby book I’m reading, and at first I didn’t think it would apply to me…” her voice trails off suggestively.

“But it does?”

Her hips shift again and when her thighs rub together, our eyes meet in the shadows, the tension becoming palpable. Expectant.

Unbearable.

Would it be weird to screw her while she’s pregnant? Is it weird that I want to get her naked and touch her entire body, view it in the soft glimmer of moonlight? Instead of fantasizing about Anabelle, my dirty mind should crawl out of the gutter and be supportive, not mentally strip her clothes off, not mentally be feeling up her tits.

Tits I’ve daydreamed about.

Jesus, why am I thinking about this right now! Because you haven’t fucked her in months, moron, and you miss her like fucking crazy. You think about her every goddamn day, picturing her in your mind every time you whack off.

“Yes, it applies to me.”

Am I losing my mind right now, or has her voice gone a little breathless?

“How?”

“I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”

“We’ve passed the point where we have to be self-conscious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely.”

“Then tell me, how does it apply to you?” I’m entering dangerous territory here and don’t give one fuck.

“According to the books, I have rising levels of estrogen and progesterone and extra blood flow in my vagina.” She laughs quietly. “Sorry, that sounded terrible.”

“I’ve taken several medical courses—I can handle the clinical terms.”

“Vagina is a clinical term?”

“Sure.”

“Huh.” Anabelle goes quiet, body humming in the dark. “I think about sex all the time. I dream about it in my sleep. I think about it during class and when I’m eating.”

What a coincidence, so do I.

She goes on, speaking in a low murmur. “I’ve learned to be creative in the past few months to take my mind off it.”

My fingers itch, forefinger beginning a leisurely trace around her belly button. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a guy, you tell me.”

Is she talking about masturbating? Holy hell, girls do that?

“Well, like I said, I’m here to help.”

A giggle bubbles in her throat. “You never said that.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“What a good Samaritan you are, always ready to lend a hand.” She croons seductively, arms behind her head, hair fanned out on the pillow. Anabelle lets one fall, reaching across her body to tussle my hair, twirling the strands aimlessly, carelessly, like she used to. All those hours we spent in this bed, laughing and talking and rolling around on the mattress.

“Anabelle, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Not any more than she has been.

I know enough about the human body to know sex won’t hurt the baby; that’s the last of my worries. So what am I worried about?

How having sex will affect us? Will we be more fucked in the heads than we were before?

Is it worth an orgasm or two to have our hearts ripped out all over again, knowing I have a flight to catch?

“How do you know I won’t hurt you?” I’m so fucking insecure, needing this reassurance. “How?”

“I don’t.” There’s a long pause. “But I’m willing to find out if you are.”

“Please don’t make this my decision.”

Anabelle rolls from her back to her side, facing me, all of our sentiments blanketed by shadows and moonlight. Along with the fears and doubts gripping us tightly, we have expectations of each other that remain largely unspoken.

I have no idea what Anabelle wants or expects of me, no idea what to offer her at this point. I have no real job, no real home, no fucking health insurance of my own, and there weren’t nearly enough hours this weekend to discuss what needed discussing with eighteen long years of uncertain future ahead of us to plan.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you,” I rationalize. “I just don’t think it’s fair.”

“Fair to whom?” I catch her rueful smile, even though it’s dark. “Besides, it’s a little late for fair, don’t you think?”

She’s right—of course she is. The damage has already been done.

“Forget I mentioned it, okay? It’s the raging hormones talking.”

I won’t forget it, and if I leave tomorrow without having acted on what we both want so goddamn bad, I’ll regret it until the day I set eyes on her again, which could be weeks from now.

I’ll be gone her entire third trimester if I continue school in Michigan. She’ll be alone, with only her friends and parents and Rex fucking Gunderson swooping in to support her in his tinfoil suit of armor.