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“Wrong!” Ambrose interrupted, striding up behind me in the hall.

“Loving Indi was the smartest thing I ever did. Anything she changed in me was for the better. Mother, you need an Attitude Adjustment. You can turn around and take that skunk fur with you and don’t bother calling me again until your Attitude has been Adjusted and you are ready to apologize to Indi and Dad. ”

As he slammed the door, Harold popped the window open.

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he squeaked out. “Now that I’m in the habit I plan to really get to sowing my wild oats at 75.”

“Sorry,” Ambrose said to me, in an embarrassed tone that was new to him. “I apologize for my toxic family.”

“It’s—fine,” I said in a strangled tone as Harold went to flex in the mirror and Julian napped in his little rocker.

“No, it was wrong of me to not see it before,” he said.

I did not reply, and we finished preparing the Thanksgiving meal.

“Let’s celebrate Astrid being in jail by you giving me another chance,” Ambrose said. “Look at how I can mash these potatoes. I even promise I’ll try to be nice to Finn.”

“Why should I trust you?” I asked, pulling a loaf of crusty homemade bread out of the oven. “What’s the guarantee that you wouldn’t just run around with your dick out the next time you got stressed?”

“Indi, look at my face,” Ambrose said, leaning toward me so that I felt all that coiled-up passion edging me.

“Is this the face of a man who is thriving? Are these the under-eye bags of a man happy and satisfied with his choices? You are looking at a fucking broken shell of a man. A middle-aged archaeologist full of bitter regret and heartburn every time he thinks about his mistakes. And the fact that the love of my life has been getting pleasured by the world’s most famous Irish bastard. ”

“Hmm,” I said non-committally.

After dinner I went on a long walk, ate some pineapple and then drank raspberry leaf tea, all in hopes of going into labor.

But aside from a few Braxton-Hicks contractions. . . nothing .

I was going mad with these hormones! I needed to get this baby out .

For supper the next day, we sat down to a meal of the absolutely spiciest Indian food I could get. Phaal curry, andhra chilli chicken, pork vindaloo, bags full of samosas.

Nothing.

By this time I was 40 weeks and 5 days and my baby girl seemed like she was in no hurry.

At 40 weeks and 6 days, I was sitting on the couch after breakfast wondering what my feet looked like when Ambrose made a suggestion.

“You want to get this baby out, don’t you?” he asked. “Dad just went to town for his morning ice cream cone and Julian is asleep in the other room. Let me help.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” I said, without conviction because inside my body was absolutely craving him.

“Well, what about. . . that other thing?” he asked, resting his arms on the back of the couch. The way his forearms flexed with the movement was extremely unfortunate for my peace of mind. “That isn’t sex . It’s just. . .helping you jumpstart your labor.”

My face flushed because I knew exactly what he was talking about.

If there was one thing Ambrose had been absolutely obsessed with, it was gripping me by the hips and diving between my thighs. The man ate pussy like it was the only way to go to the moon, like it was an algebra equation he had to solve.

The memory made my pussy felt uncomfortably swollen and heated, and I squeezed my wet thighs together, but it gave me no relief.

“Fine,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

With one swift moment, he moved over me on the couch.

“It means everything to me,” he replied, and with a dizzyingly familiar movement, he put both hands on the band of my yoga pants and slid them down.

“ Delectable .”

He bit his lip and I didn’t dare to look down past my belly because I could feel how wet my panties were, how they must be sticking to my pussy and outlining my swollen lips.

I was already crawling the walls when he bent down past my huge bump and I couldn’t see him. But I could feel him— carefully, peeling down my panties and then gently opening my wet pussy lips so he could see my clit.

My hips were moving on their own volition, already beginning to grind down on the contact, wanting more of it.

“Let me take my time,” Ambrose begged, but I was afraid of what would happen if I agreed.

“No,” I said, my hands digging into the couch cushions. “I don’t need you getting all sentimental over my pussy. Just make me come.”

“All right,” he said, and I heard the couch creak as he lay on his belly, squashing his long body into the foot of the couch. I was panting at the feel of his breath on my thighs, then he wrapped his arms around my hips and jammed my pussy against his face.

Fucking hell, I almost levitated at the dirty wet sounds his mouth was making as he licked up all my slick arousal, plunging his tongue inside me, then circling my clit.

My breasts had been getting larger, heavier this week too, filling with milk and making me ache with how swollen and engorged they were and when he carefully brushed a thumb by my stiff nipples I moaned at the agonizingly pleasurable contact.

“Take me back,” Ambrose said from between my thighs. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“Silence, laborer!” I said. “Focus on your job and not your feelings.”

“I can do it better,” he rumbled against my clit, as my fingers clutched desperately at the cushions, slick sweat dripping down my breasts. “I know you better, I can make you come harder .”

“Nonsense,” I breathed, but I closed my eyes tight to avoid looking down, knowing there was an orgasm building inside me.

He scoffed into my pussy, which was still unfortunately a very hot rumble of sensation. “I can prove it,” he said, and I felt a finger drag down my pussy, under my body, and begin to circle my asshole.

“You’re a fucking freak,” I said, focusing on keeping my voice steady and calm.

“Only with you,” he said. “Only with you have I ever fucking let that out.”

His finger teased around the rim of my asshole and I wiggled with anticipation, feeling my chest bead with excitement.

“ Depravity ,” I said.

“Does that mean stop?” Ambrose asked, pausing.

“No,” I groaned. “ Damn you, Ambrose. Do it.”

Goddamn this man. The way he knew exactly how I liked it, the perfect amount of pressure on my clit, the delicious sting of feeling his finger in my ass pressing through that tight outer ring.

I exploded with a loud groan, my belly tightening as my orgasm rocked me and Ambrose licking and sucking me through it as he always had, that wicked finger up my ass stretching my pleasure longer, an achingly screaming long release that cramped my calves and sent wet pulses of arousal all down his face.

The utter bliss of his full-body pleasure, the upside of his tightly-wound repressed passion.

As I recovered, I waited to see if he’d ask for anything else. But he didn’t, just stood up as I lay in a jelly-like state on the couch.

My bleary, orgasm-blurred eyes focused on him and I saw the thick bulge of his cock under his belt, straining at the fabric of his pants. There was a muscle that twitched in his sculptured jawline and I knew, I knew damn well, how much he wanted me.

But he didn’t suggest anything for his own pleasure, he only left the room and came back with a towel and cleaned up my sticky wet thighs with gentle motions.

“Want some spiced hot chocolate with cinnamon and ginger? I know you’re trying to only do one cup of coffee a day.”

“Sure,” I said, watching his tall lean body go into the other room and start taking supplies from the cupboards.

My entire body was suffused with a lingering, liquid pleasure and the phone rang.

Languidly, I picked it up.

“Hi, angel. Waiting for that call that you’re in labor so I can hop on a plane and come see our baby girl. Have you given any more thought to my proposal?”

What was I going to tell Finn?