Page 11 of Groom Gamble
“I’ll get you pregnant.” I’ll be dedicated to the pursuit. It’s a given, as is our marriage. “We’ll have all the children you want.” She presumably thinks I’ll be a terrible husband and father, and that’s why she’s reluctant. But I’ll prove her wrong and do something absurdly sentimental to win her love.
Right after I look up romance in a reference book. I must have a book on this.
“I heard it can take ages.” She twists her hands. “That you have to do all sorts of things to increase the chances.”
If she thinks the idea of having sex repeatedly is off-putting, she couldn’t be more wrong. I allow myself a glimpse of the future. Her, barefoot and pregnant, our toddler in her arms. She’d welcome me home after work, and we’d play games with our children and settle them into bed. Then I’d bend Sophia over the sofa and make her scream. She’d orgasm three times before I finally spill into her.
“And?”
“I want to get pregnant quickly. So I need a sperm sample.”
A waste of time.
Alarm takes over her expression as I stand and go to the bookshelf. Pulling out a volume of the encyclopaedia—my girlis so young she probably thinks the only source of knowledge before Wikipedia was stone tablets—I open it to Fertility. Sliding reading glasses on and within a minute I have the key points.
“Less frequent ejaculation increases sperm concentration, so you’ll be more likely to get pregnant.”
She nods warily. “I heard that.”
“The other critical aspect is when you’re fertile. Where are you in your cycle?”
“I’m not talking to my boss about my menstrual cycle,” she says primly, and I raise my eyebrows.
“But you are going to talk to your husband-to-be about it. Because he wants to get you pregnant.” She has no idea how vital it is to me.
She makes a sound of dissent.
I just wait, regarding her levelly.
“It finished yesterday.” She winces.
“That explains how ferociously you shredded those poor documents last week.”
Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “Paper destruction is a healthy way to deal with PMS.”
“That’s basically what I do when I’m stressed too. But it’s the other guy who bleeds.” I check the chart of the fertility cycle.
She huffs with soft laughter.
“So you’ll be ready to conceive in about ten days.” I slam closed the book and push it back onto the shelf, then return to my desk, tossing the glasses off so I can see Sophia clearly.
Ten days until I can have her? That’s forever. It is the lifespan of a star. Civilisations will rise and fall while I wait billions of years.
“You think that old book is correct?” she says uncertainly, removing her hands from her face.
Is she doubting mybooks? “I’d bet on it.”
Her complicated eyes slip down and her eyelashes fan over her cheek. She’s silent.
And for once, it’s my tension that rises. I can’t afford to let her go.
There’s a moment when negotiating with a potential spy that you must choose how to close the deal. My usual methods are pain, a threat, blackmail, or a bribe. I mentally flick through the options, and reject each one.
Panic grips me. I can feel her slipping away. This matters so much more than anything I’ve achieved in my life before, and needs a different approach.
“I bet that I’ll get you pregnant within six months.”
It’s an explosion of a statement into the quiet, and brings her gaze back to mine.