Page 89 of Pregnant By the Playboy

Carrie posted a bunch of pictures on Instagram, and OMG, they made me salivate.

I’m also very aware that soon there will be a baby, and going downtown to a dessert shop will be An Operation. In fact, as we approach the shop, I notice there’s a set of stairs up to the front door, and it would be a pain to go here with a stroller. And maybe Baby would start screeching and I’d have to take my food to go.

But for now, it’s just me and Vince and rows of delectable, cute desserts in a myriad of colors. I get a black sesame latte, and we order a slice of matcha yuzu cake to share.

It’s just as tasty as it looks.

“Matcha yuzu cake,” he whispers in my ear as we head outside.

“I’ve already had that,” I say. “I’m not hungry for it.”

Which is a lie. I’d eat it again in a heartbeat.

“Turnip,” he whispers.

My God, why do the stupidest things make me giggle?

“Banana,” he says. “One very large banana.”

“Yellow with spots? Or green and firm?”

“Marissa, I want you.”

“Can’t imagine why, after what I just said.”

“I know, it’s a mystery to me, too.” A smile plays on his lips, but his eyes are dark, and when he stops to cup my jaw and plant a kiss on my cheek, I feel like melting into the ground.

We go back to his penthouse, and just like the first time I was here, he immediately pushes me against the door—gently, though—and kisses me. He sticks his hand up my skirt and groans when he feels how wet I am from our inane whispering.

“Vince,” I say, stepping back. “I have a question.”

“Go ahead.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, presumably to stop himself from touching me.

“It’s something that’s been bothering me for a while.” Maybe I should have said this earlier, before he got me all hot and bothered.

“Okay.”

“You’ve had a lot of sex partners. That number doesn’t bother me, but I can’t help worrying whether you’ll be happy with just me long-term.”

“You know I’ll be faithful to you.”

“I trust you, but will you be happy? Or will you miss, you know, other things? Orgies?” Never thought I’d be having this conversation with a guy, yet here we are.

“Being with you will make me happier than anything.”

And there I go, feeling guilty again that I don’t love him back.

“The only thing I could imagine,” he says, “is doing those things with you, if you were into that.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we met, I went down on you in a room full of people.”

“They weren’t watching.”

“Some of them were. Regardless, we weren’t alone. And if you want to do that again, well, I’d do it in a heartbeat. And if you want to fuck another man while giving me a blowjob, I could be into that, too. Or swapping, but only if we were in the same room.”

I asked about what he wanted, but he’s turned this into what I want.