The Roommate's Baby

Not to mention how hard his cock got when I asked him to fuck me.

Impregnate me, my brain corrects. It's a business arrangement. Two people doing each other a solid. He likes sex, I'll give him sex. I need a baby, he'll give me a baby. Easy. Totally normal deal.

So why am I hiding in my bedroom like I'm terrified of him suddenly?

Well, for one thing, because I was completely unprepared to have sex with Cannon tonight. I stare at myself once more in the bathroom mirror—at the unshaven mess that I've let myself become because I haven't hooked up with anyone in... I count backwards. God, not for at least seven months. What's wrong with me? Am I becoming an old maid already?

But I couldn't exactly tell him that we couldn't hook up because I needed a long shower and to ready myself first. That's the only reason things feel awkward right now, I tell myself.

This arrangement won't change anything. It won't affect our friendship. We're good friends; we can do this. Keep things professional. Cannon is right. He might be more blatant about it than I am, but we're both pros at NSA. We'll just fuck, a lot, and then move on with our lives without complicating things for one another.

Oh God. Even just the thought of that—of fucking him—is doing things to my body. My already hormonal brain is running through scenarios, imagining his sexy washboard abs poised over me, the thick cock that I caught a glimpse of through his jeans poised at the entrance to my pussy. I imagine him in my bedroom, tossing me down onto the bed and tearing my shirt off. Flinging it across the room the way he throws his other hookups' clothes around, like he's wild with lust.

I imagine the look he wore in his eyes tonight on the couch, trained on me again, all white hot desire, and it's making me wet already just to think about it.

I need a shower.

I climb into the shower and turn the water on cold. But even that doesn't help, because as I go through the motions, scrubbing myself and making sure to shave my pussy closely, I'm already picturing why I'm doing this. I'm picturing that familiar, sexy half-grin of Cannon's poised between my legs, his tongue sliding between my pussy lips to lick me slowly, back to front, making me half-crazy with lust before he slides up to tongue my clit. I set my razor down and slide my fingers between my legs instead, imagining his mouth here instead, sucking and licking at my clit, all while keeping his eyes trained on mine, those dark, familiar eyes, hot with a lust that I'd never seen in them before.

Then I imagine him spreading my legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling me toward him, and positioning his cock at my entrance. Slowly pushing into me. A groan escapes my lips as I push one finger into my pussy, imagining it's him, his cock in me, his body pressed against mine. I push a second finger inside myself, pull it out and push them both back in, gasping as I pick up speed, rocking against my hand as I picture Cannon's perfectly sculpted body over me, the way his hips would look as he pumped his cock into me. The way his deep voice would sound when he moaned my name aloud...

I come with the softest cry I can manage, all too aware that one wall away, in the neighboring bedroom, Cannon is probably getting ready for bed. Stripping naked. What would he think if he heard me right now?

I shut my eyes and turn my face into the water after the orgasm rushes through me, leaving my whole body loose and tingling. I finish rinsing off and getting ready for tomorrow—the big day.

Then I towel dry and pad to bed naked. Pull the covers up to my chin, then proceed to toss and turn, wondering if he's asleep yet, wondering if he sleeps in the nude too. Wondering if he's thinking about me, about my proposal. Wondering if he'll back out tomorrow, change his mind.

I wouldn't blame him. It's one thing to have NSA sex with strangers. It's another to do it with a friend, someone you work and live with, especially someone who's looking to have your baby.

He knows I won't ask him for anything, not for child support or to be involved in the kid's life. But still. I saw that guy in the parking lot go crazy. A lot can change when you think about what it really means, having a kid with half your DNA out in the world. What if Cannon changes his mind? What if he decides he can't go through with this after all?

Or what if he does, and it ruins our friendship? What if this screws everything up, makes us awkward and weird at work?

What if after what if chases itself through my mind in dizzying circles, far into the night. I lose track of when I finally fall asleep, but it's late, far too late. And all the while, there's a nagging worry at the back of my mind.

What if I just made a huge mistake?

4

Cannon

By the time I wake up the next morning, Rina's already at the office. I know because, like every morning when she beats me to the coffee machine, she made an extra cup and left it on the warmer for me.

I drink it while gazing out across our apartment. All this is going to change soon. Hopefully not our friendship, but our living arrangement will change. Rina made that clear. She's moving out. That doesn’t seem right.

Tonight I'm going to fuck my roommate.

More than that. Tonight I'm going to try my best to get her pregnant.

I've never really thought about kids—not in the concrete sense before. I know I want them, but eventually, somewhere down the line. The way you know you want a bigger house and a nicer car eventually, but currently you’re happy with what you have.

I never imagined it would be so fucking hot to think about getting a woman—someone I know—pregnant. About putting my seed in her belly, making her swell with my kid. My cock starts to strain against the seam of my work pants, and I grimace and finish the rest of my cup of coffee. Not now, I tell myself.

After all, I already jerked off last night—wrapped my fist around my cock in the shower and thought about Rina, thought about plunging my cock into her as I ran my hand up and down my own shaft. And I need to save my cum for Rina.

I need to be in shape to fuck her anywhere and everywhere she wants tonight. Which means I need to get through today without thinking about it too much, or by this evening I'm going to have a serious case of blue balls.

I grab my briefcase and head toward the office. Just as the elevator reaches the bottom floor, my pocket buzzes. Text. From Rina.

Are you sure about tonight?

I stare at the screen for a moment, my pulse already quickening at the realization that she's thinking about this as much as I am. Of course. Are you? I text back, phone in one hand as I stride toward the office. We chose this building because we both prefer walking to work, even in the SoCal heat, and this way we don't get too hot on the short walk, just five minutes.

But today, I'm already hot and bothered by the time I reach the office doors, because she replied one last time. Positive.

In the office, I spot her the second I walk through the doors. She's standing by the water cooler chatting to her friend Lacy, laughing at something Lacy said. Rina has her hair in a high ponytail that makes me want to grab it in one fist and pull her against me to crush her mouth to mine.

Not to mention that skirt she's wearing. It's a gray pencil skirt, tight enough that when she turns around to refill her water cup, her tight, pert little ass shows off to perfect display. Fuck. It's going to be a long day before we finally get home tonight.

Because I can't wait to tear that thing off her.

All day, I'm distracted as hell. I file half my reports at the wrong times—so noticeably that my buddy Chris stops by my desk after the third one and asks how late I was out last night and how hungover I am this morning.

"Level 100 hangover," I tell him, because it's easier than explaining the truth, which I wouldn't trust telling him anyway. Chris is many good things, but discrete, he's not.

"Have some more coffee," he advises. "And maybe some greasy fries for lunch."

I resolve to get my head back in the game, and for the better part of the early afternoon, I'm almost able to do that. Okay, so every time Rina strides across the office past me, I get distracted

all over again watching her ass move in that skirt, or being driven wild by view down her loose but perfectly respectable blouse when she leans over the water cooler. You can't see her cleavage, but I've seen her in enough tight little going-out dresses to know it's there, and to be able to picture exactly how it would look if I undid a few buttons of that prim and proper blouse, peeled it down her body to reveal the bra underneath, one of her lacy little numbers that I occasionally find in the laundry, maybe the red and black one I caught her in one morning when I came home unexpectedly after a night out, and caught her in her underwear in the kitchen.

That image certainly stuck with me for a few months afterward.

It's on my mind again when I run into Rina in the kitchen making an afternoon coffee. "I like your skirt," I tell her as we stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the tiny, cramped kitchen area. I reach past her for a mug and purposefully let my arm graze along hers. "I can't wait to see what you've got on underneath it later," I add in a low murmur.

Her cheeks go red again—she's such an easy mark—and she darts a quick glance around. But we're the only ones in here. I checked. She licks her lips, and for a moment, I think she's going to tell me off for hitting on her so blatantly here at work, in the office.