His Baby

“Is that what you want? Five kids?”

My breath seizes because I’d love to have five children. Maybe two boys and three girls. Or three boys and two girls, of all different sizes. I’d love for Mace to pump me full again and again as I spit out babies left and right.

But that’s the thing. I’m thirty right now, so if I want to have five kids, I have to start crackin’ immediately. If I get pregnant this very second, that means I’d give birth to my first one at thirty-one. And then if I have one child every two years after that, that means I’ll have number two at thirty-three, number three at thirty-five, number four at thirty-seven, and number five at thirty-nine. Whew! That’s cutting it close to the big four-oh, which is supposedly when fertility hits the skids.

So I look at my man seriously again.

“I do want five kids,” is my low voice. “If you’re okay with starting immediately.”

And to my surprise, Mace doesn’t laugh it off this time. Instead, he takes my hand in his, that big square palm swallowing my small one.

“I’d love to have children,” he growls. “And you’re right, we haven’t used protection a single time we’ve been together. I’ve been spurting in you hot and virile. I guess I just assumed you were on the pill.”

My cheeks flame red.

“I’m not,” is my low murmur. “So I might actually be pregnant already.”

His eyes take on a gleam.

“That’d be amazing honey. But I have to ask. Are you okay with having a babydaddy who’s sick? What if I have cancer? What if I die after six months, leaving you alone and pregnant?”

The air evaporates from my lungs, leaving me gasping for oxygen. Because of course, that could definitely happen. Prostate issues are treatable, but there’s no surefire way to attack the disease. I’ve had patients die just like any other doctor, and although I’d say Mason’s prognosis is good as a healthy forty year-old, you never know.

“I don’t know,” is my soft reply. “I don’t want you to die. I want you to stay alive so we can have five kids together. I want three girls and two boys, didn’t I tell you?”

His eyes flare as he grips my hand tighter.

“Well, I want at least one set of twins,” he growls hoarsely. “So how do we do that? Do I bang you twice in a row to get twins? Identical sweetheart, not fraternal.”

I laugh softly.

“No, no one exactly knows how or why identical twins come about. There are some old wives’ tales about eating sesame and castor oil together, but there’s no scientific basis for that. But you raise a good point,” I say softly. “I want to try even if we don’t have a lot of time together. In fact, I want to try more because we might not have decades together. It’s that much more important to me.”

Harsh streaks decorate those sharp cheekbones then, that blue gaze becoming intent.

“Really, sweetheart?” he rasps. “Would you do that for a sick man? For me?”

I nod thoughtfully.

“Yes, and you’re not sick Mason. Not really. Not in any definitive way yet. You have elevated PSA levels, but that’s not a surefire diagnosis. It’s just a screening test. And you take good care of yourself, what with eating right, working out, and avoiding stress. We talked about that, remember? And you’ve done a good job cutting back on your work schedule.”

Because when the alpha male and I started dating, I was shocked at how much he worked. I thought I worked a lot as a physician, but with Mace, it was on a whole different level. He’s up at five a.m. to get to the gym, and into the office at six. Then he works straight through until six p.m., grabbing a bite for dinner before heading to some type of after-work business function. I guess that’s how construction is. As a builder / developer, you have to hobnob with the right people to find out about opportunities and to get contracts. So Mace’s schedule was jam-packed to the gills, and the man doesn’t get home until midnight most nights.

But that couldn’t keep happening. Not with his health on the line, and after we talked, Mace cut back and handed over some of his responsibilities to trusted lieutenants. It’s impossible to say how it’s going to work out, but so far, it seems that he has good people in his employ and they know what they’re doing.

So I smiled at him.

“You’re not sick so far and we’re going to be okay,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But I want a baby, big guy. I want five babies, minimum, so what do you say? Should we get started?”

Those blue eyes flared as he stood up abruptly, sending the chair over onto its back. It clattered onto the stone floor, loud and startling, but Mace’s eyes were fixed on mine.