Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby
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First morning urine is precious cargo. My Kegel muscles kick in and I halt midstream, panicking, my wet thighs making me slip slightly forward on the toilet seat, and–
I drop the test into the toilet.
“DAMN!” I scream. My vaginal wall muscles are clamped down like the Hoover Dam holding back an unexpected early thaw, and I involuntarily shake the urine off my hand, flinging droplets all over the rest of me. I jump up, turn around, and try to retrieve the ruined test.
Just then, a whuff of cold air assaults my bare ass. Declan has apparently opened the bathroom door.
“What’s wrong? I heard you scream. Are you…” His voice trails off as I look at him, hand in the toilet, naked ass on display, single-handedly proving that taking a pregnancy test is, in fact, rocket science after all.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” he says softly, closing the door before bursting into laughter.
Now I know why they sell pregnancy tests in packages of two.
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