Chapter 17: The Hotel Suite Marathon
The click of the hotel room door was final.
It sealed them in—just the two of them, the hum of the mini-fridge, and the fading scent of lavender soap still clinging to Layla's skin from their bath. The city lights bled through the windows, neon and indifferent, but Layla didn't see them. She saw Tarek. The way his shoulders moved as he shrugged off his jacket. The way his jaw tightened when he looked at her.
She was still in the hotel robe. White, terrycloth, tied loose at her waist. Her hair hung damp against her shoulders, and she could feel the flush still sitting high on her cheeks from everything they'd already done. The bath had been slow, tender. A promise. But something had shifted in him when he'd dried her off. Something hungry.
"Come here," he said.
She went.
He caught her by the wrist and pulled her against him. His mouth found hers without preamble—rough, demanding. She tasted the champagne on his tongue, and underneath it, something else. Something darker. Need.
"I thought we were done," she murmured against his lips.
"I lied."
He walked her backward. Her calves hit the edge of the bed, and she fell onto the mattress with a soft oomph. The robe fell open. She didn't bother to close it.
Tarek stood over her. His shirt was still on, but the buttons were halfway undone from earlier, revealing the flat planes of his chest, the thin line of hair that disappeared into his waistband. His cock was hard again, already slick at the tip from the bath, and he stroked himself lazily as he looked at her.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm memorizing."
"Memorize faster."
He laughed. Low and rough. Then he climbed onto the bed and flipped her onto her stomach.
"Tarek—"
"Shut up."
He pulled the robe off her shoulders. It pooled beneath her, trapped between her body and the sheets. She was naked. Exposed. The hotel room was cool, but his hands were warm as they slid down her spine, over the swell of her ass, between her legs.
She was still wet from the bath. Still sensitive from his earlier attentions—his mouth, his fingers, the slow, deep rhythm of their lovemaking in the water. But when he touched her now, it was different. Rougher. He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, and she gasped.
"Still tight," he said. "Still hungry."
"Tarek—"
"You want me to stop?"
"No."
He pulled his fingers out. She heard the wet sound of him licking them clean, and something clenched low in her belly.
"Flip over," he said.
She did.
He grabbed her ankles and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Her ass hung off the side, and he knelt on the floor between her legs. His breath was hot against her inner thighs.
"Please," she said.
"Please what?"
"Please don't make me wait."
He didn't. He buried his face in her cunt like a man dying of thirst. His tongue split her open—hot, wet, relentless—and Layla arched off the mattress with a sound that was half-gasp, half-scream.
"That's it," he growled against her clit. "Let me hear you."
She couldn't help it. He licked her like she was the only thing in the world worth tasting. He sucked her clit into his mouth, flicked it with his tongue, pushed two fingers inside her and curled them upward. She came in under a minute—a sharp, sudden orgasm that left her shaking and breathless.
"Again," he said.
"What—"
"Again."
He didn't let her recover. His mouth was back on her before the aftershocks had finished, and this time he was merciless. He ate her like he had something to prove, and Layla gripped the sheets and sobbed.
"Tarek—Tarek, please—"
"Please what?"
"It's too much—"
"You can take it."
She couldn't. She could. She didn't know anymore. The world narrowed to his tongue and his fingers and the hot, wet slide of his mouth, and when she came the second time, she screamed his name loud enough that she was sure the entire floor heard.
He stood up. His chin was wet. His eyes were wild.
"Turn over," he said.
"What?"
"Turn. Over."
She turned. Got on her hands and knees. Her arms were shaking, her thighs were slick, and she could feel her own wetness dripping down her legs. She didn't care. She wanted him inside her.
He didn't give her what she wanted. Not yet.
He grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed. The armchair was right there—the stupid, expensive armchair that probably cost more than her mother's monthly rent. He bent her over it. Her hands gripped the back, and her feet barely touched the floor.
"This what you wanted?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I wanted you inside me."
He pushed into her with one, brutal thrust.
Layla cried out. He was big—always, but like this, bent over the chair with her ass in the air, he felt enormous. He filled every inch of her. Stretched her. She felt split open, and she loved it.
"Fuck," he grunted. "Fuck, Layla."
"Harder."
He gave her harder.
His hips slapped against her ass. The chair creaked. The city lights blurred through the window, and Layla's mind went blank. There was nothing but him—the thick, relentless slide of his cock, the way his hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, the sound of his breathing, ragged and desperate.
"Don't stop," she gasped.
"I'm not going to stop."
He didn't. He fucked her through two more orgasms—one that made her legs give out, one that made her scream into the cushion of the chair. He didn't come. He pulled out before he could, and she felt the loss like a physical blow.
"On the floor," he said.
"What?"
"On the floor. Ride me."
He lay down on the carpet. His cock was red and slick with her, standing straight up from his stomach. He looked like something out of a painting—something obscene and beautiful.
Layla crawled over him. She straddled his hips. And she sank down.
The position was different this time. Softer. She could feel him deeper, and every time she moved, the head of his cock hit something inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
"Look at you," he said.
She looked down. Her breasts were swollen, her belly round, her skin flushed. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly and completely fucked.
"I'm a mess," she said.
"You're perfect."
She rode him slow. Then fast. Then slow again. She ground her hips against his, and he reached up to cup her breasts, to thumb her nipples, to pull her down for a kiss that was all tongue and teeth.
"I want to come inside you," he said.
"Then come."
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer. He flipped them over—she was on her back on the carpet, the fibers scratching against her skin—and he entered her again. This time it was fast. Frantic. He fucked her like he was trying to leave a mark, and Layla dug her nails into his shoulders and held on.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He came with a shout. Hot and thick, spilling inside her, and Layla felt it pulse through her. She didn't come again. She was too raw, too spent. She just held him.
They lay there for a long time.
The carpet was uncomfortable. The room smelled like sweat and sex. Tarek's weight pressed her into the floor, and she didn't care. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, slowing.
Then he shifted.
His hand slid down her stomach. Over her hip. Between her legs.
"Tarek—"
"Shh."
His fingers found her clit. She was so sensitive it felt like fire. But he didn't push. He just circled it, slow and light, and she felt something start to build again despite herself.
"You're insatiable," she whispered.
"So are you."
"That was—" She swallowed. "That was so good."
"It's not over."
"What?"
He sat up. Reached for something on the nightstand—a small bottle. Lube. She hadn't even noticed him packing it.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He poured some into his hand. It was cool and slick, and when he touched her again, his fingers slid easily over her clit, down her slit, through the mess of his own come.
"I want to try something," he said.
"What?"
"Something new."
Her heart skipped. "Like what?"
He didn't answer. He just kissed her. Soft and slow, like he was trying to calm her. Then his hand moved lower. Lower. His fingers slid past her entrance—past the warm, fucked-open mess of her—and pressed against the tight ring of muscle behind it.
Layla tensed.
"Tarek—"
"Have you ever—"
"No." Her voice was small. "No, I haven't."
"Neither have I." He kissed her jaw. "Not with anyone. Not like this."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" He pressed a little harder. Not inside. Just pressure. "I want to open you up. I want to feel you in a way I never have. But only if you want it."
She was nervous. Her heart was pounding, and every instinct told her to say no. But there was something about the way he was looking at her—something patient and hungry all at once—that made her want to trust him.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
"Not if I do it right." He kissed her again. "I'll go slow. I'll stop if you want."
She took a breath.
"Okay."
He smiled. Not his usual grin. Something softer. Something grateful.
He reached for a pillow and positioned it under her hips. Then he poured more lube onto his fingers—more than he needed, probably—and pressed his thumb against her asshole.
"Breathe," he said.
She breathed.
He pushed.
Just the tip at first. A slow, careful pressure that made her feel impossibly tight. She gasped. Her body wanted to clench, to push him out. But he held steady, and after a moment, she relaxed.
"Good girl," he murmured.
Her eyes flew open. He'd never said that before. It should have made her angry. It didn't. It made her wet.
He pushed a little deeper. The burn was different. Not pain. Just fullness. A strange, intimate fullness that made her feel exposed in a way she'd never felt before.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"Good?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Let me help."
His other hand slid between her legs. Found her clit. He started circling it—slow, gentle—while his thumb pressed deeper into her ass. The combination was overwhelming. The pleasure from the front, the pressure from behind. Layla's whole body shuddered.
"Oh my God—"
"Shhh. Just feel it."
She did. She felt everything. The stretch of her ass around his thumb. The slick, wet slide of his fingers on her clit. The way her body was starting to shake—not from discomfort, but from something else. Something deeper.
"I'm going to add another finger," he said.
"What—"
He pulled his thumb out and pushed two fingers against her hole. This time it was harder. The stretch burned. She cried out, and he paused.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." She was surprised by how much she meant it. "Yes, keep going."
He pushed in. Slow. Relentless. And when both fingers were inside her, he curled them upward—deeper than his thumb could reach—and pressed against a spot that made Layla see white.
"Tarek—"
"There it is."
"What—"
"That's your prostate-anal equivalent." He laughed against her shoulder. "Or whatever the fuck it's called. Doesn't matter. Just feel it."
She felt it. God, she felt it. He finger-fucked her ass while his other hand worked her clit, and the pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. She was on the edge in seconds—teetering on the brink of something she didn't understand.
"I'm going to come," she gasped.
"Then come."
"I—"
"Come for me, Layla."
He pressed harder on her clit. Pushed his fingers deeper. And Layla shattered.
The orgasm tore through her like nothing she'd ever felt before. It started in her ass and radiated outward—up her spine, down her legs, into her fingers and toes. She screamed. Her body convulsed. And Tarek held her through it, murmuring soft words against her skin, his fingers still inside her, drawing it out until she couldn't breathe.
When she finally went limp, he pulled his fingers out. She felt empty. Wrecked. Perfect.
"What the fuck," she whispered.
He laughed. Kissed her forehead.
"You liked that?"
"I—" She shook her head. "I don't have words."
"Good."
He lay down beside her. Pulled her into his chest. And for a long time, they just breathed.
Then Layla's hand found his cock. Still hard. Still ready.
"Your turn," she said.
"Layla—"
"Your turn."
She rolled on top of him before he could argue. And when she slid down onto him—wet and open and impossibly tight—she watched his eyes roll back in his head.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Don't swear."
"You just—"
"I'm joking." She started to move. "Now be quiet and let me take care of you."
She rode him until he came again. Until they were both too tired to move. Until the city lights dimmed and the hotel room went dark and all that was left was the sound of their breathing, tangled together.
They fell asleep on the floor. Neither of them bothered to move to the bed.
And when the sun rose, painting the skyline in shades of pink and gold, Layla woke first. She looked at Tarek—still sleeping, still holding her—and felt something settle in her chest. Something quiet. Something certain.
She was going to be okay.
They were going to be okay.
She reached for her phone. Opened the messages. And typed: Amma, I'll be there for dinner. We both will.
The reply came minutes later. Good. Bring your appetite.
Layla smiled. Then she put the phone down, pressed her face into Tarek's chest, and closed her eyes.
Breakfast. That's what they needed. Then dinner with her family. Then the rest of their lives.
One step at a time.
One step at a time.
That was five months ago.
The apartment smelled like cinnamon and desperation. Layla stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, her hands pressed against the small of her back, and stared at the stranger looking back at her. Forty-one weeks. The doctor had said the words like they were nothing—just a number, just a date on a chart—but Layla felt every single day of it pressing down on her spine.
Her belly was enormous. Stretched tight and low, the skin shiny with the weight of the child inside her. She couldn't see her feet anymore. Couldn't tie her shoes. Couldn't sleep for more than two hours at a time without waking up to pee or to the sharp, electric pain of a contraction that wasn't a contraction.
Braxton Hicks, the doctor had called them. Practice contractions.
Layla was tired of practicing.
"Hey."
Tarek's voice came from the doorway. He was still in his scrubs—navy blue, wrinkled, the badge from the hospital clipped to his chest. He looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble he hadn't had time to shave, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from twelve-hour shifts and a wife who cried at random intervals.
"I look like a whale," she said.
"You look beautiful."
"Don't lie to me."
He crossed the room. Wrapped his arms around her from behind—as best he could, with her belly in the way—and rested his chin on her shoulder.
"I'm not lying," he said. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"I have cankles."
"I love your cankles."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
She didn't. She leaned back against him, and for a moment, the weight lifted. Just a little. Just enough.
"What did the doctor say?" she asked.
He was quiet.
"Tarek."
"She said everything looks good. The baby's healthy. Strong heartbeat. Good position."
"That's not what I asked."
He sighed. Kissed her shoulder.
"She said if you don't go into labor on your own by next week, they'll want to induce."
The words landed like stones in her stomach.
"No," she said.
"Layla—"
"No. I don't want to be induced."
"I know."
"You know what happens with inductions." She pulled away from him. Turned to face him, her belly between them like a wall. "They hook you up to machines. They pump you full of drugs. They make you lie on your back for hours while they monitor everything. And if it doesn't work, they cut you open."
"That's not always—"
"I've read the stories, Tarek." Her voice cracked. "I've read all of them. I don't want that."
He reached for her. She let him.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. We'll figure it out."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that everything would be fine, that her body would do what it was supposed to do, that the baby would come when it was ready. But her body had been failing her for weeks now. She couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't breathe.
The apartment felt small. The walls pressed in. The nursery, with its pale yellow walls and its tiny clothes and its crib that still smelled like cardboard, sat empty and waiting.
"When is she supposed to come?" Layla whispered.
"She'll come when she's ready."
"And if she's never ready?"
"She will be."
"You don't know that."
He didn't argue. He just held her. And Layla closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
---
The doctor's office was cold. Sterile. The kind of cold that seeped into the bones and stayed there. Layla sat on the exam table, her legs dangling off the edge, and tried not to look at the posters on the wall. The ones showing the stages of labor. The ones that made everything look so simple. So clean.
Dr. Reyes walked in. She was a small woman with kind eyes and hands that had delivered hundreds of babies. Layla trusted her. Sort of.
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Reyes asked.
"Like I've been pregnant for a decade."
Dr. Reyes smiled. "That's normal at forty-one weeks."
"Nothing about this feels normal."
"I know." Dr. Reyes sat down on the stool beside the table. "Let's talk about options."
"I don't want to be induced."
"Okay. Let's talk about alternatives."
Layla waited.
"At forty-one weeks, we're getting close to the limit of what's considered safe for you and the baby," Dr. Reyes said. "But you're not there yet. We have a little time."
"How much time?"
"A few days. Maybe a week."
"And then what?"
"And then we induce." Dr. Reyes held up a hand. "But before we get there, there are some things you can try at home. Natural methods. Things that might help start labor without medication."
"Like what?"
Dr. Reyes hesitated. Just for a second.
"Sex," she said.
Layla blinked.
"What?"
"Sex. Orgasms release oxytocin, which can trigger contractions. Semen contains prostaglandins, which can help soften the cervix. It's not guaranteed, but it's worth trying."
"Sex." Layla repeated the word like it belonged to a foreign language. "With this body?"
"The body that's carrying a healthy baby? Yes. That body."
Layla looked down at her belly. The stretch marks that had appeared overnight. The veins that traced blue lines across her skin. She hadn't felt sexy in months. Hadn't wanted to be touched. The thought of Tarek seeing her like this—really seeing her—made her want to hide under the table.
"I don't know," she said.
"I understand." Dr. Reyes's voice was gentle. "But it's worth considering. Also, nipple stimulation. Massage. Anything that increases blood flow to the pelvic area."
"Massage?"
"Down there." Dr. Reyes gestured vaguely. "The perineum. It can help relax the muscles. Might encourage labor. And it can reduce tearing during delivery."
Layla felt her face heat up.
"Okay," she said. "I'll think about it."
Dr. Reyes nodded. "That's all I ask. But Layla—" She paused at the door. "Don't wait too long. The longer we wait, the higher the risk of complications. For both of you."
She left.
Layla sat on the table for a long time. Alone. The posters watched her.
---
Tarek was in the waiting room. He stood up when she walked out, his face a question mark.
"What did she say?"
"Let's go home," Layla said. "I'll tell you in the car."
They walked in silence. Down the hallway. Past the receptionist. Through the automatic doors. The parking lot was gray and cold, the sky heavy with clouds. Winter in Wisconsin. The kind of cold that made your bones ache.
Layla got in the car. Buckled her seatbelt. Stared out the window.
"Well?" Tarek asked.
"She gave us options."
"What kind of options?"
Layla turned to look at him. He was watching her with that patient, worried expression he'd been wearing for weeks. The one that said I love you but I'm terrified.
"She said sex might help," Layla said.
Tarek's eyebrows went up.
"Sex."
"Orgasms. They release oxytocin. It can trigger labor."
"I know what it does." He paused. "But you don't want to."
"I don't know what I want." She pressed her hands against her belly. "I don't want to be induced. I don't want to be cut open. I don't want to be hooked up to machines for twelve hours while they pump me full of drugs."
"Then don't."
"And I don't want to have sex." Her voice broke. "I don't want to be touched. I don't want to be looked at. I don't want to be a body anymore."
Tarek was quiet.
"I know," he said. "I know."
"But I also don't want to be pregnant anymore." She laughed. It came out wrong. Torn. "I don't want to be huge and tired and sad and scared. I want my body back. I want my life back. I want our baby to be here."
"She's going to be here."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I don't know."
She closed her eyes.
"I can't do this," she whispered.
"You can."
"I can't."
He reached over. Took her hand. His palm was warm against her cold fingers.
"Layla."
She opened her eyes.
"I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do," he said. "If you don't want me to touch you, I won't. If you want to wait, we'll wait. If you want to be induced, we'll be induced. Whatever you decide, I'm here."
"I don't want to be induced."
"Then we'll try the other thing."
"I don't want to do the other thing either."
He squeezed her hand.
"Then we'll wait. And we'll pray. And we'll hope your body does what it's supposed to do."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll deal with it when it happens."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him. But the fear was a living thing inside her—a second heartbeat that kept time with the baby's, faster and faster, until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"I don't know what to do," she said.
He leaned over. Kissed her forehead.
"Then let's go home. We'll think. We'll talk. And then you'll decide."
---
The apartment was dark when they got back. Tarek turned on the lights, and Layla slumped onto the couch, her belly rising up like a mountain range. She closed her eyes and tried to count her breaths. One. Two. Three.
Tarek sat beside her. His hand found her knee.
"Spicy food is supposed to help," he said.
"I don't want spicy food."
"Long walks. That helps. Or stairs."
"I don't want stairs."
"Castor oil—"
"I am not drinking castor oil."
He laughed. She didn't.
"Okay," he said. "No castor oil."
They sat in silence for a while. The clock ticked on the wall. The baby moved inside her—a slow, rolling motion that made her belly ripple like water.
"She's awake," Layla said.
"I can see that."
"Feels like she's trying to dig her way out."
"Smart kid."
Layla snorted. Then her face crumpled.
"I don't want to," she said.
"Don't want to what?"
"Any of it." She turned to look at him. "I don't want to have sex. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to try any of the things the doctor said. I just want to lie here and wait."
"Then lie here and wait."
"But I don't want to be induced either."
"I know."
"And I don't want to go past forty-two weeks. I don't want to put the baby at risk."
"I know."
"So what do I do?"
He thought about it. She could see him thinking—the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes went distant. Then he looked at her.
"New plan," he said.
"What?"
"We try. We take it slow. We see what happens. And if it doesn't work, we stop. No pressure. No expectations. Just us."
She stared at him.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered.
"Then we won't."
"But the baby—"
"The baby is fine. She's healthy. She's strong. She's not going anywhere for a few more days."
"How do you know?"
He touched her belly. Rested his palm against the spot where the baby had just been kicking.
"Because she's your daughter," he said. "She's stubborn."
Layla laughed. Despite everything. Despite the exhaustion, the fear, the weight of her own body. She laughed.
"How are you so calm?" she asked.
"I'm not." He smiled. "I'm terrified. But I'm also tired of seeing you scared. And I'm tired of waiting. So let's just try."
She looked at him. At his tired eyes, at his wrinkled scrubs, at the steady way he was looking at her. The same boy who'd chased her through his grandmother's garden. The same man who'd crossed an ocean to marry her.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay what?"
"Okay let's try."
He leaned in. Kissed her. Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper.
She let him.
---
Twenty minutes later, Layla was on her back on the bed. Her maternity leggings were pulled off, her shirt was pushed up, and Tarek was kneeling between her legs, looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.
"I don't even know where to start," he said.
"Just... touch me."
He reached for the bottle of lavender lotion on the nightstand—the same one from the hotel room, five months ago, when everything had been different. When she'd been weightless and wanted and eager.
He poured some into his palms. Warmed it between his fingers.
Then he touched her.
The first touch was at her ankles. Gentle. Slow. He worked his way up her calves, her knees, her thighs—avoiding the place she needed him most. By the time he reached her hips, Layla was trembling.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Keep going."
He moved down. His fingers found her ass, her perineum. He touched her the way the doctor had described—slow circles, gentle pressure, working the muscles until they started to relax.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"No."
"Talk to me."
"It's weird." She shifted her hips. "Different. But not bad."
He kept going. His fingers moved lower, finding her entrance. She was wet. More than she'd expected. He pushed one finger inside, slow and careful, and Layla gasped.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
"Want more?"
She hesitated.
"I don't know."
He didn't push. He just waited. His fingers resting there, patient, while the clock ticked and the baby kicked and the world outside the window kept spinning.
"Talk to me," he said again.
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That it won't work." She covered her face with her hands. "That I'll do all this and nothing will happen. That I'll still be pregnant tomorrow and the day after and the day after that."
He pulled his fingers out. Moved up her body until his face was level with hers. Gently moved her hands away.
"Whether it works or not," he said, "I'm still here. We're still here. The baby is still here. Nothing we do is going to change that."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She looked at him. Really looked. Saw the exhaustion, the love, the quiet, steady patience that had been there all along.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
He kissed her. Soft. Reassuring.
Then he went back down.
This time, he used his mouth.
---
Layla cried out when his tongue found her clit. It wasn't pretty crying. It wasn't sexy. It was the kind of sound she'd been holding in for weeks—the frustration, the fear, the desperate, aching need to feel something other than heavy and tired and broken.
Tarek didn't stop. He licked her slow and steady, his fingers working her perineum, his other hand pressing gently on her belly. The weight of it—his hand on the baby, his mouth on her—made her feel held. Safe. Seen.
"Tarek—"
"Shh."
"I'm going to—"
"Then come."
She did.
It rolled through her like a wave—different from before, softer, slower. Her body clenched and released, and she felt a warmth spread through her, and for just a moment, everything was still.
Then the contraction came.
It was stronger than the Braxton Hicks. Real. Deep. It gripped her belly and squeezed, and Layla gasped and grabbed onto Tarek's shoulders.
"Ow—"
"Contraction?"
"Yes."
He kissed her thigh. "Good."
"It hurts."
"I know."
She breathed through it. The way she'd practiced in the classes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. When it passed, she collapsed back against the pillows.
"That was real," she said.
"Maybe."
"It was real."
He smiled. Kissed her belly.
"Then let's see if we can do it again."
---
Two hours later, Layla was on her hands and knees. The position was supposed to help—something about gravity, something about the baby's head pressing down—but she mostly felt ridiculous. Her belly hung beneath her like a sack of flour. Her breasts ached. Her back screamed.
Tarek was behind her. His hands were on her hips. His cock was inside her.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Keep going."
He moved. Slow. Steady. The same rhythm as before, the same careful attention. But this time, every thrust brought a wave of sensation—not just pleasure, but something else. Something deeper.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"Good?"
"I think so."
He reached around. Found her clit. Started circling it while he moved, and Layla felt the pressure build again—low and sweet and terrifying.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Almost midnight."
"I've been pregnant for forty-one weeks and one day."
"You don't know that. The baby might come tonight."
"How would you know?"
"Just a feeling."
She laughed. Then she gasped as another contraction hit—stronger this time, catching her off guard, making her whole body tense.
"Tarek—"
"Breathe."
"I can't—"
"You can."
She breathed.
When it passed, she was shaking. Sweat dripped down her spine. Her arms were trembling.
"I need to lie down," she said.
He pulled out immediately. Helped her stretch out on the bed. She curled onto her side, and he spooned up behind her, his hand reaching around to rest on her belly.
"That was a good one," he said.
"Fuck you."
He laughed. Kissed her neck.
"Later."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
---
They lay there for a while. The contractions kept coming—every ten minutes, then eight, then five. Each one was stronger than the last, and Layla found herself gripping Tarek's hand hard enough to leave marks.
"That's it," he said. "Ride it."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I hate everything."
"I know."
"I want this baby out of me."
"She's coming."
"How do you know?"
He pressed his hand flat against her belly. The muscles were hard, contracting, pushing.
"Because you're doing it," he said. "Right now. You're doing it."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn't time, that she wasn't ready. But another contraction came—stronger, lower, pressing down in a way that made her want to push.
"Tarek—"
"What?"
"I think—" She swallowed. "I think it's happening."
He was silent for a beat.
"Now?"
"Now."
He moved fast. Grabbed her bag—the one she'd packed weeks ago, the one that had been sitting by the door like a promise. Helped her into a sweatshirt and a pair of shoes.
"I can't walk," she said.
"I'll carry you."
"You can't carry me. I'm enormous."
"I can try."
She laughed. Then she cried. Then she was moving—slowly, painfully—toward the door.
The apartment was dark. The city was quiet. The car was cold.
Layla got in. Buckled her seatbelt. Looked out the window at the stars that were still there, even though she couldn't always see them.
"Ready?" Tarek asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
He put the car in drive. And they drove toward the hospital, toward the unknown, toward the rest of their lives.
One step at a time.