Finally, we’re in and I don’t waste any time, kicking the door shut. So many memories are racing through my head. Straddling her on my lap the first time I kissed her. Pinning her up against the wall the night I rescued her from behind the pizzeria. Tearing her out of her dress before I slipped inside of her. It’s killing me that I can’t do any of those things to her now.

It’s chilly in here. The fire is out. I’ll have to build another one. But first, I have to warm her up. Striding up the steps, I enter our room. The bed is unmade after our abrupt departure this morning. I’m afraid to go in the kitchen. There are probably bloodstains all over the table. I’ll clean it up later. I don’t want Ivy to be reminded of what almost happened, and it strengthens my resolve to keep my hands to myself as I move into the bathroom.

Lowering her gently, I turn on the shower to get the hot water going. She stands before me with a pout on her face. Instead, I bend down and unlace her sneakers. Next, I concentrate on removing her sweatpants as she places her hands on my shoulders. She’s wearing a pair of high-waist briefs the hospital gave her, not one of her sexy thongs. I would normally tease her about her new granny panties, but I’m terrified. What if she’s still bleeding? I gather my courage and start pulling them over her hips. Her breathing increases as the pad that was wedged up against her comes into view. There’s a bright red stain on it, but it’s moderate, nothing heavy. The flow has eased since this morning.

“Eric, I think I need to sit down,” Ivy says, grasping her head. “I feel a little dizzy.”

I shift my weight, putting one arm around her waist to hold her steady. I back her up slowly, placing her onto the toilet. I step away to give her some space while sliding the briefs over her ankles. There are goose bumps covering her legs. The sooner I get her in the shower, the better.

“I have to pee,” she says weakly. “Do you mind waiting outside the door?”

This is one of her little quirks. No matter how intimate we’ve become, she doesn’t like me in the bathroom with her when she has to go—and vice versa. One time I nonchalantly came in to urinate while she was brushing her teeth at the sink and I thought she was going to castrate me on the spot. It’s one of her pet peeves, but now I’m not so sure I should give in to her.

“What if you pass out and hit your head?” I ask, not wanting to leave her side.

“Eric, please. I’m begging you. I can’t hold it anymore,” she whimpers, pushing me away.

Dr. P. said her hormones might be out of whack, especially with that new prescription he put her on. One minute she’s horny, the next she’s crying. Talk about being on an emotional roller coaster. Nothing’s more erratic than the mood swings of a pregnant woman.

I get up without further argument and stand just inside the bedroom. I can just about hear her steady stream over the noise of the shower.

“Close the door!” she yells, mortified.

“Then how I am I going to know when you’re done?” I question her.

“I’ll tell you!” she shouts back.

I know better than to argue with her extreme modesty when it comes to her bathroom habits. There’s no changing her now. She is the way she is. I’ve never really lived with a girl before. I don’t know if they’re all like that or if it’s just her. All I know is that guys could care less who they pee in front of.

A few seconds later, I hear the toilet flush, but I wait for her signal.

“I’m done,” she calls out, so I slip back in. She’s already trying to remove her sweatshirt and I help her pull her arms through. She’s now completely naked as she stands in front of me, self-consciously crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“You don’t have to cover yourself,” I reassure her. “It’s just me.”

“I know, but I feel like some kind of invalid now,” she mutters.

“Hey,” I reply, lifting up her chin to meet my gaze. “You are beautiful.” I kiss her lips softly then bend down to kiss her belly. She runs her fingers through my hair, playing with the ends. I sit back on my knees and look up at her. “Beautiful,” I whisper again.

I see tears glistening in her eyes as I grip her waist and run my thumbs over her thighs. Steam is filling the room as the running water continues to pound against the tub. I better get her in there before the hot water runs out.

I stand up, kicking off my shoes. Quickly, I uncinch my belt and lower my fly. Stepping out of my jeans, I fumble with my socks before yanking my shirt over my head. My face is on fire, knowing she’s watching my every move. I pull back the shower curtain and offer her my hand.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she sniffles.

“My boxers are staying on,” I inform her. “As an insurance policy.”

“Well, don’t think they can’t come off,” she says, smiling at me begrudgingly before stepping under the spray.

I follow her in, making sure to keep an arm around her waist for support. I guide her beneath the faucet, smoothing her hair back with my hand. I reach for her shampoo, working up a good lather. The citrus fragrance is so intoxicating, and it’s the scent I most associate with Ivy. I massage her scalp with her fingers, trying hard to ignore my throbbing dick as she moans with pleasure.

“That feels so good,” she murmurs, grasping my hips.

My hands seem so large against her head as she shimmies against me. I back up a little and start rinsing the suds away. I can’t let her get too close, no matter how much I want her. She’s off limits until April.

What if we never have sex again? I try to shut my mind off, but I’m assaulted with a barrage of questions. What if the placenta detaches? What if she dies before giving birth? What if I never know what it’s like to come inside of her again? What if she never experiences an orgasm for the rest of her life?

I can see why she’s so willing to take such a risk now. This could very well be it. This is as intimate as we’re going to get. I can’t put my hands on her. I can’t put my mouth on her. I can’t be inside of her. Bottom line, I can’t take her anywhere close to fulfillment. Nothing that could—how did Dr. P. phrase it? Traumatize the uterus?

Nothing about this is fair. Not for me, and especially not for her. I feel like a jerk now, thinking that I might have somehow prevented this. We were having sex a lot during her first trimester, probably more than we should have. I didn’t stop and think about the potential danger to the fetus. I didn’t think I could possibly be hurting Ivy by making love to her while she was pregnant.

She must be getting tired because she leans into me, placing her head underneath my chin. I stroke the side of her face as the water pelts her back. Her skin feels so silky soft under the shower, like dew on a rose petal. I kiss the top of her head before picking up her loofah. Squirting some body wash onto it, I start rubbing it along the length of her arm. Slowly drawing her away from me, I position her in the middle of the tub and get to work.

I run the loofah under her arms, over her shoulders, and across her breasts, taking care not to linger too long in one particular area. My thumb dips into her clavicle as she elongates her neck for me. I continue a trail down her stomach, leaving her bellybutton filled with suds. I bend down, cleansing each leg from thigh to ankle. She holds on to my shoulders as I pick up each foot, running the loofah between her toes. She relaxes as I glide it up her back and between her shoulder blades.

I swirl my thumbs against her hips, preparing her for what I have to do next. It’s time for the most sensitive area. I place my hand on her inner thigh, spreading her legs apart. She groans slightly but doesn’t resist. The nurse did a pretty good job cleaning her up down there, but I’m going to take my time until she’s immaculate. Roughing the loofah up against my palm, I create a mountain of soapy foam. Kneeling before her, I start with her thighs and work inward. The water flowing off her body starts to turn pink, but Dr. P. said that’s normal.