Page 1 of Damon
Chapter one
Damon and Connie's Home, London
October 2020
Connie
“This time,” he growls, “this time you will be.” I’m pressed against the mattress as he slams himself inside me. He groans and we lose ourselves in one another, but my pleasure does nothing to dampen my fear. Tears roll freely down my cheeks. “This time, Connie. This time we’ll make it happen.”
I’m ovulating. Every month we relive the same scenario. The days arrive that give us a chance of adding a new member to the family, and we chase the dream with gusto. Sex every twelve hours, vitamins, minerals, and no alcohol. I lie in bed once he’s completed his end of the bargain, terrified to move in case his swimmers are diverted from their path. In the past sixty months of trying, we’ve never achieved one positive pregnancy test. Not one.
My husband is a big man, and his strong arms hold his body above me, dwarfing mine. The physique I love to touch grazes my skin as we move together. Inside, he fills me—every time we make love it takes time to adjust to his size.
His thrusts become more urgent. My body sucks him in and holds on for dear life. The familiar roar erupts from him as he reaches his peak, his hips pushing hard before he releases, emptying himself fully. His lips lower to my forehead, and I close my eyes beneath his touch.
“I love you, Bubbles,” he whispers. “We will make this happen somehow.”
“I love you too,” I tell him. He rolls off me, then immediately exits our marital bed, wiping himself down quickly with a towel before starting to get dressed in dark jeans and a matching plain hooded top. I lie with my hips propped up on a pillow and watch him. You would think after eighteen years together this would get boring, but it never has.
Damon McKinney was my teenage dream. We found love in our youth and have enjoyed each other ever since. He was the boy next door, two years older than me. We used to play together as young children. Then he grew up and moved on, being allowed out with his friends on his bike to the local park while I had to stay home. I’d play in my front yard so I could shout to him as he came and went. He always lifted a hand in greeting and smiled, but we rarely spoke until I turned sixteen. It was summer, and I was growing up fast, doing all the things I shouldn’t have been doing. We met at a friend’s party, high on alcohol and life. He kissed me and that was it. I’ve been his ever since.
“Will you be late tonight?” I ask him, glancing to the window. The autumn winds are picking up as winter threatens to appear. The brown leaves of the trees outside sway in the strong breeze, every so often tapping the glass.
“I don’t know, Bubbles. This case I’m working on is turning into a bit of a headache. The team is struggling. We have a debrief on the latest operation at four o’clock.” He glances at his watch. “Which I am going to be late for.”
“Thank you for coming home,” I say softly, and he glances at me. “I know this has all become tedious.” He walks back to the bed and sits on the edge beside me, cupping my chin in his palm and running his thumb across my lower lip.
“Making love with you is never tedious. Don’t ever think that.” His eyes bore into mine as he speaks. They’re deep green, the color of ferns. His dark hair is cropped close to his head. “We will do whatever it takes to create this baby, I promise you that. But Bubbles, we need to start considering other options if this month is not successful.”
I tense, not wanting to have this conversation, not wanting to accept the reality of not being able to carry my own child. I know as well as he does that I won’t be pregnant. Five years of negative tests have proven that it isn’t possible. The demoralizing fertility appointments only compound the fear.
“I know,” I whisper, as I sit up and twist my hands in my lap. “Maybe we should consider surrogacy.” He visibly relaxes before my eyes. That huge frame which has held me as I sobbed so many times when blood stained my panties eases as the tension ebbs away. Both his hands come to my shoulders, and I peek up at him. “I’m sorry for being stubborn.”
“Allowing another woman to carry our baby is a huge decision. Your uncertainty is understandable, but we need to live our lives. The monthly stress and timekeeping isn’t good for either of us.” He brushes his fingers against my cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “And as much as I love coming home for a mid-afternoon rendezvous, I want to be doing that for us to enjoy each other, without the end goal in mind. It’s time to let go, Connie. Someone else can play a part in this.”
“The doctor did say my chances of maintaining a pregnancy are low,” I say, and he nods. “We’re not getting any younger.” He takes my hand and squeezes it between strong steady fingers.
“Mid-thirties is not old,” he teases. “We only have a few gray hairs between us. We can make this happen, but we need to use the resources available to us. We’ve tried, and it hasn’t happened. I’d rather have our baby by other means than none at all.”
“Okay.” I push the single word past my trembling lips. My emotions are bursting to the surface with the acceptance that unless a miracle has occurred today, I most likely will not be carrying our child and bringing them into this world. The realization both frees my heart from the terror and breaks it simultaneously. If I’m ever to be a mother, it will not be in a natural way.
***
January 2021
My husband and I shrug out of our winter jackets before taking a seat in the sleek, modern office of our agent, awaiting our initial meeting with the potential surrogate. British winter has hit hard this year, and every road is covered with ice. A cup of tea has become an essential at every time of the day to warm up.
The process of finding a surrogate has been made relatively painless by hiring a specialist to provide suitable female candidates. Officially, in the United Kingdom, a surrogate cannot be paid for their service; however, you are able to cover her expenses. This specific agency is headed up by a highly sought after fertility doctor who will provide surrogacy services beyond the tight constraints of the law, allowing for more leeway on both sides of the agreement. Only those with deep pockets and golden connections have access to his expertise, and luckily, we have both.
Damon being at a senior level in the police force meant we needed to complete the process with as much discretion as possible. He didn’t want our personal life known to any more people than necessary, or government organizations and charities trawling through our business. Therefore, through a friend, we were introduced to this highly private matching service for childless couples and young healthy women needing a financial boost. It seemed an ideal solution to my empty womb and heart.
Emma Becker is a law student struggling with ever-increasing living costs and student debt. At the age of twenty-two, she is thirteen years my junior and in the first throes of adult life. In the sole picture I’ve seen of her, she was fresh faced with long blonde hair and stunning blue eyes. The flowers decorating her head implied she was free and enjoying life. Today, we will get to ask her why surrogacy is a route she wants to pursue and the reason she chose us.
The frosted glass door swings open. Our agent, Grace, walks into the room followed by Emma. Emma is tall, and her hair flows down her back to her ass. She has a fuller figure than I imagined with wide hips, large breasts, and a nipped-in waist. My stomach drops at the thought of this woman living in our home with us. Damon and I have been on our own for over fifteen years, since we moved in together in my late teens.
She smiles kindly, strolling over as we both stand. She takes my hand first, shaking my sweaty fingers firmly, then turns to Damon and repeats the process. I look to my husband trying to assess his reaction. His face is blank except for a polite smile.
“Shall we all sit,” Grace says, gesturing to two leather sofas placed in an L-shape to the side of the room. “Over here is more comfortable.”