Chapter 20: Delivered

6 months later . . .

I sit at my desk, trying to concentrate.

Fuck, she was having a lot of contractions this morning.

I should've stayed home with her, but she almost shoved me out the door.

Weeks of this.

When would the baby come?

She was a week past due.

The doctor was talking about induction, but he didn't seem overly concerned since everything else looked fine.

Blood pressure remained good, her weight gain good, everything was just good.

Not great.

Isabella was good. Not great.

She was sick of being pregnant, and I wanted to see that sparkly smile of hers again.

I snort a laugh. Sparkly. Sparkle. That insane woman that told Isabella all that shit at the end of our honeymoon.

I hope her wallet gets stolen for making my wife feel bad about her situation with her mother.

A lump forms in my throat, and I settle back in my chair, gripping the back of my head.

Fuck. The baby will be here any day, and Isabella never said, but I can tell . . . She wants her mother to come see her and the baby after the birth.

What woman wouldn't want the grandparents to visit their newly arrived grandchild?

Without thinking, I grab my phone out of my pocket, and call up that vile woman.

Maybe she'll take five minutes to ground her broom and quit flying over the land of Oz with her flying monkeys.

As the phone rings, I take a deep breath, close my eyes and tip my head back.

"Hello?" a soft voice asks.

Okay, her broom sounds set aside for the moment. I can work with this.

"Hi, Ms. Swan," I begin. "This is Edward, and I'm calling to tell you Bella's about to give birth any day now."

"And I should care because . . ."

Shit! Flying monkeys!

I smile and let my head fall. This woman's unreal. "Because it's your grandchild—your grandson."

"Why did she find out the sex? Doesn't she leave anything to God anymore?" She clucks her tongue.

I exhale and pause before I tell her where to shove that witch's broom of hers. "I know she'll want you to come visit when the baby's born, but I'm not going to allow it if you're going to upset her. So, what do you say? Can we call a truce for the sake of her and the baby?"

"I don't have a problem—it's you. You're the one—controlling her and—"

"I'm not going to discuss your misunderstandings and lack of trying to be a support to your daughter. The only reason I'm calling is to offer you this opportunity to make her feel loved by one of the people in her life that should be doing it unconditionally. So, think about it. Text me if you decide you want to be there. I'll text you back once the baby comes and let you know where we are so you can come visit."

"She doesn't want me there, so what's the point? She's never listened to me," she says.

I sigh. "Look—she cares about you more than you'll ever comprehend. I really don't know why you can't see it, but she loves you. She wants you there. Period. If you want to be there and you can behave—come. That's all I'm gonna say. Have a good day." I end the call and put the phone away.

I won't waste one more minute thinking about her, so I get back to work.




Isabella was tired when I called her, so I told her to take a nap. I didn't call her in the afternoon because I didn't want to wake her.

When I get home at five thirty, I open the door to the smell of Chinese food.

"I'm sorry, Master . . . I couldn't, I tried, but I . . . Ohhhhhhh," she moans.

She's on her hands and knees, next to her cushion, rocking her hips back and forth.

I shove the door closed behind me, drop to her side and shove my briefcase aside.

"Are you okay, angel? Is it the baby?" I ask.

She bites her lip, nods and barely looks up at me through her lashes.

"How long has this been going on?" I ask her.

"Since I woke up from my nap."

I stroke her back with a feather touch.

"How long ago was that?"

"Three hours," she says.

Suddenly, she stiffens and her breathing is loud and tortured sounding.

I rub her lower back and it seems to help.

The contraction lasts much longer than I would've thought, but she handles it well.

My chest swells with so many emotions.

Is our baby finally going to come?

"How far apart are the contractions?" I ask her.

"A little over five minutes," she says.

Our doctor said to check in at the hospital when they were about three minutes apart.

We have time.

"Wanna a massage?" I ask her.

She shakes her head.

"I think I want to get in the tub," she says.

"Can you walk?" She looks stuck on hands and knees.

"If you help me—if I can lean on you, Master. I'm sorry I couldn't manage dinner," she apologizes once more.

"No more talk of that. Dinner's fine. I'm pleased you thought of me at all. I'll eat later. Let's get you into the bath." I pull off my suit coat, fold it and set it on the couch nearby. My tie joins it a second later.

I pick her up, and she mewls.

On our way into the bathroom, she ducks her head and curls into me, and then suddenly stiffens.

"Having another one?" I ask.

She nods and whimpers.

Shit. Five minutes apart? Is she sure? That was not five minutes in between. I realize it's a rough average, but fuck . . . I've got a lump with a jagged edge, poking in my gut, threatening to slice me open.

This feels nerve racking.

I can deal with multi-million dollar accounts, and clients that want to buy themselves an island, but this is already making me sweat.

Once we're in the bathroom, I sit on the toilet seat lid, rock her gently and coo in her ear, "You're doing so well. Such a strong girl. I'm so proud of you. I love you and can't wait to see our baby."

She grips onto my shirt, and exhales in loud sweeping waves.

I keep telling her how brave and strong she is.

"Huuuuuhhhh," she exhales and goes lax in my arms.

I kiss her crown. "I'm going to set you on the toilet, I'll start the water up and then undress you. Rest your arms on the countertop and set your head on top so you can relax," I tell her.

She does it without a single word.

I get the water going, strip myself down first, since I plan to join her. After I've got her undressed, I pick her up and set her in the tub. She leans against the wall and waits for me.

I pull her into my arms and settle her into the water, still filling up.

She nuzzles into me, and it's amazing how small she can make herself with her big belly in the way.

"I love you—you know that, right?"

"Mmhmm," she hums.

"I love everything about you and this baby." I consider telling her about my conversation with her mother but then think better of it. What if her mother doesn't show up? She might be devastated by it. So, I keep it to myself. "You make everything better, Isabella. I'm not kidding. You're more than family to me—you're my life."

She tries to burrow her way into me further.

I reach up and turn the water off now that it's practically to the top.

"I love you, too, Edward. I feel the same," she replies softly.

The tips of her hair drift in the water, and I run my fingers across them and then roam up to her scalp, massaging here and there.

Her breathing evens out until she's struck with a really strong one.

"Ohhhhh gaaaawwd!" she groans.

"Just breathe—sweetheart. I've got you," I say, holding her and rubbing my hands across her back.

"I . . . This is . . . Jeeeezus!" she cries out.

"Breathe with me. Don't think about that now. Think of a happy place . . ." I work my fingers into her spine, lower down her back.

My chest rises and falls, and she makes an effort to mimic my movements.

"Good, real good, angel. I love that you're trying so hard," I say, the smile evident in my voice.

She nods in tiny pulses then redoubles her efforts and almost right away, her body loosens up. It's not a tightly wound ball anymore.

I never believed this deep breathing shit actually worked, but it just did.

She exhales slow and steady after it's gone.

"Talk to me—tell me where you're at . . ." I say.

"I don't know. I lost it for a minute, but you pulled me back, Master. Thank you." She kisses above my right nipple.

I chuckle. "You're welcome, but that's not what I was referring to. Do you think we need to head to the hospital soon?"

"I don't know." Her shoulders rise up a mere half inch, no more than that.

"Should we see if we can ride out a few more?" I kiss the top of her head.

"Sure. If you think that's what we should do."

"I'm asking you," I say. "It's your body. Only you know exactly what it's doing. I'll take you there now if you want."

"No. I want to stay here as long as we can. 'Cause then I can cuddle with you, call you Master and be naked in your arms and . . . . ohhhhh shiiiiit!" She chokes off her words and goes stiff.

"Shhhh . . . I've got you. Relax into me. Think of your happy place and breathe with me."

"I'll try," she whimpers.

I pull her a little tighter into me, remembering how the ropes always made her almost comatosed. She likes that bound feeling.

My instincts are right on—she breathes easier, her spine softens and her hands loosen up.

"Good girl. Such a good girl. Breathe as deep as you can. Feel it low in your belly. Give the baby lots of air."

"Hhhsssshhhhh," she inhales with a hiss, then slowly blows out. The baby kicks, and I feel it in my abs.

I smile. Strong little guy.

My chest rises and falls. Her body follows mine exactly.

Wow. My heart swells even bigger at the thought she's in tune with me, even now when she's going through something so intense and overwhelming.

I wish she'd called me sooner. I could've been here for her, helping her earlier on.

My fingers trace a line up her spine, and I count off in my head how long this rush is.

They're definitely stronger and lasting longer.

But really, it's the time in between I'm supposed to keep track of. I glance at my watch I've been trying to keep dry.

I don't know how I'm supposed to do that when my attention's on her.

Real quick, I take a mental note of when that last one started.

We both grow quiet and somber, stroking each other and soaking in this intimate, tender moment.

I hum, she almost feels heavy, asleep in my arms.

My hands caress and explore the soft skin across her shoulders and back. Her hair continues to float along peacefully.

After several sweeps across her back, I rest my curled hand on her collar.

This time she's given what seems like a long break.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Mmm . . ."

"You're doing really well." I kiss her head once more. "How about we do a few more than grab your bag and head out. If it's too soon, I'm sure they'll send us back home."

"'Kay," she says.

One more passes, and this one's worse than the last, but once more, she listens to me and I'm able to help her navigate her way through.

On the second one, she cries out at the peak, and the sound of her anguished pleas, breaks my heart. I wish I could do this for her. It's my fault she's even having to go through this.

I hug her tight, and she suddenly jerks, making the water slosh and douse my watch.

Oh well. My fault I kept it on.

When the contraction ends, I shake my wrist out a little, and she growls.

"Stop moving," she barks.

I smile. Sorry . . . little girl.

I keep quiet, picking up on her mood. She's not talking anymore, so I'm not either.

Instead, I apologize with my hands, kneading her lower back, not caring anymore if my watch gets wet.

Two more nasty contractions pass, and things have ramped up quite a bit. I think they're probably about four minutes apart, so I tell her it's time to go.

She whimpers when I sit up straight and then get out.

I release the drain then help her out.

She shivers almost right away.

I grab my towel first and immediately wrap it around her.

Then I grab hers and use it to towel off her legs.

When I'm done and about to stand up, I see a clear fluid rolling down her inner thighs.

I open up the towel wrapped around her body to see if she's really wet up top, but she's not.

"Shit," I accidentally mutter.

"What? What's wrong?" she asks.

"I think your bag of waters broke while we were in the bath," I say.

She tries to look down. "You sure?"

"No, I'm not sure, but there's some fluid slipping down your legs, and I dried you off pretty well." I duck down, and sure enough, more fluid comes trickling down. "Okay, yeah, I'm sure." I straighten my spine. "We need to get to the hospital."

Her eyes go big and she nods.

I set her down on the toilet and tell her to stay there.

Her bag's ready to go, so I get dressed real quick, grab some clothes for her, and then I hear her moaning in the bathroom. My chest tightens.

I run back to her, and find her doubled over on the toilet seat.

I squat down in front of her and tell her to settle her weight into me.

She does. Her moans grow more urgent and high pitched.

I rub her belly in front of me, and damn, it's hard as a rock.

The baby kicks my left palm.

"Ooowwww! Stop it, baby!" she wails.

I move my hand away from that spot and rub some more.

"Sssssssoooo loooong—is it ever gonna ennnnnnd?" she groans.

"Soon . . . It's almost over," I say, unsure if that's true or not. "You're doing great, sweetheart. We'll be at the hospital in a little bit."

She rocks a little.

After what seems like an eternity, it ends, and when I help her stand up, a huge gush of fluid drenches her inner thighs.

"Yeah, that water's definitely broken," I say.

She starts to laugh but then it turns into a cry. "I can't do this . . ." Her lips quiver.

"You can. You already are," I remind her.

"No, Master . . . It's too hard. I can't . . . I'm not a good Mom."

I kiss her and give her a stern look. "Don't you ever say that about yourself. You're already the perfect mother. You've taken such good care of yourself through the entire pregnancy, and I've been so proud of you for being so on top of your nutrition and exercising; reading to keep up to date on anything to do with pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding. You'll be the best mother ever."

She nods, but her lower lip juts out and her eyes are still filled with tears.

"Now, get dressed. We're going to the hospital to have this baby."

She cooperates and even though I have to move her around slowly and gently, I'm able to get her clothes on her and have her out the door with minimal fuss.

The car ride is a cruel joke. She has several gut twisting contractions, and I'm barely able to help her since I'm at the wheel.

"Almost there," I tell her.

Her cheek is pressed against the window. She stays silent, her eyes closed and her hands resting on her belly.

I pull up into the parking lot five minutes later, and as I'm helping her out, she falls into me, having a really debilitating one.

Her legs buckle, and I support her. She sags in my arms.

"Good. Go limp. Don't fight it. The baby's so happy you're giving in," I lilt.

Her head lolls to the side, and I swear she looks half-dead.

God, she's amazing at this.

I sway her lightly and after it's gone, I wrap an arm around her waist and help her walk inside.

The front desk is very helpful, and they get her checked in fairly quickly.

Before I know it, she's in a labor room, in one of those god-awful open-backed gowns, and her doctor strolls in, greeting us both enthusiastically.

He shakes our hands, and then says he's going to check her progress.

I try to fill him in on what her labor's been like over the last hour and a half while we were at home.

He tells me to move to the head of the bed so I can be next to her.

My eyes follow his every move as he washes, gloves up and then says he's going to to check her dilation.

I cringe at the thought of his hand up inside her, but he's done it before at a few of her appointments while I've been there.

"You don't fool around, do you?" the doctor asks.

I smirk. Nice choice of words.

"You're to an eight. A few more contractions, and you would've been birthing this baby at home. You're lucky you didn't have it in the parking lot."

"Her water broke at home," I blurt.

"What color was the fluid? And do you know what time this happened at?" He turns to me, pulls his hand out of her, removes the glove and tosses it in the garbage, but before I can answer, she's struck with another one.

I'm at her side, at her ear, whispering words of love and encouragement, lightly caressing her belly.

She yanks at the gown like she wants it off. I take her hand in mine and hold it to my chest.

She calms down almost immediately.

Her breaths go from panicked to deep and low, with almost a grunt at the peak.

The doctor starts bustling about the room and it seems like two nurses appear out of nowhere.

When Isabella sighs and goes lax, I report on the broken bag of waters.

He writes it down in her chart and doesn't say anything about it.

His unconcerned reaction helps me feel a little more relaxed.

A few times the nurses give me surprised looks when I tell Isabella what to do, and then they look even more shocked when she actually does it.

I have no time to be concerned about their ideas of what they're witnessing.

At one point, Isabella says, "Please touch it." She sets my hands on her neck, over her collar, and I stroke around my claim on her.

Her body automatically goes spongy, and my reflex is to kiss her deeply. She opens her mouth and moans, accepting my tongue, and then out of nowhere, things really take off.

She grunts with a deep, guttural sound and her belly presses downward.

When I stop the kiss, her eyes look almost glazed over.

"I need to check you," the doctor says.

He goes through the same rigmarole—scrubbing up, donning gloves, but this time when he checks her, she whimpers in pain.

"Can you not do that now? Can't you wait?" I ask.

"If I wait, she'll be in the middle of a contraction," he says.

"Oooohhhhh nooooo! Another one," Isabella cries.

"Get your damn hand out of her now!" I bark.

He pulls it out and says she's fully dilated, ready to push.

"Okay, Bella, it's time to get your baby out," the nurse to her left says.

My wife shakes her head and closes her eyes.

"Isabella, it's not a request. It's time to push," I tell her in a firm voice.

"I can't. I don't feel like I need to," she says.

"Let's get her more upright," the doctor suggests.

Isabella whines as I help her up into a squat. The doctor does some crazy shit to the bed so there's a squatting bar attached and even raises the bed higher off the floor.

Her next contraction there's a definite shift. And suddenly, she has to push whether she wants to or not.

I stroke her legs, but I notice it has the opposite effect from before. It's making her tenser, so I stop doing it.

Oh. My. Lord.

I see something appearing between her legs.

Hair much darker than her own.

"Is that . . . ?" I whisper, my eyes wide and breathless.

"Uuuuuunnnnngh!" Isabella grunts and strains, her head tipped back.

Her pushing contraction seems to go on forever. The edge of the baby's head wiggles, and it's the most bizarre, beautiful thing I've ever seen.

When the rush fades, she relaxes into the pillows piled up behind her.

The nurse checks the baby's heart rate and they take Isabella's vitals.

Everybody around us smiles, except me.

Isabella's exhausted.

How much longer can she do this?

My teeth grind, until Isabella looks at me with pleading eyes.

"Make it a good one. Make me proud," I say, and with her next breath, she starts pushing, her eyes zeroed in on mine, and she reaches her right hand out.

I take it and kiss her knuckles.

A shrill gasp pierces the air, and I squeeze her hand, reminding her she can do this with my touch.

She gives me an apologetic look and then goes back to concentrating.

When I glance between her legs . . . Oh, God. I can see a lot more head.

This is unreal.

It's a foot away from me—my baby's little head.

Without thinking, I reach out and caress his little crown.

It's wet, slippery and he has a ton of hair.

Isabella gasps, and when my eyes move back up to her, she beams at me, smiling and all teary eyed.

"I love you so much," I mouth, my eyes twitching and watering as well.

My hand remains on his head, and nobody balks or tells me to move it.

"Oooohhhhh Christ!" She coughs and sputters, then with a snarl, and a huge push, the head suddenly slips out, and she exhales with a loud, triumphant winded sound.

My heart stops when the baby's head turns to me, and I'm looking at shiny gray eyes.

He blinks, and tears roll down my cheeks.

"Push once more," the nurse says, and Isabella ignores her.

"Sweetheart, you push when you have to," I tell my angel.

She smiles at me, then her face contorts and it's obvious another contraction's overtaking her.

She grunts once more, and bears down, then the doctor catches the baby, and Isabella bursts into tears as she watches him show me the baby.

I stroke his cheek, and he's silent until he's in Isabella's arms, then he suddenly squawks.

She laughs through her tears, and I'm speechless.

"Like I said—you don't mess around, do you?" the doctor jokes.

She nods, kisses the baby repeatedly, and at some point, a nurse nudges past me, lowers the bed and wipes the little guy off.

The other nurse takes the squatting bar off, removes all the crazy pads and absorbent material at some point they'd draped all around her.

I never noticed all that stuff. All I saw was her, working hard and being amazing at bringing our baby into the world.

I stand at her side, hugging and kissing both her and our perfect little one. He has her lips and my chin, and maybe her nose. It's hard to tell when he keeps scrunching his nose up.

I'm passed a pair of scissors at one point, and after the cords clamped in two places, I cut in between.

A diaper is placed over his small behind, a cap put on his head and I'm in love. This kid already has my heart in his little hand as she squeezes my finger really tight.

God, he's strong.

The baby squirms and makes these little grunting sounds.

A nurse maneuvers to Isabella's other side, helps her latch the baby on and I stare wide-eyed at him sucking and nuzzling at her breast.

Isabella sighs and it's heaven—the look of ecstasy and relief on her face.

In that moment—I'm not sorry at all I lost myself and made love to her without protection.

I'm glad I slipped.

I'm glad he's here.

I'm glad I've got a family that means everything to me.

As he continues to nurse, I take a moment to text a few people, and then I notice . . .

Isabella's mom responded with a simple: Yes, please. I want to know my grandchild.


I shoot her a text, stating he's here, where we are, and invite her to come visit; I remind her at the end to be nice.

Twenty minutes later, there's a rap at the door, and Isabella snoozes while the baby still snacks away.

This kid has a voracious appetite.

He still needs to be weighed and measured. They said they'd come back and do all that later when he was done eating. I was told to let them know when he stopped hogging his mom's breasts up. Okay, so that was my thought—not theirs.

"Come in," I say, loud enough the person can hear through the door, but quiet enough it won't disturb Isabella.

"Oh my," a soft, female voice gasps and there's a soft thud.

My head snaps in their direction, and there stands Isabella's mother, her purse dropped on the ground. She has a gift bag in hand, her eyes twisted into tormented emotions, and her voice choked off.

"Welcome," I say, unsure of whether or not to smile or not. I get up and stand at Isabella's side, but manage to wave her over.

"He's . . . Oh, Edward, he's beautiful," she says, looking at me like she's shocked by this.

"He looks like his mother," I say, stroking Isabella's hair on the pillow next to me.

"She was the most gorgeous baby ever, and I can see he eats like she did. She loved to breastfeed," she tells me.

I chuckle deep in my belly, trying to keep it quiet so I don't wake Isabella.

A moment later, Isabella's eyes open, and she gapes at her mother. "Mom!"

"Hi, baby," her mom replies. "How do you feel?"

"You came?" Isabella squeaks.

"I did. How could I stay away?"

Isabella looks at me and her eyes are filled with love and an emerging look of sheer joy.

"He's perfect," her mother says.

"He is," I agree.

Isabella reaches out, and her mom hugs her.

The baby comes unlatched and wails.

We all laugh. I help cover up Isabella, and out of nowhere, I say to her mom, "You wanna hold him?"

She blinks and looks caught in a net. "Can I . . . Are you sure?" she chirps.

"Please," Isabella insists, wrapping his blanket around him and passing him over.

"Knock, knock," the nurse says, stepping inside right as Isabella's mom takes hold of him.

She tucks the little guy up into her like a pro. And I have to wonder if there really is a caring mother inside there after all. Where has this woman been up to now?

Isabella follows her mom with her eyes, beaming the entire time.

"Oh, good, he's all done." The nurse peeks over Grandma Swan's shoulder and says, "Time for him to get weighed and measured."

"Oh, I just got ahold of him," Isabella's mom says.

"You can tag along. I'll let you hold him. These two can have a few moments alone," the nurse says, giving me a questioning look. She was here during the birth, and has definitely figured out Isabella will go along with whatever I decide.

"Sounds good to me," I say.

Isabella nods and grins.

We watch her mother grab her purse and disappear out the door.

The second the door closes, I drop to my knees, and kiss Isabella's feet over and over.

"My darling wife," I say.

She gasps, and when I look up, tears roll down her cheeks, but she's not looking at me, she's looking over her shoulder.

I twist my neck, and there stands her mother, mouth dropped open, holding the baby, her eyes soft and filled with tears.

She quietly backs out the door.

"I think she finally gets it," I say.

"I think so, too." Isabella wipes her tears away, and stares at me as I stay on the ground.

I go back to worshiping this goddess and being on my knees before her for the second time because she deserves to have me there.



Thank you so much for all your help in rec'ing this story, and for taking the time to read and review.

Check out my my new story I'll be posting by the end of this week called, Breaking Blood on Alabaster. If you liked this Dom Edward in Cuffs, then you might enjoy this one as well. He's a Dom through and through, and he has no idea how to deal with this feisty widow, Bella, from the lower east side who's a working woman, is unimpressed with his wealth and the fact he not only owns the New York Times and several other newspapers in the area, but that he also owns a few tenements in her area of town. What's he supposed to do about his bloodlust; his unquenchable desire to box and spill blood? What if the only way he can have her is to find a way to resist his wicked impulses? How will he win over a woman that cares nothing about his accomplishments or him?

It's gonna be a ride, turn of the century style with lots of debauchery and BDSM in a time when ankles were not to be exposed.

Put me on author alert or keep an eye out for it if you're like me and you enjoy historical fiction but also love erotica with BDSM themes. I figured it was time they became well acquainted as bedfellows… *smirks*