I don't think I've ever launched out of a chair faster in my life. It was less standing and more a full-bodied explosion upward, like every muscle in my body had conspired at once to eject me from the realm of sanity.
The poor chair went skittering across the floor with the dignity of a drunkard kicked out of a tavern, wood scraping shrill against stone before collapsing in a pathetic heap. If it had a soul, it was begging to be put out of its misery, much like myself.
She giggled. Of course she giggled. Not just any giggle either, but one of those syrupy, obnoxiously pleased little titters that belong to the sort of people who clap when the theater curtain rises because they think the show's about them.
"Excuse me?" I croaked.
She clasped her hands together like a giddy child at a solstice festival, rocking slightly on her heels, eyes glittering with amusement. "You heard me," she purred. "I want you to get me pregnant."
