Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” I say with a low chuckle. “But something tells me you’re about to say daddy.”
“Daddy,” he repeats. “Mind blowing, right?” When his gaze catches mine, his pleasure just shines.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “And look at these.” I reach for one of the tiny white cotton rosebuds from the box. “They’re socks.” I press my finger under one, unfurling the bud to reveal that truth. “Look how small they are,” I say, my demand awe filled.
“And they’ll probably be too big. Initially, at least.”
“You think?” I watch his face, wondering if he’s teasing me.
“When Clo was born, I could fit her whole body on my forearm.” He moves to demonstrate, his hand cradling an invisible head. I have two very different thoughts, seeing that. One, it’s good that one of us has held a baby before. Two, my God, I can’t wait to see Matt bare chested and cradling our babe.
“Oh!” I make a wholly involuntary noise as I suffer a sudden twinge in my back and arch from the stool, trying to relieve the tension.
“Put your hands on the counter.”
Feelings riot through me at the command, need crawling through my insides like kudzu. “It’s just—”
“Your back is sore. Let me give it a bit of a rub.”
“There’s no need.” I shake my head, even as every fiber of me yearns to do as he says. “It was just a little twinge.”
“It might do some good. It helped Letty when she was carrying Clo.”
When he puts it like that, it sounds so normal. So unsexual. So why are my nipples as hard as doorknobs?
“I promise, no funny business.”
“That’s not . . .” Come on, idiot. Matt is nothing if not a gentleman. Except when he’s not. A time I remember fondly. And often. But this is a dangerous game I’m playing, my head and my libido at odds. Maybe this is what happens when you’re touch starved. And feeling a little bruised. A little vulnerable.
“Ryan?”
“Okay.” I give a vigorous nod to seal the unsexy deal. Because this means something different to him.
“Yeah?”
Can’t blame him for his surprise. “Why not.” I flip the book closed, ignoring the tremble in my hand as I slide it across the countertop. This is not a question of getting an itch scratched but—
“Good girl,” he whispers, moving to stand behind me.
My hand stills on the book. Man, that tiny phrase feels like life goals. Even more so as Matt slides my braid over my shoulder, the edge curling like a question mark around my right nipple.
Lord, give me the strength to survive this.
“Deep breath,” he murmurs, pressing his palms against the backs of my shoulders.
I inhale, exhale, and he does too, judging by the air that skims the nape of my neck. A moment later, he begins to work, to apply his magic really, his fingers and thumbs easily unknotting the tension in my too-tight shoulders.
It’s nice. So nice. Being touched like this, almost held. Being cared for.
A long stroke from neck to tailbone makes me sigh.
“Good?”
I nod my head, and Matt repeats the motion again and again, like a cat kneading a blanket. Only a blanket doesn’t bite its lip to keep from moaning or demanding more.
“How’s the pressure?”
Building, I think. Bursting like a dam if we’re not careful.
I nod, not trusting myself to answer as his low tone adds to the effect, stroking like a caress.
“Push back. Yeah, just like that.”
Why does everything sound so sexual? Not that I fight it, and I do as he says when he presses his palm to my tailbone.
“Oh, God!” My word dam breaks on that, the exclamation like a long, pleasure-filled sigh.
“Good?”
“You don’t know . . .” what you’re doing to me.
“It would be better if you were lying down.”
My stuttering laughter sounds almost like an agreement.
“No, really.” Amusement lightens his answer, too, and all I can think is it’s a good thing he can’t see my face. “Let me . . .” He moves to the side, his arm coming around me. “Just for balance,” he reassures me, his arm pressing just above my bump. “Jesus, that feels—”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, capturing his arm with mine and holding him there.
The air around us stills, and I tighten my eyes like a toddler’s version of It wasn’t me.
No, no. I didn’t ask you to hold me while you keep rubbing that spot, because for some dang reason, it’s getting me off. How is that even possible? I just know that it is as my body begins to vibrate like a struck tuning fork.
Meanwhile, Matt says nothing. I can’t even hear him breathe.
Meanwhile, my breath is definitely audible as I suck in a long breath.
“Like that?” he asks, his palm returning.
I nod as he presses tighter, then rotates. I bite back my direction of Harder, more, my fingers piercingly tight where I grip his forearm.