Page 23 of The Heir Affair

‘It’s okay. I just felt the baby properly kick,’ she said.

His brows lowered, but his expression remained tense. ‘Is this dangerous?’ he asked, concern still shadowing his eyes.

‘No. It’s all good,’ she said, unable to control the quick grin. ‘It’s exciting.’

She’d felt the flutters and a squirming sensation before, but had never been sure if she’d been imagining them. But these were proper kicks inside her, making the sense of connection so strong.

Going with instinct, because he still looked unsure, she grasped his large hand. ‘Here, see if you can feel it too.’ She pressed his palm to her tummy bulge. ‘I think we must have woken up junior with our shouting.’

His gaze locked on hers, the flicker of emotions—guilt and shock—unguarded. That morning’s hazy half-formed dream came back to her. The vivid recollection of when she’d asked him about his scars—and for a moment the feeling of connection had been so vivid. The sense she’d touched a part of him he guarded zealously, but which he had let her see for a moment.

Once again, the wary expression disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but she knew she hadn’t imagined it this time.

He swallowed. ‘Does it hurt?’

She shook her head. Strangely thankful when his gaze dropped to her belly, where her hand still held his much larger one.

Her heart jumped into her throat, and seemed to pulse between her thighs, as he rubbed his palm across the silk caressing the spot where their baby grew.

The kicks had stopped. But she couldn’t seem to swallow past the huge surge of emotion, and the rush of heat, when his eyes met hers again.

‘I cannot feel it,’ he said, but despite the shadow of disappointment she could also see the desire, reflected in his eyes. Volatile and intense. The spot between her thighs clenched and ached.

She eased her hand off his, suddenly brutally aware of how naked she was beneath the thin silk—and the warm weight of his palm. Her nipples throbbed in time with the heartbeat between her thighs.

She hadn’t even stopped to put panties on before charging out here to confront him.

Did he know her sex ached? Could he smell the slick heat building between her thighs? Could he sense the swollen weight of her breasts, the engorged oversensitive nipples, begging for his touch?

She blinked slowly, the charged atmosphere making her forget everything but how close he was. The tantalising scent of soap and sea clung to him. All she could hear was the rough murmur of his breathing, the ragged sound of her own.

His hand skimmed down. He bunched the silky fabric in his fist and tugged her to him, until her body was moulded against the hard contours of his, making her brutally aware of the thick ridge—so strident, so insistent—rising to press against her bump.

Why couldn’t she push him away? Why did her arms feel weighted to her sides, her body languid, her mind dazed, her throat so tight she couldn’t speak, couldn’t seem to swallow down the raw lump of need?

His hands rose, caressing her sides, cupping her heavy breasts, his thumbs rolling over her swollen nipples, proprietorial, possessive, but also so sure, so certain.

Her staggered breathing became deafening, her back arching into his touch, as if she were a cat, desperate to be petted.

He cradled her cheeks, and lifted her face to his, trapping her in the heated purpose of his gaze. He lowered his head, the scent of orange juice on his breath—and the sultry perfume of the moisture now damping her thighs—invaded her senses when his words whispered across her lips. ‘I am sorry, Poppy, for upsetting you. Upsetting our baby.’

His words sounded rusty, his voice strained, as if he was not used to apologising to anyone… But still she could hear what it was costing him, not to command, but to compromise.

‘But I will not risk your safety,’ he added. ‘You cannot return to Galicos. It is not safe for you or the baby there any more.’

She ought to argue with him. He’d had no right to take her job away from her, and he’d been wrong to sail from Galicos without even telling her, let alone asking her. But she needed to be prepared to compromise too. She had to believe however arrogant and autocratic his actions, his motives were less so. And that the gruff apology meant something.

But before she could find the right words, his hands swept down to cup her bottom and tug her closer still—making her brutally aware of that rigid erection. She writhed against it, the mindless desire to take him again, to feel that thick length stretching her, filling her, so overwhelming it shattered her last coherent thought.

‘And I want you with me,’ he said. ‘So we can feed this incessant hunger which has been driving me mad for months.’

‘Yes.’ Her reply choked out on a sob of need. She grasped his shirt in fistfuls and dragged him to her. Not caring any more about who was right, or wrong. Only caring about feeding the molten, aching heat at her core too.

Grasping her bottom, he boosted her into his arms and strode across the lounge.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, anchoring herself. He grunted his approval, carting her down the yacht’s corridor and through a door into a bedroom suite.

She barely had a chance to register the view of the sea through the glass wall that wrapped around the end of the suite—and the balcony beyond—before he placed her on the king-sized bed.