“I don’t feel beautiful. I feel nauseous and tired and emotional.”
“You’re carrying my child. That makes you the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She approaches the bed where I’m sitting, stopping just within arm’s reach. “Is that your medical opinion, Dr. Moretti?”
“That’s my professional opinion as the man who put that baby there.”
The possessive edge in my voice makes her pupils dilate. Good. Pregnancy hormones haven’t killed her desire any more than they’ve killed mine.
“Come here,” I command softly.
She steps between my legs, and I rest my hands on her hips, thumbs brushing the skin just above her waistband. Soon, this body will change dramatically. Her belly will round with our child, her breasts will prepare for nursing, her entire being will transform to accommodate new life.
The thought makes me hard.
“Take off your dress.”
“Alaric—”
“Take it off. I want to see you.”
Her hands go to the zipper at her back, sliding it down slowly. The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace underwear that makes my mouth water.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, hands spanning her waist. “So fucking beautiful.”
I pull her onto the bed, settling her across my lap so I can worship every inch of skin. My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp.
“The baby—” she starts.
“Won’t feel anything but how much I love you both.”
My hands roam her body with reverent touches, relearning curves that will soon change forever. When I cup her breasts, she arches into my palms with a soft moan.
“More sensitive?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently. Her reaction is immediate and intense, fingers tangling in my hair as she holds me closer.
“Oh God,” she breathes.
I lavish attention on both breasts, marveling at how responsive she’s become. Every touch draws sounds from her throat that make my blood burn hotter.
“Lie back,” I tell her.
She settles against the pillows, and I settle between her thighs, my hands stroking up her legs, parting them gently as I take in the sight of her—my wife, glowing with the life we created. The black lace of her panties clings to her curves, and I can already see the dampness there, a sign of her desire that makes my mouth water and my cock throb against the confines of my pants.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, my voice low and rough as I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs with deliberate care.
Her skin is warm, soft, and the faint scent of her arousal hits me like a drug, making my head spin.
I toss the lace aside, my hands returning to her thighs, spreading them wider as I lower myself, my lips brushing the sensitive skin just above her core. She shivers, a soft gasp escaping her, and I smile against her, loving how responsive she’s become.
“Alaric,” she whispers, her voice trembling with need, and the sound of my name on her lips—soft, pleading—makes my blood burn hotter.
I kiss her inner thigh, slow and reverent, my tongue tracing a lazy path that makes her squirm. “Please,” she adds, her hands fisting in the sheets, and I can feel her anticipation, her body already begging for me.
