Jensen lost his mind, and I loved every second of it. There’s something powerful about when he’s so unhinged for me that he feels like he can’t breathe unless I’m under him.
It makes me feel like what he calls me—a goddess.
When I step back into the kitchen, Jensen’s on the phone. He’s pacing, his brow drawn, his voice low. His shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves shoved up his forearms, and his pants hug his body like they were stitched around him.
My breath catches when his eyes find mine.
There’s still a trace of that wild, desperate edge in his gaze. He looks at me like I’m his ruin and his salvation rolled into one.
Like he’s still starving for me even though he already ate the full menu.
He ends the call with a few clipped words and crosses the space between us in three strides.
My skin heats as his gaze sweeps over my face, as if he doesn’t trust that he didn’t leave marks on me he can’t see.
Then his hand skims down my arm and settles on my flat stomach like it’s already everything to him. I cover his hand with mine, my heart so full I feel like I’m floating. It’s still hard to believe that a piece of us is growing inside me. We’ve been through so much over the years, and it means everything that we get to share in this next step together.
“You feel nauseous?” he asks, like he’ll fight my stomach if I do.
“A little. It’s manageable.”
I trail my fingers up his spine, over the soft cotton of his shirt. I want to stay wrapped in him, but I’m going to be late for work.
Again.
“Stay home today.”
Of course he’d want me to do that. Keep me safe, locked away in the ivory tower we built together, brick by brick with blood and sweat. “I wish I could,” I say honestly. “But I’ve got so much to do.”
He pulls in a breath like even oxygen is getting on his last nerve. “I don’t like you being at work when you’re sick.”
My mood sours instantly. The control he usually keeps over me tightens around my neck like a noose.
I know what this is. It’s fear dressed up as protection. It’s what he always does when he feels like our world is spinning around us.
No. Absolutely not. I’m not giving up work because I’m pregnant and he’s building worst-case scenarios in his head.
I love my job. I want to be there.
I’ve worked my ass off to build my gallery.
I step away, bracing for the argument I know is coming, and he watches every step I take, like he thinks I’ll shatter.
“I’m probably going to feel like shit for a while, Jensen.” I grab the coffeepot and pour a small measure into my travel mug. “I can’t just ditch life and responsibilities because I’m pregnant.”
His jaw flexes. “Of course you can.” His voice is soft, but there’s steel beneath it. “I don’t give a fuck if the world stops turning. My only priority is you and this baby.”
That would be sweet—if I wasn’t being handled. I hate being handled.
I drop my hands to my hips and tilt my head. “And who’s going to run the gallery if I’m sitting at home putting my feet up for the next seven months?”
“I’ll hire someone,” he says, like that’s the only logical answer.
But it’s not.
I can’t just ditch my work. I have projects in progress, artists depending on me, community programs that help kids see the world through color and shapes. I need the gallery for my own sanity.
“I’m not handing over unless I absolutely have to, and right now I don’t need to do that.”
