So I did, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in one smooth movement. His hands immediately went to my waist, then slid down to grip my hips as I settled against him.
“God, I love you,” he breathed, looking up at me with such naked adoration that my chest went tight.
“I love you too.” I leaned down, kissing him slowly, thoroughly. “Even when you’re being a data nerd.”
“Especially when I’m being a data nerd,” he corrected, his hands sliding under my shirt again. “That’s when you find me most attractive.”
He wasn’t wrong. I sat up, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it aside. The cool morning air raised goosebumps on my skin, but his gaze was a brand, hot and possessive.
His eyes, dark with desire, dropped to my breasts, fuller and more sensitive with the new life growing inside me. He couldn’t look away, and the raw hunger in his stare sent a fresh wave of heat cascading through my veins, tightening my nipples into aching peaks under his unwavering attention.
“You’re staring,” I said softly, my voice already breathy.
“I’m appreciating.” His hands skimmed up my sides, his thumbs finally, deliberately, brushing over my taut nipples. A sharp, sweet jolt shot straight to my core. “There’s a difference.”
“Show me.”
He did, pulling me down for a kiss that started gentle and turned ravenous. His hands were everywhere—my back, my hips, sliding into my sleep shorts to grip my ass. I rocked against him, feeling him hard and ready beneath me, and he groaned into my mouth, the sound a low, desperate rumble in his chest.
“We should be quiet,” I whispered, even as I reached between us to free him from his boxer briefs, my fingers wrapping around his hard, silken length.
“Extremely quiet,” he agreed, his breath hitching.
I lifted, positioning myself, then sank slowly, taking him in inch by exquisite inch. A broken sigh escaped me as I sheathed him fully. We both went still, breathing in ragged, shared gasps, our foreheads pressed together as we adjusted to the perfect, familiar fit.
“Hi,” I whispered.
He laughed softly, his hands tightening on my hips. “Hi yourself.”
Then I started to move, and talking became impossible. It was slow and sweet and desperately quiet—mindful of little ears that could wake at any moment. The only sounds were our strained, shuddering breaths, the soft, wet slide of our bodies joining, and the rustle of sheets as I rose and fell over him.
At first, his gaze was locked on where our bodies met, but then it drifted up to watch my breasts move with the rhythm he set, his expression one of rapt, reverent awe. His hands guided my movements, his hips rising to meet mine in a rhythm we’d perfected over the years.
“Touch yourself,” he urged, his voice a strained, husky command. “I need to feel you come.”
I did, one hand braced on the solid wall of his chest while the other slipped between us. My fingers found the slick, swollen heart of me, circling the sensitive bud. His eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, tracked the movement, and I felt him pulse and thicken inside me, his control visibly fraying.
“That’s it,” he breathed, the words gritted out between clenched teeth. “God, you’re so beautiful like this. Watching you…it undoes me.”
The combination of his words, the possessive grip of his hands, the friction of his body moving deep within mine, and the frantic circles of my own fingers—it all combined to push me toward orgasm. A high, thin whimper escaped my throat as the pleasure crested, my body clenching around him in relentless, pulsing waves that seemed to pull the very breath from my lungs.
The feeling of my climax milking him was his undoing. He released a guttural groan, swallowed against my shoulder as his hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks, holding me down as he buried himself deep and spilled into me. His own release was a series of powerful, shuddering thrusts.
For a long moment, we just stayed like that—me draped across his chest, both of us breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync, the musky scent of our lovemaking hanging in the air.
“Best Christmas present ever,” he murmured into my hair, his voice wrecked.
I smiled against his sweat-slicked shoulder. “Better than the coffeemaker I got you?”
“So much better.”
A sound crackled through the baby monitor—a sleepy whimper, then a clearer “Mama?”
We both froze.
“And that’s our twelve minutes,” Nicholas said ruefully.
I laughed, climbing off him carefully and reaching for my discarded shirt. “Actually closer to fourteen. Your algorithm needs work.”
