“Maisie ran a blood test for me when I threw up a week ago. She says we’re about six weeks along.” I chuckle nervously. “She said it was your super sperm, breaking through the condom. And then she freaked out and said to never talk about your sperm again, even though I pointed out she was the one-”
We’re stopped at a red light and he kisses me, fiercely, joyfully.
“Does that mean you’re okay with us getting pregnant this fast?” I ask in a small voice.
A grin breaks across his face like dawn rising over the ocean. “My beautiful, perfect wife. We’re going to have a baby. Thank ye. This is grand! The best of things that I dinnae know we had to have immediately.”
Once we're home, he shuts the door in the faces of poor Ian and Kyle, sweeping me up in his arms and carrying me up the stairs with no apparent strain.
That's going to change when I’m a few more months along,I think, wrapping my arms around his neck. Especially if this kidturns out to be as enormous as his father. The thought should terrify me, given the concept that eventually, this potentially gigantic baby will have to leave my body. It somehow delights me, though. Thinking of a child who looks like their father. Maybe with his green eyes and long legs, racing across the lawn like the other MacTavish offspring.
“What are you smiling at?" Michael asks, taking me into the bedroom.
"I guess maternal sentimentality has come to me faster than I expected," I admit. “I was picturing our child tearing around the green with their cousins, laughing and shrieking.” I love the idea of this square of elegant, stately homes, descending into the madness that only children can provide.
I’m not sure how Michael is going to handle it. I know this man. He likes things precise, and orderly. I've seen him look at my shoes lying in the hall, my purse thrown on the entryway table, contents scattered across the polished wood and flinch as if the sight physically pains him. And yet now, he looks nothing but delighted at the concept of this level of chaos.
“If this child is to be a MacTavish," he says, "the window rattling, shrieking and shouting is guaranteed."
“Do you know what my favorite part of that flight was, aside from the fact that we were all alive to take it?" I ask.
"Aye?" he says, depositing me carefully on the bed, kneeling to take off my shoes.
“It was your father, leaning in when I was talking to Mom, telling her that they would be delighted to have her return to the home as their chef, especially given that Gustav quit in tears the other day.”
Michael gently massages my feet, listening to me with a slight smile. "Go on."
"When she said, ‘with all due respect, Chieftain, I'm not interested. I have a bake shop to run.’”
“The look on my father's face!" Michael says, laughing. “It's like he was ten again and someone took away his puppy. He will never get over your mother's cooking."
"I'm sure she'll say something prim and sweet like, ‘Well. It's nice to be appreciated,’” I say. “But I love the idea of this new enterprise being something for her, something she can control. Plus, once the bake shop is up and running, she can set her own hours and go on those cruises like she’s always wanted to."
“I’m glad,” he says, smile warm. “She’s earned it.”
Then, the time for tenderness is apparently over.
Michael stands, unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at me as my eyes follow the movement of his elegant fingers, eagerly watching as each movement opens his shirt wider, showing more of his gorgeous, sculpted chest. The movement of his muscles makes his ink ripple, the vicious, snarling face of the wolf across his chest and shoulder so vivid that it looks like it's ready to pounce. When I look up and see his expression, it's just the same as the tattoo of the wolf.
“Take off your shirt, wife," he says huskily. My fingers aren't quite as steady as his, but I do, sliding off the bed. He drops his pants, pulling them off along with his shoes and socks. Then, as I watch like I’m in the front row of the world’s hottest strip show, his boxer briefs. He steps back, sitting in a chair across the room. His legs spread, and his cock is already thick and hard against his abdomen, the red tip leaking and my God, the sight issinful.
“Now, your pants,” he says, and I do. “Now the bra and your knickers.”
He steeples his fingers in some sort of lordly gesture that both turns me on and pisses me off. Thearroganceof this man.
God, it's hot.
When I'm naked, his gaze drops to my abdomen. It’s still flat, but there's a spark of warmth and tenderness when he looks at me. Then it’s gone and his eyes are dark and greedy.
“Crawl."
One word, and it's enough to send a full-body shiver over me as I drop to my knees. The oriental rug is soft against my hands as I crawl across the room to him, forcing myself to keep his gaze, even though it's harder to do than I expect.
I know this man inside and out at this point, but there's something there about how he sits there, all Laird of the Manor, the Laird of the MacTavishes, that transforms him. Someone from an older time, maybe. A wilder one. The stern lines of his face are sculpted in shadow and the effect is both disconcerting and arousing as hell.
When I finally reach his knees, he spreads them wider.
“Suck."
