His hand moves across my belly, and right on cue, the baby kicks against his palm. Grant’s entire expression softens, and that look of wonder crosses his face like it does every single time he feels our son move.
“He’s active today.” Grant’s voice is just above a whisper.
“He’s been like this since last night. I think he’s running out of room in there.”
“Won’t be much longer now.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But in a good way. You?”
“Same.” I cover his hand with mine. “I keep wondering if he’ll look like you or me. If he’ll have your focus or my anxiety.”
“Hopefully my focus and your kindness.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
Grant leans down to kiss the top of my head. “April is at Margo’s for the afternoon, right?”
“Yeah. Learning the finer points of diaper changes. Margo said she’d keep her until dinner.”
“Good.” His voice drops lower, and I recognize that tone immediately. “That means we have the house to ourselves.”
“Is that so?”
“Damn right.” He turns me around to face him, then rests his hands on my hips. “And I plan to take full advantage.”
He pulls me close and kisses me, slow and deep. My hands come up to grip his shoulders, and I try to melt into him the way I used to, but my belly is in the way.
Still, Grant manages to pull me as close as I can possibly get at nine months pregnant, his hands sliding up and down my sides.
I turn in his arms to grind against him, and a needy sound escapes my throat when I feel how hard he is.
He breaks away from the kiss. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Now.” The word comes out breathless. “I need you.”
He starts to pull back, probably planning to carry me upstairs to bed like he’s been doing for weeks, but I’m not having it.
“Wait.” I grip the front of his shirt. “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. I know you’re worried about the baby, but the doctor said sex is fine. I need you to stop being so careful with me.”
His eyes darken. “Heather?—”
“I’m serious, Grant. I love how protective you are. But right now, I need you to fuck me like you actually want me, not like I’m some delicate thing that might shatter.”
The war playing out on his face is obvious. He’s been so gentle throughout the pregnancy, so controlled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” I pull him down for another kiss, then bite his lower lip. “Please. I’m going crazy here.”
That does it. He turns me around without warning, then uses one hand between my shoulder blades to bend me over the counter as far as my belly will allow.
“Like this?” His voice has gone rough.
“Yes. Exactly like this.”
He works my maternity pants down—thank god for elastic waistbands—and slides his hand between my thighs. His groan tells me everything I need to know.
“Jesus, Heather.”
