There’s too much wetness between my thighs for him to have worn a condom. At some point farther down the track I might care, but for the moment my body buzzes with too much contentment to worry.
“I’m not on the pill,” I mutter to him, snuggling back so that more of him is touching against me. Not that I can feel any of his skin. He’s still fully clothed.
“Good,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t want all this effort to go to waste.”
I crack open an eye and twist my head around. “Are you trying to get me pregnant?”
As an answer, he reaches between my thighs and starts pushing the escaping semen back inside my body. “Whatever would make you think that?” he asks in such a teasing tone that I laugh.
“I’m not a prime candidate for motherhood,” I whisper in a small protest that’s buried three layers deep beneath my satisfaction.
“Sophia would beg to differ.”
Oh, but I don’t want to think about his daughter. Not when I’m lying here in the afterglow. I twist in his arms until I can lay my head against his chest, then reach down to stroke his manhood but he’s already zipped himself away. “Why are you still wearing clothes,” I grumble.
“Removing them didn’t seem necessary to get the job done.”
“You say that like a man who thinks his task is complete.” I set to work, unbuttoning the tiny clear buttons on his shirt. When I pull them apart enough to expose his wolf tattoo, I kiss around the edges, then reach for his trousers to loosen them.
But Baxter’s hand grips my wrist, holding it tight enough that I can’t move.
My eyes blink open, and I frown as I try to read his expression.
The chasm between where my experience should be and where it is yawns between us. My voice fades to a whisper as anxiety tugs at my belly. “Is there something wrong?”
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
BAXTER
When Isabelle asks, I inwardly curse.
I should’ve just stripped off when she was lying spent upon the bedspread. That way, I could’ve snuggled up behind her, manoeuvring us both under the covers. Now, by trying to keep myself away from her curious gaze, I’ve ended up subjecting myself to more scrutiny.
“I have a lot of scars and tattoos.” I bend my head to kiss her shoulder, avoiding her gaze. “They’re not pretty.”
“Okay.” She twists to show me the back of her upper arm. There’s a thin line marring the otherwise perfect skin. “Here’s one of mine. It’s only fair you show me one of yours.”
“That’s the prettiest scar I’ve ever seen,” I hedge, kissing it better years after the fact. “How’d you get it?”
“Fell out of a tree.” She lifts her left knee. “And here.”
I trace the lighter flesh with my thumb. “Wow. Looks life-threatening.”
“It landed me in the bathroom with a cotton ball and a bottle of Dettol after I cycled into a car door.” She opens her eyes as wide as they’ll go, blinking innocently. “The antiseptic stung so much I thought I was dying.”
She continues to meet my gaze, swapping out innocence for expectation, but I shake my head, unable to give her what she wants.
“Are you afraid you won’t be able to get me into bed if I see you naked?” She snorts softly, tugging at my beard. “Because I happen to know it’s far”—tug—“too”—tug—“late.”
I kiss her gently, but her ministrations have had the wrong effect. I now feel so exposed that even the thought of shedding my clothing in front of her makes me cringe inside. Instead, I pull her into my arms, turning her to face the door so I can nuzzle into the curve of her neck.
As if that’s enough to stop her rampant curiosity.
“Are you hiding because you’re ashamed?” she asks next, squirming in my arms until she’s able to read my face from the corner of her eye. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”
“Please drop it.”
“I will… but it’s not like you’re hiding a swastika under there or anything, right?”
