I wanted to believe him. But as I looked at that big four-poster bed, I realized tonight’s challenge wouldn’t be Bronson Wells. It would be pretending I didn’t want to curl up against the man standing behind me.
18
The nudge against my ribs jolted me awake, and my eyes snapped open in the predawn darkness. It took half a second to orient myself.
Dede was plastered against my side like I were specifically designed for her comfort. Her leg was hooked over mine, her arm stretched across my chest, and her face buried in the curve of my neck.
At some point in the past two hours—after I’d closed my laptop and slipped into bed beside her—she’d migrated across six inches of mattress and wrapped herself around me like I was her personal pregnancy pillow.
I remained perfectly still, not wanting to wake her. Not wanting this to end.
The scent of her shea butter night moisturizer filled my senses. Her satin bonnet had shifted in sleep, revealing the edge of her hairline. Her breath was warm against my throat, each exhale sending a ripple of awareness through me.
Her body was soft everywhere it pressed against mine. Breast, belly, thigh. All that lush feminine warmth molded against me.
Another kick, stronger this time. I felt it through her belly pressed against my side.
Dede’s eyes flew open, unfocused at first, still soft with sleep. She looked warm and rumpled and utterly content.
Then I saw the exact moment awareness crashed back in. Her body went rigid, and her eyes widened with panic.
She jerked back. “I didn’t mean to. I must’ve moved while sleeping.”
“Stop moving.” My hand settled on her stomach before she could pull away. “You will hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. You are panicking over nothing.” I kept my hand in place. “One of them kicked. Hard enough to wake me.”
Her hand moved to cover mine on her belly. “They do that in the morning.”
“It hurts you?”
“No. It’s just…” Another kick, directly under my palm this time. Her breath caught. “Weird.”
I spread my fingers wider, feeling the babies moving beneath them . My children. Our children. The reality of it hit me fresh every time.
“Which one was this?” I asked.
“How would I know?” But her tone had softened. “It’s not like they’re announcing themselves.”
“The one on the right, it is more aggressive. It is our son.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Call it father’s intuition, yes.” I pulled her closer, adjusting her position until she relaxed against me. “Better?”
“We shouldn’t be this close.”
“Dede.” I waited until she looked at me. “This resistance, it is illogical. I am trying to help. You need help. Therefore, you should accept help. This is not complicated, yes.”
“You really think it’s that simple?”
“It is simple. You make it complicated with unnecessary pride.”
“You’re the father of my children,” she said finally. “And my daughter’s father-in-law.”
It wasn’t enough. Not even close. I needed her as my wife, truly mine.
