So he can see that I’ve already forgiven him.
I take his hand again, the one that’s clutching my swollen belly, and drag it up.
Up and up.
Until his hand is right there. On my breast.
I know my cheeks are all pink now. Red and burning. But still I peek at him from under my eyelashes. “This. It hurts here too. Sometimes.”
His fingers twitch on the fabric and like he grabbed hold of my pregnant belly, he palms my breast too and my toes inch up.
Because God, I’ve never known my breasts to be so sensitive.
I’ve never known them to be so soft and tender. So heavy.
And it’s all getting worse because he’s watching them.
Even through his soft, thick hoodie, I can feel his gaze on them, on my bare skin. Not to mention his hand covers all of it, like it did my belly, and that makes me so breathless that I squeeze his wrist tightly, making him look up.
“They hurt,” he whispers thickly.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
“Tell me how.”
“They’re all sensitive and tender and… and big. Bigger than before, and my nipples…”
“What about them?”
“They ache sometimes. They throb. I-I think it’s because I’m changing. My body is.”
His jaw clenches, making the peaks of his face harsher, painted with a deep flush. “Your body is changing. Because of what I did.”
“Because of the baby.”
His fingers squeeze my breast, just one squeeze but it’s enough to make me moan slightly and he watches it all. With his heated eyes.
“My baby,” he whispers as if correcting me.
“Yours.”
“And it’s only going to get worse, isn’t it? Your tits,” he says, squeezing my breast again.
This time the force is harder and I have to arch my back and he’s right there. To give me support.
To let me use his body, all big and muscled and strong, to lean against, and when I do, my relief is complete. My breaths are easier, far, far easier than they’ve been in a long time.
Since two years ago.
But he doesn’t let me stay that way, all relaxed and loosened up.
He decides to keep me on my toes when he squeezes my breast again, his thumb swiping over my tender nipple. “I can’t stop picturing it.”
“What?”
“I can’t stop picturing you. Every time we go for a doctor’s appointment and she makes you lie down. She puts that gel on your stomach, I think about it. Every time I see you wearing your schoolgirl uniform or my hoodie, I fucking think about it.”
“Think about what?”
