“I’m pretty sure I am. I’m eating for two now, remember?”
His hand slides lower on my stomach, fingers pressing gently. “I’ll have Lev bring something.”
“I don’t want Lev to bring something. I want to make pancakes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re staying in this bed.”
I huff. “I’m pregnant, not dying. I can make breakfast.”
“Not arguing that.” His voice is still rough, still half-asleep. “But you’re not leaving this bed for at least another hour.”
“An hour? Anton, I’m starving.”
“Then starve quietly.”
I try to elbow him. He catches my arm before I can connect.
“Nice try,” he murmurs against my neck.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re staying put.”
I settle back against him. “Five more minutes.”
“Good girl.”
The praise sends a little thrill through me. Stupid. Ridiculous. But there it is.
His hand stays on my stomach. Protective. Possessive. Like he’s checking to make sure everything’s still where it should be.
Ten weeks now. Still too early to show. Still too early to feel anything. But he acts like I’m made of glass.
Except when he doesn’t.
I shift again—deliberately this time—pressing my ass back against him.
He goes still.
Very still.
Then I feel it. Hard. Thick. Pressed right against me through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
Morning wood. Right on schedule.
“Mary.” His voice drops an octave. A warning.
“Mm?” I press back again. Just a little. “Something wrong?”
His grip on my stomach tightens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Am I?”
“Dr. Vera said—”
