His hand slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. “I’m not going to be gentle.”
My breath catches. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
His grin is pure sin. “Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Deep. Slow. The kind of kiss that promises everything he can’t give me yet.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Go,” I whisper. “Before I make this harder.”
“Too late.” He glances down pointedly.
I laugh despite everything. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
I do.
God help me, I really do.
42
Mary
The shower helps. Sort of.
I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turns pink. My stomach’s been doing somersaults since I woke up, and I’m starting to think “morning sickness” is a bullshit term invented by someone who never experienced it.
“Morning discomfort” sounds cute. Manageable. Like “Oh, I’m just a bit queasy before breakfast.”
No.
This is full-body betrayal. My stomach hates me. My throat hates me. Even myteethfeel weird, which shouldn’t be anatomically possible, but here we are.
I towel off, pull on one of Anton’s T-shirts—because mine are all suddenly too tight and also smell wrong—and pad barefoot toward the bedroom.
That’s when I smell it.
Food.
Bacon? Maybe sausage. Something savory and rich and—
My stomach lurches.
I make it to the toilet just in time.
Everything from yesterday comes up. The pasta. The strawberries Lev brought me. That single bite of chocolate I thought would be safe.
Nothing is safe.
I’m on my knees, hair falling in my face, actively reconsidering every life choice that led me here, when I hear footsteps.
“Mary?”
Anton’s voice. Concerned. Close.
