I reach for her dress. Find the zipper. Drag it down slowly. Watching her face the entire time.
The fabric parts. Slides off her shoulders. I help her out of it. Toss it aside.
And then she’s there. In just black lace. Bra and panties that make my mouth go dry.
“Christ,” I breathe.
“Too much?” She sounds uncertain.
“Not enough.” I run my hand down her side. Over her hip. “Never enough.”
I lean down. Kiss the swell of her breast above the lace. She arches into me.
“Anton—”
“I know.” I move lower. Kissing down her stomach. Over the small curve. “I know, my love.”
My hands find her thighs. Spread them. Settle myself between them.
She’s breathing hard. Watching me with those eyes.
“Two weeks,” I say against her skin. “Two weeks of dreaming about this. About you. About making you forget every second I wasn’t here.”
“Then stop talking,” she says. Voice breathless. Desperate. “And remind me.”
I look up at her. Meet those hazel eyes.
And smile.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then I lean down and show her exactly how much I missed her.
53
Mary
A few days later…
He’s standing at the window. Naked. Completely, gloriously naked.
And I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been staring at his ass for the past three minutes.
Morning light cuts across his back—all those muscles, that perfect V-shape tapering down to narrow hips and the kind of ass that should be illegal. Hard. Round. The kind you see on Olympic swimmers or men who’ve spent their entire lives doing physical labor that doesn’t involve sitting down.
He stretches. Arms above his head. Back arching slightly.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
Two days. We’ve been locked in this penthouse for two days.
Sleeping. Eating. And… well. A lot of the other thing.
Theother thingthat apparently no one warned me about when they handed me all those pregnancy pamphlets at the clinic.
“First trimester fatigue.” Check.
“Morning sickness.” Check.
