“Sorry.” He wanders back down to rub a gentle path across her lower belly, making a slow detour south to splay his fingers where they’re joined. “How about here?”
“Fuck yes.”
He is nothing if not focused and attentive, spending a long stretch of time drawing random patterns over her slick skin, pausing only once to suck his fingers into his mouth to wet them. It’s a teasing build until she’s throbbing after assuming she couldn’t come twice.
When he hardens again, she marvels at the feeling of it happening while he’s already tucked in deep, firming up until the sting of the stretch has her hips rolling for friction.
She’s a live wire, vibrating with every draining, gradual thrust. She shuts her eyes, letting his body rock against hers, lost in the rhythm.
His movements aren’t quick enough to get her there. He keeps her suspended in a state of want without offering enough to tip her over the edge. Making sure they last. It’s exactly what she needs, while at the same time driving her insane from the exquisite torture.
Eventually, something in her breaks, and his name leaves her lips like a plea.
He doesn’t make her wait before stroking his fingers where she’s swollen and throbbing, the snap of his hips slapping against her ass. She’s flooded with sensation after a long stretch of tempered, easy pleasure. The rush of her orgasm is strong enough that she muffles a scream into the pillow while her body coils tight. May have blacked out for a moment because the next thing she knows, they’re on their backs, panting and sweat-slicked.
“I could get used to this,” she grins.
What she has no desire to get used to is the shift in the baby’s position and weight. A hard wince overtakes her a second later.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing, it’s weird. She’s heavier. Pushing right on my pelvis even when I’m lying down. It’s different, that’s all.”
This isn’t something she felt with Emma, so she doesn’t give it much thought. For all she knows, the baby is protesting all the jostling.
“Get some rest,” he half-whispers, opening his arms.
The odd pressure lessens when she curls onto her side, easy enough to ignore while exhaustion takes over.
* * *
It’s lunchtime when the crunch of breaking glass greets her in the kitchen. At first, she thinks they’re being invaded, but they only find Emma staring at a sea of milk on the floor.
There used to be a time when such an accident would earn them both a scolding, but Wyatt only grabs a towel to help Emma clean up, muttering about putting the cows to work later to replace it.
Addison thinks of this baby doing somersaults and how lucky she’ll be to have Wyatt as her father. A rush of endorphins flows through her, prickling her skin. She wants him again. Right here. Right now. On this table. They can’t with an audience, but it’s an aphrodisiac to see him being sweet to her child. She’s getting the full force of that right now.
She leans up to press her lips to his, nibbling a teasing nip as a promise for later.
“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth. “And I love french toast.”
“Don’t get too excited. Still need to gather some eggs, and I’m not sure if this bread is gonna rise or not.”
“The cookbook says if we do it wrong, it could explode!” Emma says with delight. “Like a science experiment!”
“Details, details.” Addison smiles.
“Shit.”
She’s about to tell Wyatt to put another IOU into the long, overflowing swear jar that’s become a novelty by now.
His attention is elsewhere, on a runner heading straight for the cows.
“Stay here.” He grabs his pistol and knife, and then he’s gone, running across the paddocks and hopping two other fences.
She and Emma watch from the porch as he puts a blade through the runner’s forehead, only feet from a nursing calf. It drops like a rock, hard enough that she can hear the crash all the way at the house.
Wyatt spins in circles, ready in case others come running, then pulls his knife free from the rotten skull and retraces its steps.
