He snaps in front of my face. “You okay?”
“You’ve done research?” I find myself asking, referring to his obvious internet browsing.
“Of course,” he replies, a light blush creeping up his cheeks. “I mean, I don’t know anything about pregnancy or babies, so I decided to start reading.”
“When?”
“When what?” he asks, confused.
“When did you start your research.”
The blush deepens, making his whole face dark red. He looks embarrassed as he confesses, “Uhh, Saturday night. After you left.”
Holy shit, after I left?
Clearing the sudden onslaught of emotions from my throat, I return my attention to the food on the counter. All healthy snacks for me and the baby. Doing the best I can to ignore the burn of tears in my eyes, I glance to the second bag. “What’s that?”
He smiles and reaches for the other bag. “Well, I know you love your sweets too, so I also brought a few not-so-healthy snacks. Berry muffins from the bakery inside the grocery store, caramel M&Ms, those strawberry cream wafer cookies you love,” he says, pulling all the items out and setting them on the counter.
A single tear slides down my cheek.
“Shit, Charli, I’m sorry. Don’t cry,” he insists, panic setting in. He pushes all the snacks to the side and mutters a curse under his breath. “I shouldn’t have overstepped, but I just wanted to do something. You have all the hard work of carrying and growing a baby, changing your diet and schedule, and I’m just…here. I can’t do anything to help, and, dammit, that bothers me,” he blurts out quickly, running his hand through his hair. “It shouldn’t be only you making the sacrifices for our child.”
I reach out and place my palm against his wrist, gently pulling his hand down from his hair. “Thank you, Quinn.” I glance to the food on the counter. “For all of it.”
He visibly relaxes, and that’s when I realize how incredibly worried he was about overstepping.
“I appreciate you bringing me all of this. Or should I say, the baby appreciates the order,” I state, choosing the lighter side of the conversation.
He gives me a crooked grin. “What baby wants, baby gets.”
I shudder at his words, at the sexually laced meaning he didn’t even offer, and suddenly my panties become soaked. “Baby says thank you.”
His hand moves forward but stops before he can make contact with my abdomen. His dark eyes hold a mixture of indecision and wonder, and I know what he’s asking permission to do.
Nodding, I offer a soft, “Yes.”
What happens next is like a punch to the feels and my libido. Quinn drops to his knees in front of me, wraps his hands around my waist, and gently presses his lips to my lower stomach. Since I’m wearing leggings, I feel the pressure of his lips, and the heat of his breath conjures up all sorts of inappropriate flashbacks, and I’m suddenly transported back to the night I felt his tongue on my clit for the first time. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to slide my hands into his hair and spread my legs.
“Don’t give your mama too much trouble, little one,” he says, pressing a second kiss to my belly before slowly standing up. “If you need anything else, text me,” he adds, clearly insinuating it’s time for him to leave.
I need an orgasm, but I don’t think that’s on the menu…
“I will,” I reply with a wooden, hurried nod.
“Want me to put these away?” he asks, gesturing toward the snacks he brought.
“No, I got it.”
He nods in understanding. “All right, well, I’ll see you in the morning.”
I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t need to come over, but I know it’ll fall on deaf ears. Every morning his timing is impeccable too, because I seem to have just finished up my own early morning workout. If you consider vomiting a workout.Considering it makes me all sweaty and tired, I’d classify it as such.
I think about how easy it would be for me to take a package of peanut butter crackers and a glass of water to bed with me, but then I think about how much he wants to be a part of this whole experience, and since all he can really do is sit back, watch, and maybe take care of meandthe baby, I don’t feel like I can deny him that.
No, I know I can’t.
“Thanks, again,” I say, standing at the doorway as he walks down my front steps. “Hey, where’s your truck?” I ask, noticing it’s not parked in my driveway or on the street.
