I want to hold on to the image of Dani sprawled across his bed, but I can’t stop the other memories from invading.
Him bringing me lemon water every morning. The way he helped me out of the tub without a single teasing comment. Him reading to me for hours to shake loose my writer’s block and holding me through the storm.
I grab his face and kiss him.
His response is immediate. Hands finding my waist, sliding around to my lower back, pulling me against him.
And even now, with his mouth hungry on mine, his touch avoids hurting my injured body.
He guides me backward into the room, one hand cradling the back of my head. When my calves hit the edge of the mattress, heeases me down onto it, following me there without breaking the kiss.
He hovers over me, careful not to press against my healing body. “I want to fucking devour you. But I need you to tell me what hurts.”
“Nothing hurts right now.”
“Liar.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Your ribs. Your wrist.”
“Are fine.”
“Jasmine.”
I answer by pulling the t-shirt over my head.
His gaze drops to my bare chest, and his breath leaves him in a slow, shattered exhale.
“Christ, Jasmine.”
I reach for him with my good hand, pulling him down to me. “Stop talking.”
He obeys.
His mouth crashes back to mine, pouring every unspoken apology into the kiss, and I let myself drown in it. My breasts feel heavy, and my nipples tighten into peaks against his chest. The slight swell of my belly presses against his abs.
Antonio trails his mouth down my jaw, my throat, lingering at the pulse point where my heart hammers wildly. He nips at my collarbone, soothing the sting with his tongue, and I arch into him.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts. I lift my hips and he drags them down my legs, taking my underwear with them. They disappear somewhere off the edge of the bed.
His lips find the swell of my breasts, and oh God, the pregnancy has made them so damn sensitive. He circles one nipple with his tongue before drawing it into his mouth.
The suction is gentle at first, then firmer, pulling a gasp from deep in my throat. I thread my fingers through his dark waves, holding him there as sparks shoot straight to my core.
“Antonio...” My voice is breathy, needy.
The ache between my thighs builds, my body remembering how he feels, how he tastes.
He releases my nipple with a soft pop, and kisses a path down my sternum, over the small curve of my expanding belly. His hands frame it, before pressing a kiss just above my navel, and I feel a flutter inside, like the baby senses him too.
His eyes snap to mine, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” My voice catches. “The baby’s moving again.”
His eyes go wide and his hand immediately covers my bump. He waits, body completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
When the flutter comes again, softer this time, I know he can’t feel it yet.
“Still too early for you,” I whisper. “But it’s there. Stronger than before.”
His forehead drops to mine. “How does it feel?”
