"I mean it." I walked her back toward the bed, slow, my hands still on her stomach. "You have any idea what you looklike right now?" She sat on the edge of the mattress and I stayed standing, looking down at her—the lace, the belly, the way her hair had come fully loose now, all of it. "My ring on your finger. My baby in you." I reached for the clasp of the bralette. "Mine."
She looked up at me and her eyes were dark.
"Then stop looking," she said, "and do something about it."
I unhooked the bralette.
The lace fell away and I stood there for a moment just—looking. Fuller than they'd been, heavier, her nipples darker than they used to be. I brought both hands up and cupped her, careful, feeling the weight of her, and she made a low sound and her head fell back.
"Sensitive," I said.
"Everything is sensitive right now," she breathed. "Pregnancy does that."
"I know." I brushed my thumbs across her nipples, light, and she grabbed my wrists. "Been paying attention."
"Gage—"
"I've got you." I pressed her back against the mattress. Looked at her laid out in just the white underwear, belly round, hair loose, chest heaving. "I've got you. We're not in a hurry."
She made a sound that suggested she disagreed with that assessment.
I smiled.
"We are absolutely not in a hurry," I said.
I took my time with her breasts.
She was so sensitive there now—had been for weeks, arching into my hands every time I touched her, oversensitive in a way that walked the line between too much and not enough. I learned that line. Mapped it the way I mapped everything about her—carefully, permanently, like information I intended to use for the rest of my life.
Soft at first. Mouth gentle, tongue slow, just tracing the curve of her. She had her fingers in my hair and she wasn't pulling yet, just holding. Waiting.
I sucked her nipple into my mouth and she pulled.
"God—"
I did it again, my hand on her other breast, and she arched up into me and made a sound that went straight down my spine. Sensitive everywhere, she'd said. I believed her. I could feel it in the way her whole body was responding—everything heightened, every touch landing harder than it used to.
I used that.
Mouth and hands, slow and thorough, until she was squirming underneath me and her hips were rolling against nothing and her fingers had gone tight in my hair.
"Please—"
"Not yet." I kissed the curve of her breast. The soft skin underneath. "I've been waiting all day."
"Gage—"
I moved down.
Pressed my mouth to her sternum. Her ribs. And then I was at her belly—round and firm, my daughter in there, my wife's skin warm under my lips—and I spread both hands across the full curve of it and just stayed there for a moment.
Millie had gone still.
I kissed her belly—the top of the curve, the sides, the soft skin just below her navel. Her hands came down and covered mine.
"Hey, baby girl," I said quietly, against her stomach. "Give us a minute."
Millie made a sound above me that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.
