And all I can think is that this is how Dane loves.
With his hands. With preparation. With the quiet certainty that if something can be done ahead of time, he’ll do it.
Just in case.
He’s in the kitchen now, cleaning up after dinner.
I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling.
And thinking about those gray sweatpants.
They should be illegal. The way they sit on his hips. The way I can see the outline of his cock. The way the fabric pulls when he reaches for something.
That’s my professional opinion at thirty-eight weeks pregnant.
I watched him load the dishwasher for far longer than necessary before he told me to go lie down.
I did. Because I’m trying to be sensible.
Sensible lasted about four minutes.
I need him.
“Dane?” I call out. “Can you bring me something to drink?”
“Just a minute, babe.”
He appears in the bedroom doorway a moment later, a glass in hand. “Water?”
“Yes, please.”
He crosses the room and hands it to me. I take a sip, set it on the nightstand, and reach for him—fingers catching his shirt, pulling him down just enough to press my mouth to his jaw.
“Thank you for the water.”
I kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you for dinner.”
Another kiss, this time lingering.
“And for cleaning up.”
He smiles against my mouth. “You’re welcome, babe.”
I tug him closer, and the kiss deepens.
He makes a quiet sound against my mouth, one hand coming down to the mattress as he leans into me.
And there it is—that familiar pull.
The warmth. The closeness. The steady, undeniable awareness of him that never seems to fade, no matter how much time passes.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, that expression settling in.
The one where he’s trying—unsuccessfully—to be reasonable.
“You told me to put my feet up. I was thinking I could put them over your shoulders instead.”
