Page 59 of Fall Love

She’d given the medical advice during my last visit, knowing I’m a lone ranger in the bedroom. Still, it’s been a while since I touched myself, not finding the desire in my present condition.

But as I lean against Tate, who massages my shoulders and digs his thumbs into the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, all I can think about is desire. And how mine is imbalanced on the scale of Tate.

I want him when the last thing I imagine him wanting is to sleep with a pregnant woman.

Suddenly, Tate’s hand slips over my shoulder, and he unsnaps the decorative clasp on my overalls. These aren’t the typical farm ones, but feminine ones with large snaps down the front and wide pockets on the side. They’re comfortable and easily stretch over my stomach.

He pops the other strap and shoves both straps aside, continuing to massage my shoulders and down my arms, squeezing my biceps.

I melt into him.

“This okay?” he asks again as my eyes close and I nod, unable to find words.

I don’t know that anyone has ever been so tender with me. Not when I typically like things a little rougher, a little faster, a little harder. Our position surprises me, because I don’t hate it.

He works down to my wrists, then presses into the palm of my hands and along my fingers. I’m nearly numb, I’m so relaxed.

“About what the doctor said.” His voice is rough near my ear, gravelly and low, and another ripple cascades down my spine.

“What did she say?” My voice is just as bumpy.

“About orgasms.”

I clench my thighs like the word itself could set me off.

“Would it help?”

I have no idea, but all I want to answer is yes.

Instead, I shrug, and Tate runs his cheek along my neck. The bristly scrape forces my skin to pebble. I tip my head to the side, almost begging him to do it again. He does not disappoint. He simply brushes his jaw and chin along the column of my throat.

A purr rumbles out of me. My hands were originally on my belly, but now one cups his raised knee and the other rests on his opposite thigh.

One of his hands scoops over my shoulder and across my chest, just above my breasts.

“Your breasts are so huge,” he hums against my neck, his nose runs around the shell of my ear. “Do they ache?”

Desperately. “Sometimes.” I swallow thickly, keeping my eyes closed and tipping my head again as he brushes harder at my skin. His jaw firm. His chin sharp.

“Like now?” he whispers right into my ear.

“Yes.”

He slips his hand to cup one, feeling the weight of it. He flicks his thumb over my nipple, finding it already peaked and pebbled. He pinches me, and I arch my back, squeezing my thighs together.

As he slips his hand to the other breast, he asks, “Do you ache in other places?”

“Sometimes,” I tease, smiling shyly.

He runs his hand inside the overalls and over my stomach. “Like now?” His voice holds a smile as well.

“Maybe,” I whisper.

“Maybe?” His voice rises only slightly above a hush. “Maybe I should check for myself. Give you a thorough assessment.”

“Oh, are you suddenly interested in being a doctor again?”

“Maybe,” he teases as well, slipping his fingers lower, brushing over the stretched skin of my abdomen where my shirt rides up before he reaches the edge of my panties. I could wear supportive pregnancy ones, but I’ve opted for a larger thong that sits below my belly and stretches over my hips.