Page 177 of Diego

Again.

For several seconds I lie there staring toward the dim windows, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

It has been just under a week since I walked into a hospital room convinced I might have lost my child. Less than a week since Blair was curled against me crying, terrified that every ache meant the bleeding would start again. She is doing much better now.

She has color back in her face, her appetite has improved, and she now spends most of the day downstairs instead of staying in the bedroom. None of that changes the fact that she is still recovering.

I should be thinking about whether she slept through the night. Whether she is tired. Whether she has had any discomfort since yesterday.

Instead, I am acutely aware that her shirt has ridden up sometime during the night and my palm is resting against warm bare skin at her waist. One of her legs is hooked loosely over mine, and every breath shifts her body against me by the smallest amount.

It feels fucking incredible.

I close my eyes.

This is shameful.

The doctor specifically removed sex from the list of activities currently available to us, and I had accepted that without hesitation because keeping Blair and the baby safe matters considerably more than getting laid. I still accept it. Completely. Rationally. There is not one part of me that would risk her health because I am horny.

Unfortunately, my dick doesn’t do rational thought.

The only thing it cares about is that it's been about two and a half months since the last time, and the current object of its obsession—Blair’s pussy—is nestled comfortably close by.

Blair makes a soft sound in her sleep and presses backward.

I nearly groan.

My arm tightens around her automatically before I catch myself. That only brings her closer, which is the exact opposite of what I need, and now I can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric separating us. Her hair is spread across my pillow, a few strands caught beneath my chin, and there is something uniquely cruel about being surrounded by the woman I want while knowing I am not permitted to do anything about it.

I carefully loosen my arm and start to shift away.

Blair follows me.

I stop.

She makes another sleepy sound, reaches back without opening her eyes, and catches my wrist before I can create any meaningful distance. Then she drags my arm back across her waist and settles against me again as though I am her pillow.

I stare at the ceiling.

Apparently, this is how I die.

I consider getting out of bed entirely, but that requires moving her hand from mine, untangling our legs, and somehow extracting myself without waking her.

More importantly, I like waking up like this. That is the real truth behind everything else. The erection is a problem. Blair in my arms is not.

At some point during the last several days, this became our routine without either of us discussing it. She goes to sleep beside me. I wake with her against me. Sometimes she falls asleep first while I am still reading or answering messages. Sometimes I wake during the night and find her halfway across my side of the bed, one hand curled into my chest. Every time, I pull her closer rather than moving her back.

I have slept with plenty of women.

I have never done this.

Carefully, I try to shift my hips backward so I'm not stabbing her with my cock.

Blair sighs and gives a small stretch before relaxing back into me.

“Morning,” she murmurs. Her voice is rough with sleep.

“Morning.”