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Harper gasps when I wrap my arms around her once more, pulling her so tightly against me that it’s almost uncomfortable. The hard shaft of my desire presses into her belly, and she moves her hand slowly down my body to caress me.
I growl, shaking my head. “No.”
“I thought you wanted this?”
“I do, agape mou, but not on the roof. I want you in my bed, where I’ve dreamed of having you since we got home.”
Harper takes the hand I extend and walks with me back into the house. She casts a glance over her shoulder as we enter the room and I want her even more.
We both forget about the garden as I press up against her, her new curves feeling incredible against my angles and hardness. The bedroom door closes with a resounding thud when I kick it shut, my hands too busy tugging at her clothes.
She pulls my clothes from my body with just as much determination. When we’re naked, I lift her onto the bed, coming down on top of her. My touch ignites a firestorm in both of us that’s been pent up for the last weeks. The heat seems like it will consume us as we spend the next few hours kissing and touching, stroking and exploring.
Afterward, she lies beside me, completely spent. Kissing her lightly, I lay my palm across her stomach. “You are so sexy to me, with my child growing inside you.”
Harper’s lips curve slightly. “I’ll bet you won’t say that in a few months. I’ll be huge.”
“You could be the size of a house and still be beautiful.” I lower my head to kiss the soft skin above her hand. “And sexy.”
She can’t suppress a giggle when my lips tickle her. “I doubt that, but I’ll pretend like it’s true.”
“No more pretending.” My expression turns serious. “We have to talk, about everything.” I stop. How to discuss all this? “I need to tell you…”
Harper puts her finger against my lips. “Hold that thought. I hate to be indelicate, but I have to… you know.” She waves in the direction of the en suite bathroom.
I shake my head, amused. “I am trying to pour my heart out to you, woman.”
The moment stretches, the silence lengthening. Harper seems to want to hear what I’m going to say next, but finally she sits up. Separating from her is almost physically painful. I wonder how I made it almost three weeks without making love with Harper despite all the turmoil.
She hurries to the bathroom, and I hope she finishes as quickly as possible. Then she appears at the door. Her thighs are slick with redness, and she’s frowning. Looking down, we both are frozen for a moment at the blood. My heart forgets how to beat as we stare at the blood on her legs and hand. I’m frozen as my mind processes the implications.
Eventually, I break the paralysis and rush to her, pausing only long enough to grab a robe for her.
“I’m bleeding,” she says, eyes wide.
When I take her into my arms, tears well, and she sobs quietly.
Rubbing her back, I try to calm her. “Don’t cry. That was pretty intense, what we did, Harper. There might not even be a problem.”
She swallows hard, managing a shaky nod. “Maybe.”
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll take you to the hospital, just to make sure. We’ll rule everything out.”
She nods again. “Yes, it’s the sensible decision, but I don’t want to go. If there’s a problem, the hospital will discover it.”
“And they’ll sort it out, and we’ll do everything that needs to be done.” If she’s losing the baby, I don’t know what we’ll do. She cups her stomach, and I place my hands over hers, desperate to protect our unborn child.
* * *
The ride to the hospital is a blur. We take the BMW instead of waiting for the limousine or an ambulance. She closes her eyes for most of the trip as I speed through traffic, negotiating my way through confidently, but at breakneck speed.
I leave the car idling in front of the emergency department entrance. Getting a ticket or the vehicle towed is the least of my problems. Harper leans against me when I put my arm around her, and I hope she’s drawing strength from my support.
The waiting room has only a few people waiting, much to my relief. I check her in while she curls into a chair, hugging herself and with a face that looks as if she’s trying not to cry. She’s still in the robe, and she looks very vulnerable.
When I return to her, I sit in the next chair, and we wait. “How are you feeling?” I ask her.
“My stomach is fluttering and I’m getting some cramps.” By the time a nurse takes us back to a room, I’m quite sure that neither of us are feeling optimistic about the baby’s chances.
