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“Careful how you speak around the baby,” Gigi admonishes, all seriousness, and it only makes me laugh harder. “Don’t listen to her, Bean. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.”
Oh man. And just like that I’m laughing and crying at the same time, because that’s so sweet. “Love you, sis,” I manage between the laughter and tears.
She comes around the table and hugs me. “Right back at you, sis,” she whispers back.
“Oh, Gigi.” I cling to her. “I talked to Ross. And he was as awful as always. Why did I ever think he’d change? That I could help him?”
“You tried,” she says. “Don’t you worry, sis. Men like Ross, they save themselves. They’re selfish. You don’t need to worry about him.”
I’m starting to think she’s right.
* * *
The kids are already tucked in their beds, their lights off, by the time Gigi leaves with promises to talk about Merc another day. I close the door of the kids’ bedroom and tiptoe down the landing to our room.
Matt is also in bed, I discover when I enter, closing the door behind me.
He’s on his back, one arm folded under his head, the covers pulled up to his waist, his chest bare and…
Holy baby Jesus. He’s so sexy.
What was I going to do? I can’t remember. That chest, inked and muscular, his bulging biceps his strong pecs, they’re driving all coherent thought from my head. His eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning on his cheekbones, his dark hair falling on his forehead. He’s beautiful.
Is he asleep?
If I touch him without him knowing, to feel those spectacular muscles under my hands, is that frowned upon? What if I pull down the covers to see if he’s hard, or what his cock looks like when soft? Not sure I’ve ever seen it soft.
Biting into my lower lip, a maddening throb between my legs, I climb into the bed and crawl toward him, my dress dragging on the covers. I don’t often catch him off guard, and I love how relaxed he looks.
I lift a hand to his chest, and he laughs softly, scaring the bejesus out of me. His hand snaps around my wrist. “Gotcha.”
“You’re a bastard, Matt Hansen.” I let out a breathless laugh.
He tugs me against him, his dark eyes warm. “You were looking at me.”
“Busted. So whatcha gonna do?”
“Let you get on with whatever you were about to do.”
“I wanted to touch you.”
He smirks. “You wanted to molest my amazing body?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“You know what, go ahea
d. Be my guest.” He throws his arms to the sides, on the bed. “Go on.”
I sigh, roll my eyes fondly. “Why do I put up with you?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he says softly, and pulls on my hands, places them on his hard pecs. That distracts me. I run my fingertips over his warm skin, down to his washboard stomach. I shift on top of him, and he groans. “God, I want you.”
I sit back, and yeah, through the bedcover, I can feel him. Not soft. Hard.
Very, very hard.
“Then have me,” I whisper, overcome with love, and desire, and my need for him. My husband. My man. My everything.
