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It’s a magical time for me and Dean and Jason—for our family. A peaceful, beautiful time.
At the thirty-eight week mark in my pregnancy, I have an appointment with my OBGYN, and—blessed be—she takes me off bed rest! Off all restrictions. It feels like Christmas and my birthday and the 4th of July all rolled into one. Not that I plan on doing anything too wild and crazy—because I’m gigantic—but just knowing I’ll be able to stand and walk, dance and yes, skip again is more exciting than I can describe.
There’s also another fantastic benefit. . . one that Dean and I put to immediate use the minute we walk into the kitchen and see a note from Jason that he’ll be out for the rest of the day with Quinn.
I look up into Dean’s turbulent, hungry eyes—and I know he sees the same need in mine—because great, and insatiable minds think alike.
He takes the note from my hands, balls it up and throws it over his shoulder.
And then we’re kissing—hot and hard, wild and wet. I moan into his mouth as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me up to the bedroom. I suck on his tongue and tug on his hair. My muscles clench and my clothes feel rough on my heated skin—because I want them off and I want him inside me. In the bedroom, Dean plants me on my feet without taking his mouth from mine, and strips my leggings down my legs. I yank his shirt off and lick and nibble the taut, warm skin of his gorgeous chest.
Dean cups my cheek in his palm and breathes out hard.
“Lainey, are you sure you’re okay with this? You want this?”
“Why are you asking?” I ask. “Because I’m a thousand weeks pregnant?”
Dean presses a kiss to my temple. “Yeah. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m good.” I nod. “Unless . . .” I look down at the belly-button-popping, immensely round stomach wedged between us. “Unless you don’t want to?”
A raspy scoff scrapes up Dean’s throat—like I just said something ridiculous.
Gently, slowly and deliberately, he skims my cotton maternity dress up over my head, then he unclasps my bra and peels it down my arms. And then he takes his time looking at me—dragging those ocean-blue eyes across my bare body with the same simmering intensity as the first night we met.
I twist my fingers together. “I know I’m—”
“Beautiful,” he whispers, with raw, reverent, sincerity. “You’re really fucking beautiful.”
And I don’t just hear the words—I feel them, under my skin and in my heart.
A smile tugs at my lips as Dean steps in close and takes my mouth in a kiss that makes my head light and my world spin. I slide my hand down his stomach, unbuttoning his jeans, so I can touch him, stroking him where he’s so thick and hard.
Then he picks me up in those strong arms and carries me to the bed.
~ ~ ~
What started off as fevered, desperate, wild sex ended up being intense, slow, deep lovemaking. Dean refused to let go until he gave me my third orgasm—he said he still has dozens to give until we’re even—and then with a long groan into my hair and his fingers clasping my thigh, he went over the edge with me.
Now we’re laying entwined and boneless in the bed. And I love this—the feel of his chest under my cheek, his arms around me, every inch of him so warm and solid. This spot, in Dean’s arms is my most happy place.
My eyes wander around the almost finished master suite—at the texture painted deep blue walls and the romantic faux-fur throw rug over the cherrywood floors, the one of a kind, hand-finished furniture.
And I sigh long and low.
Dean’s hand, that was combing through my hair, pauses.
“That’s not a happy sigh.”
I lift my head, resting my chin on his chest, and smile.
“You know my sighs?”
“I have them all mentally categorized. You have a happy sigh, a frustrated sigh, a horny sigh—incidentally that one’s my favorite—and a sad sigh. That last one was a saddy. What’s up with that?”
I draw little circles on his chest with my finger.
“I called the bank yesterday to check on the reappraised value of the house . . .”
Technically, the bank still owns this house—the Miller Street house. Facebook only leased it for the year, at a low rate, with the agreement that they would cover the cost of all the repairs and upgrades that were done during the filming of Life with Lainey. And in the end, the bank would have a more valuable property than they started with.
And oh boy, do they ever.
“And?” Dean asks.
“And it’s ludicrously out of my budget.”
A sympathetic hum rumbles through Dean’s chest. His fingers slide lazily up and down my spine.
