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She gives me a suspicious look. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”
“Yep. Naked or nothing. When you look at a piece of artwork, you don’t stand an inch from the painting, only looking at a tiny piece of the canvas. You have to step back and look at the picture as a whole.”
“I’m hardly a piece of artwork.”
“I think you are.” I kiss her neck. “I want to celebrate every inch of your magnificent body.”
She shivers.
“I want to kiss you all over,” I continue, kissing along her jaw back to her mouth. “Every. Single. Freckle.” I punctuate the words with kisses, then brush my hands over her bump. “You’re all… fecund.”
That makes her laugh. “Fertile?”
“Enceinte.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s French for pregnant.”
“It sounds sexier than being pregnant,” she murmurs.
“Well, I think pregnancy is sexy, but yeah.” I brush her ear with my lips. “Tu es enceinte,” I whisper.
“You really still think I’m sexy?”
“I do.” I feel a swell of exultation. She’s not going to leave me. She really wants me. I feel as if it’s my birthday and Christmas Day rolled into one. “I told you that your changing body fascinates me. And I don’t get turned off by things like that. You can keep the dress on for now if it makes you feel better. But you’ll be naked before the end.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Catie
Saxon speaks so confidently, and the look in his eyes is so determined, that I know it’s pointless to object.
Besides which, my nervousness is quickly dissipating in the light of his obvious desire for me. It’s clear he wants me, despite me being nearly five months pregnant. And I want him. So what’s the problem?
I sigh. “Go on then.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I’m starting to understand it’s pointless to argue with you because you always get your own way,” I say tartly.
His lips curve up. “Nice to know you’re realizing that so early in our relationship.”
I smile, because he used the word relationship, and I can’t resist him when he’s looking at me as if he can’t wait to be inside me. Turning my back, I offer him the zipper, and he takes it in his fingers and slides it down. Slowly, he pushes the dress off my shoulders, and when I give a little shimmy, it floats to the floor.
I lift my hands to release my hair from its elastic, and while I do that he rests his hands on my waist. “It’s strange,” he murmurs, “but you don’t look pregnant from behind.”
“Really?”
“No. You still go in here.” He smooths his hands from under my arms down my sides, into my waist, and over my hips. Then he brushes his hands forward, over my belly. “And then there’s this.” He explores, his fingers skating up to beneath my breasts, then over the bump and beneath it. He keeps his touch light, and a tingle runs down my spine, while my nipples tighten in my bra.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, nuzzling my hair as I let it loose over my shoulders. His fingers squeeze the catch of my bra, releasing the elastic, and he slides the straps down my arms.
I sigh as he cups my breasts. His hands are warm, his fingers gentle as he strokes.
“Are they sore?” he asks. I shake my head. He squeezes gently, then teases my nipples with his thumbs.
It’s been too long, and I want him too much. Desire rushes through me and, unable to wait any longer, I turn in his arms, lift onto my tiptoes, and kiss him. I raise my arms around his neck, slide my hands into his hair, and delve my tongue into his mouth.
