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Lacy looks at her phone for what feels like the hundredth time since walking in the door. She’s not only distracted and seemingly uninterested but has been giving me the cold shoulder, pulling away any time I get close.
Is it the rental?
Admittedly, the place is a bit of a dump. Built in the sixties like the rest of the homes in this area, it hasn’t been updated in a couple of decades. Still, there’s potential and it’s not in such rough shape that a bit of cash can’t fix it.
Or a lot of cash. Whatever it takes to make her happy.
Because fuck, try as I might, I have failed miserably in this regard. At least, out of bed. In the sack, my woman’s satisfied…completely. And frequently.
It’s everywhere else she seems troubled.
And I hate that. Not just because I feel responsible, but because I have no clue how to change it. I thought renting a place would help—one less hardship for her to carry.
But so far, the endeavor seems useless. What the hell else am I supposed to do to set this gorgeous, challenging woman at ease?
“So? What do you think?”
Her head pops up and she tucks the phone in her purse, having the decency to at least look a bit guilty about it. “I’m not sure.”
For the first time, it crosses my mind the rental might not be the problem.
Fuck, what if the problem is us? What if it’s me?
“Come on, Lace.” Feeling desperate—another thing I fucking loathe—I spring toward her and, grabbing hold of her hand, yank her to me. “Give it to me straight.”
What looked like guilt in her expression has now turned into a lovely shade of fury. God, she’s exceptional when she’s mad. “I’ve been trying to give it to you straight for weeks. Hell…months. Ever since I first told you I was pregnant.”
The hair at her nape is like silk, and I can’t help but thread my fingers through it, pulling it into a tight fist.
Her head tilts back, full lips parting and eyes growing wide as she drops her purse to the floor. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing… Just appreciating the look of murder on your pretty face.”
“You’re impossible,” she groans.
“Right back at ya, sweetheart.”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes narrow and my dick swells. “Do not even think about calling me by some ridiculous pet name. I’ve warned you…I won’t be a kept woman. And there is nothing sweet about me.”
I could argue. Tell her the way she’s constantly thinking of our child, putting the needs of an unborn baby ahead of her own, is the sweetest damn thing. Or that her concern for her brother and coworkers is sweeter than any of them likely deserve. Or even that she’s sweet for wanting to make her own way, instead of relying on me.
But I don’t.
It’s all more than she’s open to hearing from me. More than I’m willing to share when I don’t know where I stand. A hell of a lot more talking than I want to do right now.
“Hmm.” My low hum is closer to a rough growl, and it’s all I can do not to rip her clothes off right here, right now. “I can think of at least one part of you that tastes mighty fucking sweet.”
Her mouth drops open on a strangled protest.
“In fact, I might have a bit of a craving for it now.” I slide a hand between her legs, just in case she thinks I’m bluffing.
“Ridge,” she hisses, her eyes darting around the empty living room. “We can’t do this here.” Yet, she doesn’t try to pull away or stop me when I press the heel of my hand against the growing damp spot on her leggings.
“Sure we can.”
“But what if we get caught? The rental agent—what was her name?”
“Isn’t coming back.” I smile, the pressure in my chest intensifying along with the ache in my balls.
