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He blinked, having no real response to that.
“You’re my wife,” he reminded her faintly, and her small smile was bittersweet.
“Not for much longer, Greyson,” she said gently.
He swallowed. A few minutes ago, he had been marveling about how nice this fucking meal was, and suddenly it felt like he was swallowing razor blades and breaking bread with an adversary.
And he hated it.
Clara, who had been napping in her playpen, thankfully chose that moment to wake up and cry. Greyson cleared his throat and pushed his half-eaten meal aside.
“I’ll get that dead bolt on,” he said. “I’ll change the lock tomorrow.”
She nodded, getting up to tend to Clara.
After a few stops and starts with the unfamiliar drill, the dead bolt was fairly easy to install. And half an hour later, he stood back and surveyed his accomplishment with pride. It was on straight—who knew how awesome levels could be?—and it was working. And when Olivia came over to look—Clara was snoozing in her playpen again—Greyson felt like he had conquered the world.
He wanted to beat his chest and roar.
“Not bad,” Olivia said, sliding the bolt in place. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t even have to use Google for this one,” he boasted, his eyes on her profile, and her lips twitched and hiked up at the corner.
“Progress,” she said lightly.
“Damned straight.”
“Greyson . . .”
He turned toward her, and she did the same; they were standing chest to chest. So close he could feel the heat coming off her, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and honeysuckle. He went rock hard, a visceral reaction to the scent, the closeness . . . the husky sound of his name on her tongue. His breath caught as he saw her eyes flare and spark as the awareness hit her. The answering heat in that gaze was all he needed.
“Olivia,” he moaned and was embarrassed by the uncontrollable huskiness of his voice. He stepped closer; she did the same, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she met him halfway.
His hand found the curve of her neck, his mouth welcomed her tongue, and his pelvis rocked against the inviting cradle of hers. He turned them until her back was to the door and he was plastered against her front, one hand still caressing her throat, the other braced flat against the wood of the door above her head. He rocked his hardness against her softness and moaned at the unbearable friction. He felt out of control. An unfamiliar, heady sensation. He never lost control, but he felt like he was about to come, hot, hard, and ready for her. Too damned ready.
She gasped into his mouth and hiked up one leg. He dropped his hand from the door and grasped the crook of her knee, pulling the leg up even higher, before sliding his hand down the silky expanse of that long, toned thigh. He grabbed hold of her firm ass, his fingers digging in as he pulled her closer. His mouth left hers and traversed down her jawline to her sensitive neck, dropping suctioning kisses en route to the scented little nook below her ear. An area he knew could make her knees weak if he touched and kissed it in just the right way.
She sighed when first his lips and then his tongue caressed her there, but she squealed when he took a gentle nip at the flesh and then nuzzled it with his nose—loving the scent of her arousal mingling with the warm vanilla and honeysuckle—and then with his beard.
“Oh.” Her breath left her in a single soft, exhaled moan, and her head flew back and thumped against the door. Greyson regretfully left the little secret cove of sensation and meandered down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts, kissing the fuller mounds reverently. Not sure if it was okay to touch the way he wanted to touch, he erred on the side of caution and moved back up, leaving a necklace of kisses on her décolletage before finding her hungry mouth again.
The hand he had on her behind moved up to cup one of her breasts gently, exploring the new shape behind the thick padding of her bra. Her nipple was so hard he could feel it burning into his palm like coal, despite the layering between her skin and his.
“Is this okay?” he asked against her mouth, and she moaned her assent. Despite her clear enjoyment of his touch, he did not want to risk a repeat of what had happened to her earlier and instead moved down to the swell of her stomach. Her contours there were also new, but he loved the fuller mound of it. He knew that that was where their baby had rested and had a violent longing to go back and do what he should have done then. Feel Clara moving in Libby’s womb, talk to his unborn baby and reassure her mother.
