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I’m moving out of the bedroom when I catch movement in my peripheral vison.
“Go back to sleep,” I tell her, concealing the gun at my side.
“Where are you going?”
Trying to soothe the worry scrunching her sleepy face, I smile at her. Her hair is longer, falling around her shoulders, and her face is beginning to regain some of the softness it lost in the first six months of the pregnancy. In the dark her fair skin glows pearlescent, making her look like a deity or a creature out of this world.
“Toilet,” I lie, hoping that it’s enough to pacify her.
“You’re worse than a pregnant woman. You should get your bladder checked, big man.” A long yawn leaves her lips, and with a sigh, she pulls the duvet over her head while she keeps the bottom part tangled between her legs. “Hurry up, I’m cold.” The muffled words make me chuckle as I leave the bedroom and pad to the bathroom overlooking the back of the cottage.
I check the window, like before we went to bed. It’s locked, and the only movement out there is from the trees and bushes in the garden. The gate at the end of the path leading to the woods is closed. There’s nothing out there. Still, something doesn’t feel right, so I head downstairs. Keeping my weapon ready at my side. The front door is good, all the locks are still tight. The windows are all good. The back door is fine too. Blocked by Fleur’s boots and trainers, but there’s nothing new.
She’s so bloody messy it drives me insane. Everything is organised chaos with her. She walks into a room and all the clutter falls out of place. I put the shoes on the rack, knowing full well that they’ll be discarded right where they were later.
“You’re as bad as Leo,” she chastises wistfully from the kitchen doorway.
“You’re a fucking hurricane.”
“I’ve been called worse, old man.” Sauntering over to me, she licks her lips. The thin T-shirt she’s wearing conceals nothing. Fleur is tiny—barely reaching the top of my chest—her petite frame swallowed by my top. But her belly has grown in the month we’ve been here, and it looks good on her.
“I’m not old.” I scowl at her when she wraps her arms around my waist, her head tipped back to look up at me.
Fuck me, she’s so beautiful with her expressive, owlish eyes and dainty features. Her perfect teeth bite down on her bottom lip with a teasing grin, and my dick twitches at the sexy, devilish quirk of her mouth.
“Sure you are.” A hand trails down to the top of my arse, the other tracing up my spine with her short nails raking over my skin. “You’re officially ten years older than me, and you’re still a shit liar.”
Fleur has a way of disarming me. Nothing from her is ever what I expect. As much as I try to keep her at arm’s length, she manages to worm herself deeper beneath my skin. I thought establishing boundaries would make it easier to keep things from getting messier. It’s wishful thinking because she’s done to my life what she does to her surroundings—turned it all upside down.
Pulling away slightly, she takes my gun, checking it over—like I’ve taught her to—before she puts it down on the breakfast bar beside us.
“I’ve told you…I know you, Casper Gladstone. Regardless of whether you fuck me or not…I feel it when you’re worried or anxious.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“Yeah, you are. My chest is all tight and you’re not sleeping, so I’m not sleeping, and it makes me cranky.”
“You’re always cranky.” I pick her up and sit her on the counter before she has a chance to wrap her legs around me. She’s wearing my resolve down. Something no one has managed before her. “Hungry?”
My distraction ploy works. She’s instantly perked up, looking around the kitchen. Fleur’s up which means she’ll need something to eat before her tummy starts to get funny. It used to do it when she ate, now it does it when she doesn’t. It’s the most welcome change of circumstance we’ve had over the last few weeks.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that. Don’t ruin my fantasies.” A breathy murmur wisps from her lips as her hands drag up her thighs to mould her breasts, nipples pebbled between the V of her thumbs and forefingers.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“You do?” Tilting her head to the side, she peers up at me from beneath her lashes. A feigned innocent smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.
When I turn to grab two bowls from the cupboard and cereal, she chuckles.
She wouldn’t be laughing if she knew how close she’s got me to breaking. I can’t protect her if I’m too busy fucking her every chance I get.
“Come to Mama,” she sings snatching her Coco Pops from me, taking a long inhale. “It smells so good.”
I watch as she shakes what’s left into her bowl, disappointment down turning her face into a pout because there’s not enough for a proper bowl. Last time this happened, she was so fucking angry, I honestly thought she would kill me. I don’t even eat the crap.
I pour myself a bowl of my Rice Krispies, offering her some while she sulks.
“It’s the one thing that brings me pleasure of any kind. One. Thing.” She pushes me away with a growl. “I can’t live like this. I can’t.”
