“Fuckin’ hell, baby. Amazing . . .” His words drift into groans as he chases down his release. He drops down, arching his body over mine to suck one nipple deep into his throat and growls with a final thrust.
Heavy breaths, our bodies tacky with sweat, we stay like that: Blake’s hands cupped at my backside, his big powerful body arched over me, cheek pressed to my chest. I run my fingers through his hair and grin at his responding shiver.
“I love you. You’re amazing, always so gentle with me.”
He turns his face to kiss my chest then slides his hands up my back to scoot me onto the bed fully and keep our connection. “Our baby is growing in this hot little body, Mouse. Of course I’m going to be gentle.” He pulls out and drops to the bed beside me, gathering me in his arms so that my pregnant belly presses against his side.
I lay my hand flat against his chest, right over his heart where it thunders against my palm, warming me further. “Remember what the doctor said? Sex could induce labor.”
“Yeah, hope you’re not saying you wanna stop, because six weeks without being with you after this baby is born will probably kill me. Not at all interested in giving you up until I’m forced to by orders.”
I draw figure eight patterns through his six-pack and grin as his goose bumps chase the path of my fingertip. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt safe. At times like this, when we’re alone and I’m wrapped in your arms, it feels like nothing could touch me. Like the world could end all around us and I’d be shielded from it.”
Blake tenses at my side.
I don’t know where that came from; the words just came tumbling out. It wasn’t so much a conscious thought, just a random string of whatever was going through my head. “I know, it sounds crazy,” I say suddenly feeling self-conscious.
I glide my hand back up to his chest and relax at the steady beat of his heart, fearing I’d find it racing even faster than before.
“Blake, if there’s—”
My phone rings from my purse, which is sitting on the dresser across the room.
He taps my hip for me to move. “I’ll grab it.”
“No, wait.” I hold on to him tighter.
He peels my fingers away from his ribs and moves to stand.
“Let it go to voicemail. I want to talk to you—”
Before I can finish my sentence, he’s up and heading to my purse. “Could be Axelle.”
He’s right, but my guess is his wanting to grab the phone has more to do with our conversation than it does Axelle’s safety.
I study his naked backside while he fishes out my phone, and lick my lips as the stir of arousal pulls at my belly. Jeez get a grip! This must be what it feels like to be a teenage boy.
He turns around and I suck in a breath. His front is even more impressive than his back, but my perusal is short-lived when I notice he’s glaring at my phone.
Oh crap.
Five
Blake
Four missed calls since before dinner, all from Unavailable. I hit the phone history and see the word Unavailable listed at least twenty times. Can’t say I’m too upset about this particular call though. It saved me from having to look Layla in the eye again and tell her everything is okay when it sure as shit is not.
“This the telemarketer who’s been calling?” I scroll down and see that whoever this is calls in spurts. Over and over before giving up for hours. All of the calls are listed as “missed.”
“Oh, yeah . . .” She pulls her sweatshirt over her head. “I think so, but I don’t know. I send it to voicemail, but they don’t leave messages.” She’s searching for her pants, but I get the strangest feeling that she’s avoiding my eyes.
“You’ve never answered.” It’s not a question as I can clearly see all the calls are listed on her phone in red . . . oh, except one. I hit the “I” for info on the call. Forty-seven seconds. She answered the phone and spoke to someone for almost a minute?
“No, never.” She has her back towards me as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “It’s a UFL-issued phone; it could be anyone. If it were important, they’d leave a message.”
Why, my little Mouse, what are you hiding?
“Huh.” I toss the phone back into her purse, and my mind races as I pull on my jeans and throw my tee into the dirty clothes hamper. “Maybe next time just answer; see what they want.”
I pin her with a stare and watch her squirm, which confirms my conclusion.
“Yeah, uh . . . good idea.”
What the fuck? Chances are this is nothing, but what kind of nothing is important enough to not share with me? My internal question is followed by a wave of shame. I haven’t told her about the email, but it’s only because I don’t want her to worry. Is it possible she’s hiding something from me for the same reason?
“Baby?”
“Hm?” She blinks up at me.
Giving her one more chance to come clean, I pin her with a stare. “You sure you have no idea who’s calling? You never answered any of these calls?”