forgotten the feel of him, the soft curls wrapping around my fingers when I rake my hands through his hair, the soft hair on his forearms, the smoothness of his skin, the feel of his hips pressing against the inside of my thighs, the sheer size of him as his length fills me deep.
He pulls me under him in one swift move and stares straight into my eyes. But he can’t see what’s really there — all the secrets I’ve hidden from him. I pull him close, not wanting to look into his eyes. His mouth tugs at my ear softly, his hands slide up my legs. He’s being playful.
He tugs my panties down and plants a kiss just above my hip bone, where his name is etched on my skin.
When he makes his way back up to me, I reach again for his pants and free him.
Tucked in under the cozy quilt, his naked body finally presses against mine.
He kisses me as he sinks into me gently. The old rustic wrought-iron bed clanks against the wall and squeaks, despite the fact that he’s being very gentle. We smile at the sound, his grin pressed against mine.
I relish the feel of him against me, and I try not to think too much. This might be our last time. After all these years, my soul mate and I might be torn apart. I can’t imagine not seeing him every day, not waking up next to him, not being able to joke around with him like we do so often, and not being able to play.
I push his body away from mine gently, my hand pressed on his stomach. “I want to see you.” I want to see his beautiful body pressing against me. The contrast of his dark ink-covered skin against my ivory snow white flesh is so erotic.
I take a mental photograph of him, of every detail. Because I know this is most likely the last time I’ll get a chance to appreciate this view.
He presses down against me again and stills. “I’m sorry…we need to stop,” he breathes against my ear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. You drive me crazy.”
“Please don’t,” I breathe. I don’t need to climax. I don’t care about that tonight.
All I want is to make love to him one last time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
…she will remember him now.
I’m at twelve weeks. It’s time. This baby is not going anywhere.
I’ve thought about this moment so often — have replayed it in my head over and over, like an old film. I’ve wondered where I should do it, how I should go about it. There is no good time for something like this.
One thing I know for certain is I don’t want to do this with the girls around. I know Gabe’s volatile nature too well. And although I know he would never lay a finger on me or the girls, I know things will probably go flying, walls will be punched. The girls certainly don’t need to witness this.
I’ve given Caroline clear instructions. She is to take the girls to the park and she is not to come back to our house under any circumstances. I’ve asked her to bring the girls back to her house until I call her. If she were anyone else, she’d probably think Gabe and I are enjoying a little summer afternoon delight, but Caroline is as sweet as they come, I’m sure her mind wouldn’t even go there.
And there’s something else I know. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to utter the words, I’m pregnant.
I pace around the living room, working up the courage to confess. How can I tell him when I can’t even say the words?
Still on vacation, he’s sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the Movie Entertainment magazine we get in the mail every month. His foot rests on the arm of the sofa. His grey t-shirt rides up, exposing his tattooed skin. He doesn’t seem to notice the girls are gone. He hasn’t asked about them.
He peels his eyes away from his magazine and shoots me a smile. “What’s up with you?”
I freeze. “Uh… I-I…” I stammer, seemingly not able to form a coherent sentence. “Nothing…” I finally manage and dash out of the living room.
An idea hits me and I cling to it with desperation. I run to the basement storage room and dig the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book out of the box, the same one I have been secretly