Their Nine-Month Surprise

by Laurel Greer

  “Except...”

  “You’re protecting yourself, our baby, too. I admire that. But you need to know something about me.” He glided his hands down her sides, settling them on the sexy flare of her hips. “I want to protect you, too, Marisol. And our baby. And whatever feelings we have for each other.”

  She smiled, sheepish and vulnerable. “I’m not quite sure what they are, but there are a lot of them.”

  “Me, too.” He could put a name to them, but she wouldn’t appreciate that, not if she was still unsure of her own. But her admitting she had feelings? That’d do for now. He flicked the top button of her blouse open and sneaked the cotton to the side, laying a strip of kisses along her collarbone. She let out a soft “oh.”

  “If memory serves, the bedroom is about ten steps down that hall,” he said.

  “Give or take.”

  “Good way of putting it. I think we should give and take.” He continued his ministrations up her neck, then slid a hand under the thin cotton of her blouse, pushing the fabric up, trailing his fingers along the taut skin of her belly.

  She gasped again, surprise instead of pleasure.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s different.”

  “Nothing wrong with different.” He shifted his hands down and caressed her hips again, holding her still while he thrust up a little. “I’m liking different.”

  “Me, too,” she breathed.

  He moved to pick her up, but she scrambled off his lap. “No hoisting the pregnant lady.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it hoisting,” he said, spooning her in a standing position. He teased his fingers low on her hip with one hand and the underside of a covered, full breast with the other.

  Yep. Definitely needed to try this with clothes off. God, he loved her body. And he wanted to remind her of that, one slow touch at a time.

  She sagged back against him and tipped her head back against his chest. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to slide that hand a little to the right.”

  “You very much could, but let’s do that on a bed.”

  He nibbled on her neck as she led the way to her room. She threw out an arm as they passed through the doorway, swatting the light switch.

  The spare decor smacked of her having been working all hours since she arrived. A stack of texts and notebooks teetered on her one bedside table. A mountain of pillows formed a wedge in the middle of the otherwise unadorned bed. She had a duvet printed with big squares of blues and purples, and none of the fussy throw pillows some of his past girlfriends had decorated with.

  She closed her eyes and scrunched up her nose. “I have to be kinda elevated... And I need support under my stomach otherwise it throws my back out.” She swore under her breath. “Okay, so this is why people stop having sex in the third trimester.”

  “Not everyone, you know that.” He scooped her up and placed her on the bed against the pillows. “But if you’re not comfortable, we can do other things.”

  “Oh, no.” Shoving the pillows to the floor, she took him by the shoulders and gave a playful tug and shove, until he was on his back on the soft mattress. “I want very specific things, Lachlan.”

  “Such as?”

  A smile softened the lines of self-conscious concern in her brow. She lowered her lips, kissing him, all languid pleasure and sweetness.

  “I’ll have to be on top,” she whispered into his ear, flicking the lobe with her tongue.

  Need licked through him. “After eight months without you? I’m not picky, Marisol.”

  “We should start by getting rid of a few layers.” She scooted off the bed and slipped out of her leggings and panties, then knelt next to him. Her speedy removal of his belt, shorts and boxers made him laugh.

  “I haven’t lost my touch, have I?” she said, a pout edging her lips.

  “I just didn’t expect to Donald Duck it,” he teased.

  “What?”

  “Tops on, bottoms off,” he explained.

  “Pants are overrated.” With a cheeky smile, she ran a hand up his thigh and traced a slow line next to his erection, just brushing the sensitive skin with the back of her thumb.

  Breath shuddered from him, rough in his throat. “So are shirts.”

  He propped himself up on an elbow and reached behind his head, grabbing a handful of his polo shirt and shucking the fabric off and onto the floor.

  Appreciative eyes scanned his naked body, and her lips parted. She settled her hands on his chest and commenced a leisurely exploration. “You’re too hot for your own good, Lachlan Reid.”

  “And you’re too clothed, sunshine.”

  “I figured you’d want to take care of that.”

  “Mmm, I really do.”

  She climbed onto him again, and the sheer delight of her skin against his tore another guttural noise from him. He hadn’t been a monk while he was overseas. But nothing about a quick fling in a hotel room could even approach what he had with Marisol. The perfect fit of their bodies, sure. Her heat, her wetness tantalized and made sweet promises of the ecstasy to come. But it was the way joy flooded him when she graced him with a smile, too. And the deep, instinctual need to hold her, to help her, to love her.

  He traced a finger along her throat until he got to the V of her blouse, and he untied the belt below her breasts, then teased open the buttons.

  She tugged her lip with her teeth as he traveled down, revealing a trail of soft skin.

  “Don’t be nervous, Mari. I don’t have any expectations, beyond taking you out of your head and into whatever pleasure we can find together.” He pushed her blouse off her shoulders and discarded it. Stroking her lips with his thumb, he tilted his jaw. “Kiss me. I want to taste you again.”

  Anticipation flirted at the corners of her mouth, and she leaned in. Yeah, that was what he needed. The flavor of mint tea flooding his tongue, her mouth driving him to distraction. With a circle of her hips, he lost his mind a little more.

  He needed to do the same to her.

  A palm to her breast, a thumb swirling her nipple, and she ground into him. He dipped his head, sucking the bud between his lips, smiling as she whimpered and writhed.

  His body ached with the need to fill her, but he wanted to draw out her sweet response further, take her to the brink. Sliding a hand between their bodies, he swirled a thumb on her sensitive flesh and teased her sex with his fingers.

  “Not enough,” she said, panting, nails digging into his shoulders.

  He slipped his fingers in farther and released her nipple, finding her mouth again and kissing her until his body shouted that he was getting close to losing control.

  “I’m—I’m almost—” she pressed her core into his hand “—but I need—”

  Yeah, he needed, too. He shifted his hand away and gently nudged her opening, then thrust in, just a little. “Tell me what works. If we need to adjust.”

  “Mmm, how about—” she slid to the base of him “—yeah, that.”

  He let her set the pace. Tentative at first, getting attuned to each other, but then edged with abandon as she tossed her head back and moaned.

  “So close. You... You feel...”

  Need pooled at the base of his spine, threatening to break loose. He gritted his teeth and tilted his hips, earning a cry of pleasure.

  “Oh, there—” Her words turned nonsensical as her mouth went slack and her eyes closed. She pulsed around him.

  The rhythmic release pulled his own from him, taking him down, surrounding him with a sense of completion.

  Yeah, that’s love, buddy.

  He choked back the need to pass that along and lost himself in the fulfillment on her face and in his veins.

  After long minutes of snuggling, he got cleaned up and then spooned behind her, hugging an armful of warm woman and pillows. “Comfo
rtable?”

  “I am.”

  He felt her muscles give, that point of relaxation where she wasn’t holding anything to herself anymore; she was leaning entirely on him.

  He wanted that level of surrender emotionally, too. He’d seen what walls and clawing back trust and intimacy did to a relationship. Marisol’s claim that she wanted to trust him did soothe his worries, but it wasn’t enough to build on. They’d have to work on that, develop more of a foundation before he would feel secure.

  “At first, I didn’t think us being together would be good for the baby,” she said. “I was focused on what would happen if we broke up. I was expecting we would break up. My marriage...it sucked the trust out of me.”

  He tightened his embrace and kissed the back of her head. “I know.”

  “But I’m starting to wonder—what if we didn’t break up?”

  “I like the sound of that one better.”

  “It’s not just about my trust issues, though. I’m worried about being able to do everything. Balancing my degree and parenting, and add a relationship to that? I worry about screwing up and neglecting something.”

  His chest clenched. Now was not a moment to get into a spiral of memories of his father missing his graduation. Of trying to emotionally support his sisters but worrying he wasn’t doing it well enough. “My parents are workaholics. But I don’t see you doing that.”

  “I’m stretched pretty thin. And so are you. How would we make a relationship last, Lach? At some point, one of us will fail.”

  He had to take a deep breath to keep his desperation to convince her out of his voice. So much for a languid, post-sex cuddle. “It’s not about one person failing. It’s about working together. Communicating. Finding a balance and allowing that balance to shift when necessary. We can do that. If we keep talking to each other.”

  She shifted around to face him. Doubt and hope warred in her green eyes. She bit her lower lip, releasing it when she brushed a kiss across the corner of his mouth. “And that’s all you’d need at first? Talking and finding a balance?”

  “At first, yeah.”

  “Okay. We can try that.” She stroked his chest with a lazy hand. “I missed this. I... I really like the idea of being with you.”

  He nodded, ignoring the pang in his heart that warned him it wasn’t enough. Because it was, for now. Sure, “loving you” would have been preferable. But he’d take “being with you” in the interim.

  * * *

  Lachlan fussed around the edge of the painted dresser with a sheet of sandpaper, looking for a just-right level of wear. He’d taken three weeks of mixed emotions out on the piece of furniture. So many fantastic little moments with Marisol—laughing as she tried to teach him how to make schnitzel, buying necessities for the baby, hand-in-hand walks along Moosehorn Lake—tangled up in the fear she was still holding back. Plus his continued frustration that no magic solution had come up as an alternative to calling his dad. At least he had a beautiful project to show for all his internal debating. He was hoping to take the dresser over to Marisol’s tonight, had enlisted Zach’s help for the heavy lifting.

  He texted Zach to let him know it was time to meet in Maggie’s garage, but before he could put his phone away, it rang. The picture he’d taken of Marisol snuggling with Fudge on the weekend popped up on the screen.

  “Hey there, ready for me to come over?” he said, flicking the call to speakerphone so he could keep adding finishing touches to the antiquing.

  “Uh, no.” She sighed. “I’m still at school. I had to fill out some paperwork I wasn’t expecting, and got stuck in a meeting with my advisor. I’m not as far along on my research as I’d intended to be today.”

  “It’s eight o’clock.” Jesus, she should be in her pajamas with her feet up. Preferably cuddling with him on her couch. Not still hunched over her desk, almost an hour’s drive from home. “Have you had dinner?”

  “I ate.” Her tone bristled with warning. “I’ll be home when I’m done. And I can take it slow in the morning—I don’t have to come in to the office tomorrow.”

  “Is there anything I can help you with? Proofreading? Combing through journal articles? Grading papers?”

  “You can’t do my job for me, Lach! Sweet Mary. Worry about your own projects.”

  “Oh, I am.” His follow-ups with the organization who’d denied him the grant, asking about further funding, had been met with apologies and zero success. He was seriously running out of options to pay his contractor’s bill. Not that he was going to worry Marisol with that—she had enough going on. He wasn’t going to add his own concerns to her mountain of stress.

  “I just want to help,” he continued.

  “I have to do this myself.”

  “You are. Nothing wrong with asking for a hand, though.”

  She humphed.

  And his words smacked him upside the head. Time to take your own advice much?

  His stomach rolled. With Stella and the rescue organization turning him down flat, and his options with bank financing tapped out, maybe it was time to call his parents.

  He shook his head. Not tonight. Tonight, he’d focus on Marisol. “Does your brother have a key to your place?” Marisol hadn’t yet offered him one, and he hadn’t pressed her.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I have something I need to drop off. And I’ll bring over a lasagna, and we can have a very late dinner when you get home.”

  “I ate.”

  “Cafeteria food doesn’t count. Make you a deal—I won’t give you a hard time about staying as late as you need to as long as you’re okay with Fudge and me being your greeting party when you get in.”

  “I—” She exhaled. A whole lot of longing rode that breath. “I love the idea of you being home when I get there. No lasagna. Really. But definitely you.”

  “Mind if I stay the night?”

  “I’d mind if you didn’t. I’m going to hang up now, though. Otherwise it’s going to be tomorrow before I get home.”

  He hated the idea of her driving home that late. But if she’s going to trust me, I have to do the same. “See you when you get there.”

  Shortly after he hung up, a truck rumbled down the street and a door slammed. Lachlan peered around his own pickup.

  Zach loped toward him, progress slowed partway up the short driveway when Fudge wiggled over and demanded love.

  “What are you having me do again?” Zach called, turning the dog to a limp noodle with some solid belly rub skills.

  “Lifting. I need to get this dresser into your sister’s apartment.”

  Zach joined Lachlan in the garage and let out a low whistle. “Nice work.”

  Lachlan rubbed the back of his neck. “Marisol fell in love with it, but wanted a different paint job. It was worth a few late nights.”

  With a knowing look, Zach rounded the dresser and gripped one side. “My sister’s fallen in love with more than a dresser.”

  “News to me.” The complaint grumbled out of him before he could stop it.

  They hoisted the dresser up and set the front feet on the edge of the truck bed.

  “Shouldn’t be,” Zach said.

  Hope zinged through Lachlan’s limbs. He fumbled, almost losing his grip on the dresser. “What makes you say that?”

  “The fact she’s let you in as much as she has. Normally, she closes herself off entirely. What, you don’t see it?”

  The dresser screeched as they pushed it into place. Lachlan slammed the tailgate shut. He wished he were half as convinced as Zach. “I don’t know what I see, man.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they had the dresser loaded into the second bedroom at Marisol’s.

  “Looks awesome,” Zach said appreciatively.

  It did. The white of the dresser, lovingly distressed in places over the last few hours, complemented
the pale yellow walls. Marisol had decided she didn’t want new paint, and she’d made the right call.

  “Now I just need Marisol to get home from work so I can surprise her.”

  Zach headed for the kitchen, and Lachlan followed. It felt a little odd to be in Marisol’s place without her, even with permission. At some point he’d relax.

  Not until you feel like she’s fully let you in.

  “You two are something else,” Zach commented as he pilfered a soda out of the fridge. “You’re procreating, but you haven’t exchanged keys?”

  “We haven’t needed to yet. I’m sure we will when it’s necessary.” Though the idea of achieving that level of intimacy with Marisol appealed so damned much.

  “But you’re together?”

  “Yes?” They’d spent every second night together since last Friday, so that part seemed back to normal. But his need to hear an “I love you”—to be able to say it to her—was reaching embarrassing levels.

  “Convincing.” Zach flopped on the couch and cracked open the can. Fudge followed, draping her head across Zach’s knee and giving him longing “pet me” eyes. He gave in to the begging and stroked the dog’s ears. “Look, take it from someone who’s with a person who had skyscraper-high walls—it’s an effort to break through them, but it’s worth it. She’s worth it.”

  “I know she is.”

  “Some of our family gave Mari a really hard time when she got divorced. Didn’t think she tried hard enough, even though her ex was to blame. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone except our parents and sisters how badly Glenn had screwed her over financially, so some of our aunts and uncles tried to imply she was immature.”

  Lachlan raised a brow. She’d only hinted at trouble with money when they’d talked about it, so it seemed she still wasn’t thrilled to hash out the specific details of her divorce. He sat on the other end of the couch and patted his leg to call the dog over. She obliged, and he dug his fingers into her soft neck fur. “I’ll do what I can to win her over. But I wish she’d let me help her more often.”

  “Oh, good luck with that. And I’d love to have some advice for you, but I’m not going to pretend to understand Marisol.”