Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Though I’d just told Kane my nausea had subsided, my stomach lurched, and I barely made it to the toilet before I emptied my stomach.
I brushed my teeth a second time then climbed into bed just as I heard Kane ascending the stairs.
The covers were shoved up under my armpits. Aside from lightning sporadically brightening the room, the only lights were the ones filtering in from the hall and the one I’d left on in the bathroom so he didn’t bang into anything. Usually, I read, with the television on because I couldn’t stand the stifling silence in the house. But I couldn’t have both my bedside lamp and the TV on—too much light.
I was just frozen in my spot in bed, far too wired to sleep, too eager to know what this dynamic looked like beyond him being mad at me. Or maybe that’s all this ever would be.
His footfalls were heavy on my hardwood floor as he rounded the bed to place a mug and a glass of water on the cluttered bedside table.
I did not do clutter before. Before, I had a scant amount of possessions, and everything had its place. Since moving to Jupiter, I was constantly buying books, baby things, trying to fill up the house, trying to fill up my mind.
I blinked as Kane leaned forward and somehow found the switch on the lamp on the first go, light flooding through the space.
He was there, right there beside me, face close to mine. His expression was still hard, guarded, but it wasn’t entirely hostile. He held my gaze for ten seconds—I counted—before his eyes went downward to where I was still clutching the covers.
His head tilted, eyes softening.
His fingers clasped mine, gently taking the covers from my death grip. I released because he wasn’t yelling at me, wasn’t staring at me like he hated me, and he was touching me.
The gentle brush of our fingers was the first time he’d touched me since that kiss in the courtroom. My entire body responded. My entire body awakened. Like it had been wilting, hibernating all this time, and it needed him to bloom.
The cool air in the room kissed my skin as he took the covers completely off, exposing me in his tee, my large belly making it so it barely covered my panties, let alone any part of my upper thighs.
I was rigid underneath his gaze, my bones seeming to fill with lead.
He still held his shoulders tight, his entire form tense, but something in him relaxed. Defrosted. The turn of his mouth no longer formed a grimace, the crease between his brows smoothed as he ran his eyes along his shirt, gluing on to my belly a moment before trailing down my legs.
My heart slammed against my rib cage as his hand moved to the hem of my shirt—his shirt—pausing to glance up at me as if he were asking for permission.
I barely moved my head in a nodding gesture, pulse thrashing in my ears.
Kane’s fingers grasped the hem then pulled it up, exposing the tight skin of my stomach.
I was religious about lathering it in oil and moisturizer morning and night. I hadn’t thought I was vain enough to worry about whether or not I got stretch marks, but it was a humbling and terrifying experience to watch my body change without my control, so I was holding on to the small amount of control I could clutch with bleeding fingertips.
Though technically, stretch marks were largely dependent on genetics, not products. Whether it was my genes or the oils, the skin was taut, smooth, my belly button a definite outie now.
Kane let out a hiss of breath as his palms covered the swell of my stomach. He was staring at it in shock, in wonder. He kept the fabric of the tee underneath my breasts, not exposing them.
This touch wasn’t sexual, not exactly. Though there was an undertone there. But that might’ve just been me and my crazy hormones.
Kane tore his eyes from my stomach, peering back up to me. They were watering.
I had to sink my teeth into my lip so I didn’t start sobbing at that expression.
He didn’t say anything, not one word, he just slowly, purposefully moved his face down then laid a gentle kiss on the skin of my stomach.
Then he placed his cheek there, barely putting any weight against me.
“This is your dad,” he whispered to my stomach in a tone I didn’t recognize. Soft. Full of tenderness. Love. “I know I haven’t been around, but I promise, I’m not going anywhere again. Ever.”
It was an oath.
Not just to the baby in my womb but to me. It didn’t feel like forgiveness, though. Not a threat either, but maybe a challenge. I couldn’t be sure. I was overwhelmed by the emotions of the evening. From the emotions of the past nine months. Since I’d met Kane, if I wanted to get technical. Then there was the third trimester exhaustion that was nothing like being in a kitchen for twelve hours.