Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“Morning,” I say happily when I catch her admiring me in the mirror. She’s right. I look hot today. I’m glad she’s noticed. The appreciation stops there, though, from both sides. My smile falls when her face contorts into something resembling annoyance. What have I done now?
The dryer is dropped to the carpet, and she paces to the dressing room. “Wow,” I breathe. I’m very glad I passed the baton to John where her transport is concerned. I know neither of us are particularly delighted to be back from Paradise, but is that my fault?
I quickly check the nightstand, making sure she’s taken her folic acid. She has. That’s one argument averted. My chin drops to my chest, my sigh weighed with impatience, my hands slipping into my pockets to stop me finding her and pinning her to the nearest wall.
Ava appears from the dressing room a few moments later, and I can’t hold back my amusement as she marches across the bedroom to the bathroom, her boobs bouncing just enough for my eyes, but way too much for any other man’s. And her legs? I can see the start of her thighs. So she’s playing dirty, is she? My God, how she tests me. Usually with non-existent dresses. They’re like a loaded gun for my wife.
I go to the dressing room and look through the rails to find something more suitable, settling on a lovely black number. Maybe it’s a little tighter than I’d like, but that’s my compromise. “Drives me fucking crazy,” I mutter. “What did I even fucking do?”
I go to the bathroom door and watch her applying her mascara, refusing to look at me. So I get closer. She flicks her eyes to mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“I’m putting my makeup on.”
“Let me rephrase that,” I breathe out, losing my amusement and finding some patience. “What do you think you’re wearing?” It’s getting shredded as soon as it’s off.
“A dress.”
“Let’s not start the day on a bad note, lady.” I present the alternative. “Put the dress on.” To my utter surprise, she doesn’t object, taking the dress and leaving, albeit on a huff. And she continues with the sounds of bother as she gets out of her choice of dress and puts on mine, fiddling with the zipper.
“Will you zip me up, please?”
I can tell it pains her to ask me. I can also tell I’ll be getting nothing more than the pleasure of zipping her up. I need to snap her out of this unprovoked, foul mood. And maybe find out what the hell has put her in it? “Of course.” I press my body to hers, make sure my breathing is heavy and my mouth’s close to her face, and take in her freshly washed and blow-dried hair, moving it over her shoulder. The evidence of her bodily response presents itself to me in the form of a satisfying shudder. Well, satisfying for me, probably annoying for my wife.
Finding the zip, I slowly, seductively, pull it up, homing in on her cheek with my lips and—
I frown, the zip getting jammed, forcing me to abandon breathing my desire all over her face and checking it. The zip’s fine. It’s the gap between each side of the dress that’s the problem. I bite my lip, furiously fighting to restrain my grin, knowing it’s more than my life is worth to show my delight. Didn’t I tell her she had a tummy? And did she believe me? “Oh dear,” I whisper. Not at the dress, fuck the dress, but because this is not going to improve Ava’s mood. But at least she’ll have a reason for her sulks. Funny, isn’t it? The cause for her bad mood will be the reason for my amazing mood. The babies are growing.
“What?” She looks over her shoulder, craning her neck to see. “Is it broken?”
“Ummmm . . .” I give it one more wiggle for the sake of it, if only to demonstrate it won’t budge. “No, baby. I think you may have grown out of it.”
She stills for a split second, taking that information onboard, before rushing to the nearest mirror on a burst of incredulous air. I watch as she scans her back, willing her to see this as a blessing. To be excited. I get it, she’s young, has a banging figure—tight, tidy, and divine. She’s worried about it changing. Keep it together, baby. We’ve got this.
“Can I put my other dress on now?” she murmurs solemnly.
I can’t and won’t enforce a different dress. She looks too overcome by the old news that she’s going to . . . expand. More to love. So I sweep up the short number—I’ll cut you up another day—and shake it out, being attentive and helpful as she switches back. The zip goes up with ease. This dress definitely has more give. That doesn’t make it acceptable. We should go shopping. “Beautiful.” I look her up and down, wondering if I could convince her to wear a knee-length sweater over the top. Too optimistic? “I need to scram,” I tell her, checking my Rolex. “Cathy’s downstairs and she’s made you breakfast. Please eat it.”