Those freckles, she’d seen them up close and kissed them each in turn. She’d dug her teeth into the skin there as he’d made love to her, urgent, almost at climax.
She had nothing but the best of associations with those freckles, those shoulders, those arms, those hands. Not to mention the broad, perfect chest and the flat, rippling belly.
The day she’d found out she was pregnant she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t ever lose control sexually again. She’d sworn she would never let lust get the best of her. She’d be responsible, restrained…She’d only make love to a man when they were in a committed relationship, using at least two forms of birth control.
But now she was as knocked up as she was ever going to be, and it wasn’t clear whether she’d ever be in a committed relationship again. It wasn’t clear if she’d ever have the time or energy before she hit menopause to date or have a relationship, when she was going to be so busy running the farm and taking care of her child.
What if West was her last real chance to get laid?
And what if it wasn’t even a chance? What if he didn’t want to be with her now that she was shaped like a cartoon character?
“You’re looking awfully serious. What’re you thinking about?” West asked as he finished the second bed support and checked to see that it was secure.
He had remarkable timing.
“I was thinking about the characters on children’s shows, and how adults hate them.”
“I think some of them are kind of cute.”
Truly remarkable timing.
“So this is it? The bed’s done?”
He nodded.
She started to stand, and the change in her center of gravity set her off balance for a moment. West caught her elbow and steadied her, but instead of taking away his hand once she was fully upright, he lingered, caressing first her arm, then her lower back.
The contact was more than her hormone-addled libido could take. She turned toward him. They were only inches apart. Close enough to kiss.
“Thanks,” she said. “For putting the crib together.”
“Anytime.”
“I’m hoping I won’t need another crib anytime soon,” she said, but she got the distinct sense that he wasn’t really listening now, because he was staring intently at her mouth as if he had a mission.
So now she had to step away, or she was going to kiss him. She needed to take one step backward, then another, and another, until they were a chaste distance apart. She had to remember her vow about no more knocking boots with guys she wasn’t in love with.
He leaned down and kissed her, and she turned into a puddle. His kiss was soft, lips barely brushing hers at first, then lingering, asking if he should continue.
Yes, he should definitely continue.
She reached up and twined her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as she turned his sweet, gentle kiss into something animal and urgent.
He pulled her closer, in that I’m-in-command way he had, and it all came back to her. The way they moved together, a perfectly choreographed dance, the way their bodies fit together so divinely, the way he knew how to find the places where she ached the most and drive her crazy with teasing and coaxing and pleasuring.
He was the best lover she’d ever had.
And, hallelujah, they were kissing.
Her eyes closed, she felt as if no time had passed between the past summer and now, until she tried to grind her pelvis against him and came up against the barrier of her belly, round and protruding.
It definitely wasn’t the summer.
She tugged at his hair a bit, pulling him back just enough so that she could talk. “I can’t get pregnant now,” she whispered. “I mean, since I already am.”
“I haven’t had any other lovers since-”
“Neither have I,” she said.
He looked relieved.
“Is that what we’re doing?” he asked.
“We’re not exactly painting the walls. I mean, unless you don’t want to-”
“I definitely want to.” He ended the discussion by kissing her again as he slid his hands up her shirt, under both her T-shirt and the sweatshirt she wore under it, straight to bare skin.
His cool touch turned her skin to gooseflesh, and when he reached her bra and undid it with one flick of his fingers, she said a little silent prayer of thanks. He slid his hands around to her breasts and cupped them, and she gave a little gasp.
She was humming, a live wire, electric with the desire coursing through her, more aroused than she’d ever been in her life.
It had to be the pregnancy hormones. If he tried to put the brakes on now, or had second thoughts, she feared she might later be compared to a black widow in the newspaper story about how she’d killed her lover.
“Let’s go to your bedroom,” he said.
She didn’t need an invitation. “Yeah,” she said, then dragged him in that direction.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOLEIL HAD ALWAYS been a passionate lover, but her enthusiasm now was unprecedented. West almost laughed at the way she’d grabbed him a few minutes ago and dragged him in here.
He’d no more than blinked before she was unfastening his pants and he was kicking them aside. While part of him wanted to put on the brakes and slow them down enough so that he could savor the experience, the part of him that was actually in control wasn’t about to slow down anything.
He wanted her as badly as she wanted him, except he was pretty sure he didn’t have the same glazed look of determination she had.
Now he was fumbling with her shirts, trying to tug them off of her, except she seemed to be resisting.
“Wait,” she said, breaking their kiss. “I, uh, I’m wearing maternity pants…and panties.”
“So?”
Her look of distress turned to a wry grin. “I don’t want you to see them.”
“Why?”
“Because they nearly come up to my armpits.”
West recalled the fabric his hand had brushed over on the way to her breasts. At the time he hadn’t thought much of it, but now he laughed, imagining her distress.
“I don’t care. I’m aroused by you, not what you’re wearing.”
She cocked one skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Let me see.”
He tried to lift up her shirts again, and she swatted his hand away. But he grabbed her hand, then caught the other one in his hand and tried to grab her shirts again as she wiggled away.
“Let go. I’m going to the bathroom to get undressed.” But she was laughing now, a little too hard to fight him off effectively.
He backed her up to the bed and toppled her onto it, then climbed on her and pinned her hands over her head.
“Let’s see what we have here,” he said, taking his time about the big reveal.
Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes now, she was laughing so hard. “Stop!” she cried, but he wasn’t about to.
He grasped the hems of her shirts and pulled them up. Beneath was a big navy blue stretchy fabric panel that extended from her crotch all the way to the top of her rib cage.
“Wow,” he said. “Those are cool.”
She tried to pry her arms free, to no avail. “I hate you,” she said between giggles.
“And what do we have underneath?” he said as he tugged down the elastic waist of the jeans and found a pair of white panties with a waistline nearly as high as the pants.
“You are so dead.”
“Mmm, granny panties. Those are hot.”
“Dead! As a doorknob!”
“Why don’t they make pants like this for men, too? You can have a big meal and don’t even need to do any unbuttoning or unzipping to make room. I’m thinking these will sell big.”
“Yeah, the guys who wear them will never get laid again, so food will be their only pleasure anyway.”
He caught her eye. They were both smiling, and he could hardly believe he was so close to her now, touching her anywhere he wanted. He’d been trying not to dream of this for months.