Page 74 of Fall Love

But while Tate described versions of me, our past, on New Year’s Eve, and our present, with me pregnant, he also hinted at future me, after baby.

Captivating. Who uses such a word? And yet, I feel it in the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s caught under a spell. Mesmerized. Intrigued, in the best possible way.

Pregnancy has been a frustrating, flabbergasting, incredible journey, and the way he’s looking at me right now makes all the body changes almost worth it.

And the longer Tate stares, the faster my heart races. Breathing becomes difficult and it has nothing to do with what feels like a tiny foot pressed into my sternum. It’s all Tate. The way he’s memorizing every curve and inch as he said.

I run my hand over my stomach out of habit and Tate places both his hands on my belly as well, rubbing over the sides and around to the middle, then back down again.

Like touching me adds to that mental image, etching me into his memory.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so exposed, while truly seen at the same time. So worshipped. So cherished.

Slowly, he lowers in front of me, so his head is level with the bump. Then he kisses me and kisses me, spreading those kisses over the stretch marks and around to the sides and underneath the curve. He doesn’t miss a single inch.

And while I’m certain he’s awed by the baby inside me, this feels more personal. More reverent of me and my body, and the changes I’ve endured. The changes he adores.

Still on his knees, he sets his cheek to my stomach, like he can hear Little Wrench inside me. Hear her heartbeat.

“She isn’t moving right now,” I whisper, struggling with all the emotion in my throat.

He simply hums, and I comb my fingers through his hair, raking back the longer pieces near his forehead.

And we stay like this for several minutes. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so aware of the presence of two beings. Him and me.

Eventually, he presses a final kiss to my belly button, then stands. He runs his hands down my arms and slips his palms against mine before he leans his forehead against me.

“Upstairs, baby.”

I nod and pull back, taking a step around him, while keeping our hands joined until we reach the door to the game room. Then I drop one hand and lead him toward the staircase.

I haven’t been upstairs, but I take a lucky guess that his room is the last one in the hallway. Two other rooms are open, but one remains closed, and the faint scent of fresh paint lingers.

I’m not deterred as I bring him into the room with muted sand and stone colors. He has a wooden headboard with matching nightstands bookending the large bed.

When I turn to face him, the back of my knees press against the edge of the bed.

“I can’t exactly get on my back,” I tell him as if he isn’t aware.

He cups my jaw and leans in, kissing me like he doesn’t care. He’ll take me in any position that works. And I kiss him back because I’m scared and excited and anxious to make this good for both of us.

He pulls away from my lips and moves down my chin, then under it to my neck. He bends his knees to lower to one breast, cupping the heavy swell to lift it a little, then lowering his mouth to do the rest. He twirls his tongue around the nipple, sucks hard, and pops off the tender, sensitive breast. He repeats the attention to the other one. All the while, whichever hand is free, roams along my side, over my hip, and around to my backside, squeezing me there.

I kiss his neck and his shoulder as best I can before he brings his mouth back to mine, kissing me with more hunger this time. His tongue is a strike of lightning. His teeth a gentle rush of thunder. He showers my lips with his before breaking the kiss.

“How do you feel about getting on all fours?”

“I can do that,” I whisper, running my hands up his chest and over his shoulders, like I can’t get enough of touching his skin.

“But first, what’s your favor?”

“Who says it’s a sexual one?”

He arches a brow like he knows me better. “O-kay.”

I smile and slide my hands to his waistband. “My favor is . . .” I hook my fingers into his waistband and run my knuckles along the definition of his hips. “Taste me.”

His brows rise before his smile grows. “Gladly.”