Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
He lays back down behind me, and runs a hand through my hair. “I love your hair. So long and silky. You’ve got great hair, Mel.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’ve got great everything,” I say like a lovestruck teenager. But I actually mean it. He is just so… great.
He presses his hard length against my backside, and groans as he fists his hand in my hair. “I think about that night we shared in Denver all the time. I tried calling because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Stupid hormones. “I obviously couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I say with a tiny laugh.
He slips a hand between my legs, his fingers running through my wetness. “I’ve thought about you so damn much, Melanie. Something happened that night.” He strokes my clit with his fingers, making my body vibrate with madness.
I want to agree. Because something definitely happened that night. Not only did we create another life, we created something deeper between the two of us. He positions himself directly behind me, easing into me like he’s sliding home.
We move together, creating our own rhythm, his hands controlling the speed. He whispers my name like a prayer, and he toys with my clit as he continues to pump himself inside me.
“Melanie,” he groans out, and I swear I feel like he wants to say more.
Maybe it’s something deep in my own chest, because seriously, I’m ready to profess my love for this man. This protective man. This man who’ll be the greatest father to my child.
I just know it.
He continues to move inside me, my body growing deliciously close to coming undone. I can tell he’s close too. He groans and thrusts his hips a bit harder. He keeps playing with my clit, like a man on a mission.
“Oh, Lucas,” I shout out when the sensations are a bit too much. “I’m coming,” I tell him.
He grips me tighter, his own release chasing after mine. He kisses my shoulder as he rides out the waves of his orgasm.
“I won’t be able to let you go,” he whispers, and honestly I hope he means it.
19
Lucas
The sticky notes are still on the fridge—Ask, don’t assume. Let him help. They look like mission patches for a life I’m trying to build without a manual. I’m pouring coffee when the phone buzzes with Duke’s double-tap vibration. Work tone, not friend tone.
DUKE: Heads up. We’ve got a third face. Not Mercer. Picked him up on store cams two blocks off your place last night.
On Melanie or on us?
DUKE: Pattern says around you. Gait reads trained, not creep. Unknown intent.
Before I can reply, a banner alert crawls across the top of the screen—winter storm upgraded to a blizzard warning. Whiteout conditions, travel “not advised,” possible outages. The sky outside already has that leaden press that dampens street noise and speeds up your heartbeat.
Mel shuffles out in my sweatshirt, hair a comet, hand on her belly like she’s tucking the baby’s blankets. She clocks my face in under a second.
“Work?” she asks.
“Work,” I confirm, then soften it. “And weather.”
We’ve got an appointment midmorning. I park under the same camera, reverse our usual approach, take stairs instead of the elevator because metal boxes are only charming when they move. At the OB’s office, Dr. Patel is the human version of a warm blanket: vitals steady, baby strong, two centimeters and softening. “No action item,” she says with a smile. “Just hydration and common sense.” She glances at the window. “And don’t drive if we do get a blizzard.”
Copy.
Melanie smiles. “I remember the last blizzard Saint Pierce had.”
We look at her.
“It was the night I was born.”
Our fate is sealed. This baby will be born during a blizzard because that’s how that works. I’m already making a plan.
On the way back, I run our countersurveillance playbook because my neck prickles before my eyes can name why. Traffic’s thin, and the sky’s lower. Two turns in, a silver Subaru with a ski rack shows up in the mirror and stays there through three choices no one makes by accident.
“Gingerbread?” I ask.
“Cinnamon roll,” Melanie says, steady. She threads her fingers through mine on the console like it’s a tether.
I alter speed profile—up five, down seven—take a right without signaling where it’s legal, ride a bus’s blind spot for mirror coverage, then peel off under a glass awning so I can use reflections without giving him my brake lights. He doesn’t crowd, doesn’t perform incompetence. He lands at that textbook standoff: close enough to keep me, far enough to deny intent.
Not Mercer. Different posture. Less laziness in the spine. More economy in the hands.
I thumb comms. “Silver Subaru tail, ski rack, two blocks south of Birch. Operator reads trained. Not our gray sedan.”
Gunner’s voice crackles, already awake. “On cams. Plate’s clean-clean—rental aggregator again. He’s wearing the jacket you buy when you want to look like every other guy at REI.”