Page 142 of Bump and Run

“Yeah,” I nod. “Why?”

“You’re crying.”

I touch my cheeks and feel the warm moisture trailing my down my face. “Oh…” I laugh it off. “Yeah, that happens…”

Junior wipes them away with his thumbs and tilts my face up to kiss me. There’s desire on his lips, a lingering urge on his tongue that sends quivers throughout my body. I pull him closer, relaxing away from mommy-mode to serve my own womanly needs.

“I missed my wife…” Junior whispers between kisses.

I smile. “She missed you…”

He kisses me harder, pressing my back against the wall and my desire takes over. His touch does to me as it always has, igniting fire where there wasn’t one before and I feel him grow hard in his jeans.

I wince as firm pressure shoves from within. “Oh—!”

Junior eases back, forced away by the life occupying space between us.

“Did…” he blinks. “Did he just kick me?”

I feel my belly. “He most definitely did.”

“That almost hurt.”

“How do you think it felt from the inside?” I laugh.

He holds up his hands and talks to my stomach. “Okay, buddy. I get it. Hands off Mommy…”

“He has to sleep eventually… Maybe a few pages of Dr. Freud will knock him out.”

“Works on me every time,” he jokes.

Another series of flutters dances against my ribs. “He’s kicking again.”

Junior touches me, his eyes wide with admiration as he traces the movement inside. “Whoa…” he says. “He’s going to make so many field goals with that kick.”

I shrug. “Or maybe he’ll play soccer.”

He fires a hard stare at me. “Don’t you even joke about that.” I laugh at him. “Take that back.”

I head for the bedroom. “I will not.”

Junior follows me in and closes the door behind us. “Ellie, I’m just saying, this kid has quite the legacy to live up to.”

“Let’s not put so much pressure on him,” I say. “He’s not even born yet.”

“Son of Junior Morgan, grandson of Cary Pierce. People will expect it. It’s in his blood.”

I lie back against the pillows and pull my feet onto the bed. “I say we let him do what he wants.”

“I agree, but…” He hesitates, smiling softly at the thought. “Admit it. It’d be kinda cool. Third generation pro football badass…”

I nod. “Maybe. But you know what would be even cooler?”

“What?”

“If he took after his mother.” I point my thumbs at me and grin. “Eh? Yeah? Broadway kid!”

“I’m not walking into that trap.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls the socks off my feet.

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