Page 98 of Mine to Worship

When the doorbell rings, Kian kisses my temple and I step outside onto the terrace, taking a seat on the lounge. He returns with a tray of food and two donuts. I pick up a note sitting on the tray.

“Welcome home. One is for you, the other for my niece. See you tomorrow, little Picasso.”

Kian reads over my shoulder, and he cocks a brow.

“Brandon clearly has matured or by now he would have bolted through the door.”

I giggle and dive into my pasta and salad, getting a food orgasm.

The next morning, I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch. Kian shows up, towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water gliding from his neck down to his hard chest. He runs a hand through his wet hair, and I enjoy the arm and eight-pack porn show. “Did I wake you up?” he asks, a small line of worry digging into his forehead.

I shake my head and pat the spot in front of me. He can still scramble my thoughts in so many directions, it’s impossible to form coherent sentences. I crane my neck for my good morning kiss. He strides to me, a bright smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He takes my mouth into his, leaving me wanting more, always more, and a small gasp parts my lips. Will I ever get enough of him, his lips on me, his fingers on me, in me, his beckoning smell around me?

“What is it?” he whispers, already guessing, as if we share the same incurable sickness, to never have enough of each other.

I place my palms on his cheeks, passion rippling on my lips.

“It never is enough.”

“What?” Kian asks, his voice brimming with wanting to know.

“If it were possible to crawl inside your skin and make myself a permanent resident in your heart, I would. But not even that nearness would be enough, as if, instead of easing, my need and love for you only increases. How is it possible?” I ask, my voice cracking with the truth behind my words.

His eyes sparkle with pure euphoria and the chord to my core ignites into fireworks. He flattens my palm against his chest.

“You occupy all of my heart. You’re not a resident, you’re the owner.”

Whenever we share these tender moments, our daughter doesn’t want to be left behind and kicks me, leaving me breathless. He coos and caresses my belly.

“Shh, baby girl. You’ll be out soon. And you own my heart, too.”

She stills and the sharp pain fades away.

“Your heart and affinity for kicking. She uses my stomach as her personal punching bag. She’ll be a fighter or a jealous, possessive girl.”

“She can be whatever she wants. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

He narrows his eyes at me, his finger twirling a curl of my hair.

“I’ll miss you today,” he says with a sigh.

“Welcome to reality.”

“Reality is what we make it, angel.”

“And what do you want?”

He glues our foreheads together. “Time, more time, more moments like this…”

He pushes himself up with a frown as if hating to tear himself from me and gets dressed in my panties kryptonite––a custom made suit.

“I love you, angel.”

“I love you.”

Those dimples appear, and my heart somersaults.

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