Page 152 of Forgot to Tell You Something

Owen stays my hands. “Dishes can wait. Come with me.”

My heart pounds like a freight train. I know it’s ridiculous. I’m hornier than ever before in my life, but our situation is so complex, so convoluted. That, and I look like I ate a beach ball. “But—”

“Relax, we aren’t playing doctor and nurse. I have something else planned for you.”

I trail him to the bedroom where he’s spread out a few towels on the bed. “Take off your clothes and lay down.”

“How is this not doctor and nurse?”

“I’m giving you a massage. I’ve seen you rubbing your shoulders the last few days. I know you’re hurting.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, the words racing from my mouth with the speed of a bullet train. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Will you stop fighting me on everything?” He purses his lips, offering a defeated shake of his head. “Go sit on the couch, then, and I’ll give you a massageoveryour clothes. You might even enjoy it. I’m damn good at it.”

Of that, I’ve no doubt. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to do this, Tally. I want to feel like I’m involved in the pregnancy.”

How do you argue with that logic? Answer? You don’t. You sit your ever-widening ass down in the living room and let this hot hunk of man touch you.

I know. It’s the definition of tragedy.

Owen settles behind me on the couch, his hand pushing my long hair over one shoulder. “Why are you being such a pain in the ass?”

“I’m not,” I groan as his fingers press into my sore muscles. “I’m a New Yorker. We have a strict rule about three feet of personal space.”

What a complete load of horseshit, and Owen knows it.

“Where in New York is there three feet between people?”

His hands knead my aching shoulders, and I release a small moan. He isn’t kidding about being talented in this department. I tilt my neck, giving him better access.

“What happened to your three feet of personal space rule?” Owen questions, pressing his body closer to mine.

“Be quiet and keep going,” I grumble, smiling at his chuckle.

“See? I told you.”

Yep. He told me all right. He spends the next twenty minutes working over every sore spot along my spine, and trust me, there are plenty.

Then, just when I’m about to melt into his body, demanding that his hands seek out the R-rated parts of my anatomy, he stops.

Without a word, he slips from behind me, flipping on the television and handing me the remote. He’s playing by my rules, just as I requested. But he’s also got my body all fired up and begging to break every single rule I’ve ever created.

“Thanks for the massage. If I was any good at it, I’d return the favor.”

“Practice makes perfect, Darlin,” he retorts, his gaze intent on the screen.

Then I see it—his foot tapping against the floor. Something has him agitated, and I think it goes beyond sexual frustration. I reach over, placing my hand on his knee and settling down the erratic rhythm of his foot. “I’ll gladly try it, Owen. Just don’t be surprised if it sucks.”

He smiles, his fingers closing over my hand. “There’s never been a time that you’ve touched me that doesn’t feel amazing. But,” he releases a long sigh, “that’s not the issue.”

“Oh crap, we have another issue? I was certain we’d reached quota on those.”

Owen chuckles, but his grip on my hand remains firm. “I have something for you. I’ve had it for weeks now, but I wanted to find the right time to give it to you. I wanted the moment to be perfect, and it’s been anything but recently. Which is totally my fault.” Those stormy grays connect with mine. “I don’t want to wait any longer, Darlin. I only hope you understand why I didn’t give it to you sooner.”

My head spins at his enigmatic statements. What in the world could he have had for weeks that required the right setting? The proper moment? I bite back a gasp.

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