Page 89 of The Man I Love

Despite being nine months pregnant, her body fit with his like it was meant to be there. In his arms. With him holding her, just like this. She stared into his eyes. Then her focus drifted to his mouth, to his lips, and her heart picked up speed. Even with agrowing child between them, his closeness awakened something primal inside her.

His hand moved to the small of her back, urging her closer until his lips were upon hers. Softly at first, as though if she took a breath, he would leave.

A moan escaped her, from somewhere deep in her throat, and he pulled her closer, the kiss fueled by all the desire they’d kept bottled inside for weeks.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, not allowing him to let her go. “You’re right,” she said into his mouth. “I want this so bad. I’ve wanted you since you walked into my apartment wearing those damned glasses.”

He lifted her into his arms, laughing into her neck. “I wanted you the day that fan was stuck in your hair.”

She glanced toward the hallway, making her intentions known. “I wanted you when you were playingDuck Duck Goosewith all those kids.”

He carried her into the hallway, where he promptly placed her on her feet outside of her bedroom door.

His eyes raked over her from head to toe, as though trying to figure out his next move. With anyone else she would have been self-conscious, but she wasn’t with Tristan. She wore a pair of boxer shorts, and an oversized T-shirt splattered with rainbow paint, but the way he looked at her made her feel like she was his entire universe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life, Samantha.”

She took a breath, because to him, she knew it was true. She was beautiful to Tristan when she was messy and un-showered, pregnant and swollen. It didn’t matter—to him she was like the sunrise after a storm, chaotic yet breathtaking, perfect in her imperfection.

He backed her up against the wall, where his arms caged her in. “Are you still scared of me?” he asked. His voice wasrough and serious.

She went silent, remembering how much her words had affected him. She’d thought about them often and finally came up with an answer to explain them properly. “I’m scared of this,” she clarified. “I’m scared of making mistakes, but I’m not scared of you, Tristan. I’ve never been.”

His sigh of relief was audible, but then he held his breath. “If we do this”—he paused—“there’s no going back. I can’t take it again.”

He lifted his head higher, but something must have caught his attention because he turned in the direction of the nursery. The empty box was leaning against the far wall outside of the door. “What’s that?” he asked, stepping away from her.

She turned toward the nursery and stepped to the side. “Oh—” she suddenly felt sick, “––the crib came this afternoon.”

He walked toward the room, then flicked on the overhead light as she followed. The ladder was still in front of the mural, the pillows on the floor, and the crib perfectly assembled in the center of the room.

“You put it together without me?” he asked quizzically.

She swallowed hard, because she could see the doubt in his expression. The crib was too heavy. It was obvious she couldn’t handle it on her own. “Steven came by this morning. He helped me put it together.”

There was a long pause, then his expression changed. “Steven? As in Steven Mathers?” he asked.

But he was no longer confused. He was hurt. He was angry.

Her gut twisted. “Yes.”

“How did he even know you were back?” he asked, gripping the back of his neck as he stared at the crib.

“His uncle owns this apartment building. I called him when …” She didn’t finish the sentence. Telling him she’d called her ex-boyfriend when she needed a new place to live in Los Angeles didn’t seem like the right way to start this conversation.

She walked into the living room, the mood between them gone, and Tristan followed her. “I really don’t like him coming around here,” he said.

“Oh God!” she almost groaned. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. I don’t like the guy, and I never have.”

“He’s myfriend.” She gathered the first-aid supplies off the table and began putting them away into the pouch.

“He’s not yourfriend,Samantha. He has never been yourfriend.”

She laughed. “Sure. I’ve only known him since junior high.”

“If he were yourfriend,” he began again, “don’t you think he would have come over at leastoncewhen we lived together? Don’t you find itoddthat now you're alone in this apartment he’s sniffing around and offering ‘Help?’”

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