Page 98 of Mile High Daddy

My head snaps up, and whatever I was about to type vanishes from my mind.

Lila.

She moves through the dimly lit apartment, the soft fabric of her nightdress clinging to every curve, the lace framing her swollen belly and fuller breasts. The hem barely grazes the tops of her thighs, and the faint shimmer of her skin peeks through the delicate material, teasing, tempting.

My pulse kicks up.

She’s a vision.

Soft candlelight from the kitchen casts a warm glow over her, making her look almost otherworldly—untouchable. But she’s not. She’s right here, in front of me, mine.

I sit up, my muscles coiling tight. “What are you doing?” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.

Lila pauses, her bare feet sinking into the rug. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, her hands resting against her belly.

My eyes sweep over her again, slower this time. The curves of her body have softened in ways that make my stomach clench, her pregnancy only amplifying everything about her.

Lila shrugs, playing with the hem. “Got it online,” she says, a little too casually. “It was supposed to be maternity wear, but…turned out sexier than I thought.”

My jaw tightens.

Sexier is an understatement.

The sheer lace barely hides anything, just enough to tease, to drive me insane. Her breasts are fuller, her nipples peeking through the delicate fabric, her belly round and perfect, a reminder of exactly what we’ve done together.

Heat surges through me.

I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. I shouldn’t want her like this. But all I can think about is claiming her all over again.

Lila shifts her weight from one foot to the other, watching me, waiting.

I rake a hand through my hair and exhale slowly. “You should go back to bed.”

She tilts her head, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. “You don’t sound like you mean that.”

I don’t.

I watch as she moves closer, her bare feet silent against the rug. I sit up straighter, my body responding before I can stop it, heat pooling low in my gut.

She’s toying with me.

And it’s working.

She stops just a foot away, close enough that I can smell her skin, that subtle, familiar scent of vanilla and something else entirely her.

Her hands trace absently over her stomach, her lips parting slightly before she whispers, “Are you going to stop me?”

A muscle in my jaw tics. I should.

I should tell her to go back to bed. I should remind her that this—whatever this is—isn’t smart.

But I don’t move.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to stop her.

I want to pull her onto my lap, bury my hands in her hair, make her moan my name the way she did before she left me bleeding in the street.

My fingers twitch against my thigh.

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