Page 60 of Owned In Misty Mountain

She shakes her head, giggling.

God, I’d murder for that laugh.

—-

At home, I watch her fold baby clothes while I finish the final shelf in the nursery. I built the crib from scratch. Sealed the glider three times. Double-anchored every piece of furniture.

She doesn’t say anything when she catches me staring.

Just lifts her shirt and rests both hands on her belly. Like sheknows what it does to me.

I walk over.

Drop to my knees.

Kiss the bare skin I helped create.

“Still watching me like I’m gonna break,” she murmurs.

“You’re carrying the most important thing in the damn world.”

She tilts her head. “Not you?”

“You already broke me.”

—-

She reaches for a towel on a high shelf.

I’m across the kitchen in two seconds.

“Don’t reach,” I snap. “Jesus, Shanay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t reach. You ask.”

She rolls her eyes. “Or what?”

I crowd her back against the counter. Slide my hands over her hips, around her belly.

“Or I remind you exactly what this body was made for.”

Her breath catches.

Her lashes flutter.

I lift her—slow, gentle—and carry her to the couch.

—-

I strip her slow.

Spread her thighs.

Worship her like she’s sacred.

Because she is.

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