Page 70 of Best Friends
“No, you don’t.” He steps closer, his hands hovering near my paint-soaked belly. “Here, let me help you get cleaned up.”
“My jeans are ruined,” I mutter, feeling the wet paint seeping through to my skin. “And this stuff is never going to come out of my hair.”
“These pants were old anyway,” he says, already reaching for the waistband of my jeans. “And this is latex water based paint, so it’ll wash out of your hair just fine.”
My jeans are already unbuttoned because I refuse to buy maternity pants. That means, because my belly is so huge, I have to leave my jeans undone. He unzips them, holding mygaze. There’s lust in his blue eyes, but he makes no move to do anything but help me out of my paint-soaked jeans.
I help him ease the paint-soaked denim down over my hips. The yellow paint has soaked through to my legs. The wet material clings to my skin, but he works at it until he has them down to my ankles. I’m embarrassed that my dick tents my white briefs, but then he tugs those off too.
My cheeks are red as he takes in my aching erection. I can’t see my toes over my big belly, but I can see the tip of my ruddy cock bobbing up and down. He licks his lips at the sight of my dick, and I shiver with lust. I want his mouth on my cock, but I’m not going to ask. I feel like I’m constantly stalking him for sex.
“Better?” he asks, tossing my paint-soaked jeans into the corner of the room.
“Not really. I’m still covered in paint.” I can feel it cooling and getting sticky on my skin, and there’s a streak running down my neck that’s making me shiver.
Malcolm reaches out and traces the line of paint with his finger, his touch gentle and warm. “You’re a mess, C.,” he says softly, his voice dropping to that tone that always makes my stomach flutter.
“I noticed.” I shiver when he uses his thumb to wipe paint from my collarbone. He slides that thumb down and rubs some of the paint onto one of my nipples. I shudder and gasp, unable to stop the sound.
“You know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “I think maybe we’d better get you in the shower, C. Don’t want the paint to dry on your skin.”
I lift my chin. “I can shower by myself. I’m pregnant, not helpless. Although, you seem to think they mean the same thing.”
“Don’t be grumpy,” he says softly. “I can’t help worrying about you. It’s my job to protect you,” he says patiently, his hand settling on my lower back. “Let me help. You probably have paint in places you can’t reach.” As he speaks, he massages the muscles of my lower back.
I want to argue, but the gentle pressure of his fingers against my sore muscles feels too good. My back has been killing me lately, the weight of my belly throwing everything out of alignment. “Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m not an invalid.”
“I know that,” he replies, guiding me out of the nursery and toward our ensuite bathroom. His hand stays on my back, thumb rubbing small circles that make me want to melt into him despite my irritation.
The bathroom feels smaller with both of us in it, especially with my belly taking up so much space. Malcolm reaches into the shower to turn on the water, testing the temperature with his hand while steam starts to fog the mirror. The sound of water hitting tile echoes off the walls.
“We don’t want it too hot,” he murmurs, adjusting the handles.
Once he gives he the okay, I step into the shower first, the warm spray hitting my shoulders and immediately starting to loosen the paint. The water turns pale yellow as it runs down my body, swirling around the drain. Malcolm follows me in, his hands immediately going to my shoulders to help work the paint out of my hair.
“Tilt your head back,” he murmurs, his fingers gentle as they massage my scalp.
I close my eyes and let him wash my hair, the tension in my shoulders slowly melting away. The warm water feels incredible on my aching back, and Malcolm’s touch is so careful, so reverent, that I start to feel guilty for snapping at him earlier.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly as he works shampoo through my hair. “For being such a grump today.”
And every day.
“It’s okay,” he says, his lips brushing against my temple. “You’re tired and uncomfortable and I’ve been hovering too much. I just love you so much, I can’t stop worrying about you.”
“I know. I understand.” I truly do understand, it’s just hard to let go of my independence.
He slides his hands up to soap my shoulders. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you and our baby.”
The way he says ‘our baby’ makes my chest tight with emotion. I lean back against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my shoulders. He wraps his arms around my belly from behind. The big rough palms of his hands cupping my stomach.
“I know I fight you a lot, but sometimes I kind of like how protective you are,” I confess, covering his hands with mine where they rest on my belly. “It shows how much you love me.”
“I’d die without you,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” He nips my nape. “That’s one reason I’m such a bossy asshole. Maybe I should just wrap you in bubble wrap to keep you safe.” He chuckles. “Just until the baby is born.”
