Page 9 of Storm over the Caribbean
Nudge.
What the…! Was my unborn child criticizing my lack of intelligence? I should probably stop the baby conversations for tonight. This was making me question my own sanity. Was I going crazy?
Nudge.
I couldn’t help it. My lips twitched, and I once more looked down at my belly as a warm feeling spread through me.
Then again, maybe sanity is overrated.
My masseuse seemed to agree, because she suddenly let out a squeak, leapt up and dashed out of the room without a single word. I blinked, and turned around—or at least tried to. But before I could, another pair of hands settled on my back. A very different pair of hands. Large, strong, and very much familiar.
Not that I was going to lethimknow that, though.
“How dare you invade a lady’s privacy, Sir!” I exclaimed. “Just wait till I tell my husband about this!”
“Call me optimistic,” a cool voice came from right behind me, “but I do not think he’ll mind.”
His hands sped up, kneading my muscles like dough, eliciting a moan from me.
“Besides,” he continued, “didn’t you say something about enjoying bathing with Ambrose?” Suddenly, I felt his breath at my ear. Somehow, it felt ten times as hot as the steam rising from my bath. “Here’s your chance.”
“I…you…we shouldn’t—”
Dammit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut! Why did I have to bait him into coming here?
Well, Lilly…maybe you can be alone and naked with your hubby in a steamy, luxurious bathroom?
Good point, actually. But only now that I was naked, something that should have been very obvious occurred to me: along with being pregnant came the little fact of being very fat. There was no way around it. I wasn’t pudgy. I wasn’t curvy. I was fat. Did I really want to be naked in the same room with my tall, dark, chiselled granite statue of a husband?
Me and my bloody blabbermouth!
Just then, from behind me, I heard the soft rustling of cloth hitting the floor. Water splashed as something slid into the pool and approached me from behind.
Then again, being a blabbermouth is spiffing! Why not do it more often?
“Come.” His strong hands moved from my back to my front, pulling me close, gently caressing, massaging.
“I-it’s my back that’s aching,” I managed to squeeze out.
“Oh?” I could practically hear him cocking his head. “Do you want me to resume massaging your back?”
His fingers began to trace leisurely circles on my chest. A moan escaped my throat. “N-no! The front is fine!”
“Indeed?”
Bastard!
His fingers started moving faster, dancing across my skin in the most interesting way. I felt my knees go weak and wobbled ever so slightly.
“Tired?” his low rumble of a voice caressed my ears. “Lean on me.”
“Chauvinist,” I murmured.
“And you love me,” he retorted.
I didn’t really have a response for that. Bloody hell, was it annoying when husbands were right!
Just then, said husband’s hands resumed their exploration of my body, one continuing its massage, while the other wandered farther down, over my belly, down to my—
