Page 140 of Beautiful Secrets
Cole gently caresses my breasts, his warm breath tickling my ear as he teases my earlobe with his teeth.
“Like what?” I manage. It is too easy to lose myself entirely in his touch. But I have to remain on the surface tonight—something feels different.
Maybe it is just because I have taken the final step in claiming my new life. I won’t lie—it scares me more than it should scare someone my age. But I have never lived on my own—or with a man—and I have no idea what to expect. At least, with the pregnancy, I had more than enough guidance from every woman I was in contact with for the past few months. Every one of them had their own piece of advice, their own tricks.
Mother especially.
I suppose she has some expertise in the matter—she did bear six children.
“You really think you can convince me you’re moving in with me just because you hate living with your parents?”
I scoff at him, and then shiver when his hands drop lower down my body. We are getting dangerously close to having a serious discussion—perhaps for the first time since he left the hospital—and I should honestly be focusing on that, not his hands.
But he makes it impossible.
Every caress sends urgent signals to my core, signals my body—even pregnant as it is—cannot ignore.
Oh, God.
If I wasn’t already carrying a child, I would have begged Cole to put a baby in me.
And that is exactly what I fear is confusing everything a thousandfold.
Amillionfold.
Do I have any reason to wonder why Cole has not discussed our future together, when I am carrying another man’s child?
My stomach twists uneasily at the thought.
I have no right to expect anything more than friendship from Cole.
“Of course not. I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Aye…keep going,” Cole says, still with a laugh tinging his voice. “Tell me what else you like about me.”
His hands glide over my belly, then onto the tops of my thighs. I shift when he starts drawing up the hem of my dress, baring my legs.
“I love watching movies and eating pizza with you.”
“Mmm?”
His fingers brush the inside of my thighs. When I try to press my legs closed, he grabs them and gently pushes them open again—much wider now.
“I love it when you comb my hair.”
“I’ll remember that,” he murmurs into my ear.
“And how you feed me chocolate when I am emotional.”
“Which is almost every day, these days.”
I slap him for that, but not too hard. His fingers are an inch away from my clit, and I don’t want him to stop.
And he doesn’t.
He starts rubbing me through my underwear as he teases out a moan with a nibble to my ear.
“Go on,” he says. “Or have you already run out reasons to like me?”
