Page 134 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
Ryder raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking. “Oh, trust me, I’m all in for celebration.”
He motions to the suite, which now feels much smaller because I’m pretty sure the air between us is charged with static electricity.
I glance at the bed, which is perfectly made, pillows plumped, and way too inviting. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m still kind of feeling that “I want to collapse into a giant pile of blankets” vibe from earlier.
But I’m not about to waste a newly decorated, heart-eye-worthy suite.
I kick my shoes off with a little too much flair, my heels flying across the room and narrowly missing the vase of roses.
I land on the bed with a dramatic flop that would earn me at least an 8.5 from the judges. Maybe a nine if they like the extra belly bounce.
Ryder just stands there, looking down at me with that half-smile that always makes my insides gowhoosh.
But instead of joining me on the bed, he tilts his head toward the bathroom.
“You know,” he says, “that dress looks like a nightmare to get off. Might be easier if we… relocate.”
I blink. “You’re suggesting we start our marriage with… logistics?”
He smirks, and my pulse skips. “I’m suggesting we start it with a shower.”
And just like that, I’m melting again.
He helps me up, well, more scoops me up because apparently Ryder Hale has zero respect for gravity and carries me into the bathroom.
It’s enormous, all marble and soft candlelight, with a shower big enough to host a small Christmas pageant. He sets me down gently, his fingers immediately going to the back of my dress.
“This thing,” he mutters, wrestling with the endless buttons. “It’s a hazard.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, fanning myself. “I was pretty sure it was going to cut off my circulation mid vows.”
He chuckles, low and rough, and finally gets the damn thing undone. The dress slips off my shoulders, pooling around my feet, and suddenly I’m standing there in nothing but lacy underwear and an obvious baby bump.
I hesitate. I’m not the same Sunny he first met. My body has changed, becoming softer and rounder, marked with the beginnings of motherhood.
But then I see his face, his eyes dark with desire, his smile curving into something reverent, and all the insecurity vanishes.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious truth in the world. “Mine.”
Heat floods me as he strips out of his tux, and then he’s tugging me under the spray of hot water.
It cascades over us, soaking my curls, slicking down his silver hair, and suddenly, his hands are everywhere. Sliding over my wet skin, gripping my hips, pulling me against him.
The water is hot, pounding against my skin, but Ryder’s hands are hotter. His grip is possessive, commanding, and yet every brush of his fingers feels like worship.
When he presses me back against the slick marble wall, I gasp. My wet hair clings to my face, water streaming down between my breasts, and his eyes follow every drop.
“Hold onto the bar,” he orders.
A shiver shoots through me, equal parts arousal and thrill. I grip the polished steel safety bar above my head, my knuckles whitening, and instantly feel the power shift.
My body is exposed, open to him, at his mercy.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing my ear. “Now don’t let go.”
My knees nearly buckle at the praise, but he’s already moving lower, his mouth trailing hot kisses down my throat, then over my chest, biting lightly just above my nipple.
I moan, arching into him, but his hands press me firmly back against the tile.
