Page 10 of His Perfect Little Heirs

“The white one,” I decide, and as I do, he presses the tip of his finger through the tight muscles, sucks my clit into his mouth, and rockets me over the edge of sanity, forcing a ripple of sensation to every inch of my body. I gyrate my pelvis upward while a cry tears from my mouth.

I come hard.

CHAPTERTHREE

cassidy

5thMonth

Another early morning like the last, Max isn’t in bed with me, and I know why.

Oh, Menace.

I adore all the little contradictory pieces of my Max, but the stubborn ones are often hard to endure. Those ones keep him from me. Keep him from himself, too.

I wrap my arms around my middle, cuddling the fluffy pink robe to my body. Maybe it’s the hormones rushing me or the ensuing throbbing between my legs, but I am walking across the dewy grass under the ambient early morning sun to find him.

I reach the outhouse—his gym and my ballet studio. Pushing the door open, warmth floods me instantly. Max Butcher offers far more radiant heat to my soul than any fluffy robe can.

I stay like a little voyeur, watching my six-foot-four lover as he works out. He grips the high beam, pulling his long, large body up to his chin. Controlled and powerful, he repeats chin up after chin up, the cords and muscles in his arms pulsing, rolling. He’s an athlete. Like me.

“Menace,” I whisper his name, but he sees me in the studio mirror at the same time. He drops to his feet and turns to face me. Sweat slides down his face, the beads rolling over a tight jaw that was probably pulsing through his musings.

“Little one.” He sounds unimpressed. I smile at that. “Go back to bed.”

Despite his order, he strides towards me, and I imagine him lifting me to straddle him, feeding his hand under my bum and stroking my entrance as we kiss before laying me down beneath him and taking what he needs from me.

But he doesn’t do that.

He tugs the robe tighter and runs his big hands down my arms to create warmth with the friction.But I am already warm, Menace.

I crane my neck to gaze into his storm-grey eyes. “I want this to stop.”

His brows pinch. “What?”

“The early morning workouts.” I blush. “I missourearly morning workout.”

“Little one,” he sighs roughly, his hand sliding down my body, hitching my breath in anticipation, only to stop on the lower curve of my abdomen where our second child grows willingly and strong—like him. “I’m too big. I’ll lick you all better.” He smirks, the curve provocative but hiding his true concerns. The ones about the baby. And me.

All the time.

Every sneeze.

Cough.

I kicked my toe on the door the other day. It bled and I cried. So, I found him fastening foam edging across the skirting boards the following evening. “It’s not like that, Max. My cervix is protecting him. Come on. You know this.”

He goes on, “I’ll lick you all day if you need me to.”

“Listen to me—”

“I’m too big for even you, Cassidy.”

“I like the feel. I like—”

“Dammit.I feel like I’m tearing you open sometimes.”

“Stop.” I touch his rough jaw.

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