Page 62 of Last Comes Fate

And then we’ll talk some more.

FOURTEEN

It had been happening almost every night at the same damn time: 10:08 p.m., approximately two hours after Sofia had well and truly fallen asleep when I was thinking about nodding off myself after watching an episode ofDownton Abbeyto soothe my nerves.

I’d brush my teeth.

Pee for the four-hundredth time that day (yay, pregnancy bladder).

Settle myself into bed.

And just when I was ready to fall asleep, it would happen.

Thatfeeling.

Tonight it was worse than usual. I hadn’t even made it upstairs before the churning in my stomach and clenching of my thighs began. Right after Mary Crawley made a glib remark and the heavy strings of theDownton Abbeytheme started with the credits, I found myself unable to move from the couch because I only wanted one thing, and it was definitely not upstairs.

Maybe it was the way Xavier had charmed Sofia into eating not just two bites, butallthe spinach risotto with shrimp he’d prepared for dinner.

Maybe it was the way his tattoo had stretched over his abs when he reached up to replace a broken light bulb in the hall.

Or maybe it was because earlier that afternoon, I’d listened to him demonstrate the sexiest emotion I personally thought a man could show: remorse.

Now I lay on my couch, trying not to reach for my vibrator while the look on Xavier’s face as he admitted to getting therapy flashed through my mind on replay.

No, it was more than that.

It wasn’t just that he’d taken my critiques of his anger to heart, but that he was actually doing something about it. The way he’d admitted to his faults and also was taking legitimate accountability for them. The earnestness shining through those deep blue eyes was totally foreign, totally surprising, and totally alluring.

Therapy was sexy as hell. Who knew?

Apparently me, right now, staring up at the popcorn ceiling while I tried to talk myself out of taking care of business.

It wasn’t right.

Not withhimin my head. Not with the boundaries we’d drawn. I’d drawn. That he was thoughtfully respecting.

Dammit. That wasn’t helping. Nor was the fact that on the screen, Lady Sybil was getting ready to run off with Branson, the hot Irish chauffeur and bookish revolutionary. They didn’t care about social propriety or boundaries onDownton Abbeyeither.

I turned the TV off only to hear the muffled noises of Xavier moving about his space before bed.

It was too easy to imagine what he was doing. We’d cohabited long enough that I knew at least some of his patterns.

He was fanatical about his teeth, so he’d usually spend a solid ten minutes in the bathroom brushing, flossing, mouth-washing, spitting, and all of it before taking another ten to twenty minutes to check and recheck that all the doors, windows, and any other potential security breaches were locked up tight to protect us all. He always slept with a fresh glass of water next to his bed and would pad around in a pair of house slippers that he set out side by side next to his nightstand so he could slip into them easily come morning. He usually spent the evening in a pair of loose pajama pants and a T-shirt but typically removed both to sleep in just a pair of boxer briefs.

Right after taking them off, though, he’d often get down on the rug for ten minutes of sit-ups or calisthenics. This had almost always had the effect of pulling my attention from whatever book I was reading before sleep. I’d peek over wherever I was on the page to spy on the mass of corded muscle and writhing tattoos on the floor, which inevitably ended up with one or both of us naked and willing within minutes.

Before I knew it, I was sliding my hand down below the waistband of my pajama shorts, which were already fitting tight, thanks to the little one in there. Like clockwork, my fingers found that familiar position just over my clit and began to move in that easy, practiced way I’d gotten so good at over many years alone.

It was like a military exercise. Soothing. Automatic. Muscle memory, if you will.

I could do this. I’d done it for six years without thinking about him—at least notallthe time, anyway. I could push that perfectly carved jaw and those stacked abs out of my mind and focus on something that would only help me relax and wouldn’t break my heart. Otherwise, I’d never get to sleep. And expectant mothers needed their sleep.

Decision made. This was for the good of everyone. Not just me.

I closed my eyes, drawing up some of my favorite fantasies—the ones that always worked in the dark of night when I didn’t want to risk waking everyone so I could thumb through a dirty novel.

I could be ravished in the backyard under the stars, where the neighbors could see us at any moment.

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