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My hand sweeps up and down his spine, hoping he understands.

His eyes soften in a way that tells me he gets it completely. He pulls out of me slowly, his dick still semihard, and even softening he’s still glorious. He pulls me with him as he sits back on his knees until I’m straddling him, my arms draping over his shoulders.

Then he does the sweetest thing I’ve ever experienced, perhaps far more intimate than what we just experienced together.

His hands slide to the back of my neck, up into my hair, and he massages my scalp.

“I will treasure every single part you give me, Cara, you have my word.”

My breath catches. There isn’t a hint of doubt in his voice or his expression, and my lips part, surprised at the depth of the emotion I see etched into his features.

It’s not an admission of love, it might be too soon even though I definitely feel myself falling in love with Braxton.

Before I can respond, he pulls me against him, my forehead to his shoulder, his hands at my head, and he holds me—hugs me.

It’s the least sexual thing we’ve done, but it’s the most tender, the most loving.

I close my eyes, feel the rhythm of my heart beating against my chest, and I realize I’m wrong.

I’m not falling for Braxton Henley.

I’ve already landed.

Chapter 23

Braxton

I didn’t expect this morning to happen. When I woke up and Cara was pressed against my body, I reacted instinctively. I went to bed pissed last night, but not entirely at her.

It seems as if every time I try to move us closer, I get the sense she’s got one hand up, holding me back.

It’s frustrating as hell. I figured falling in love with a woman would feel more like parasailing, happening softly and brilliantly, like you know everything in the world is right.

It feels like plummeting to my death, skydiving without a parachute. It has to be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done, yet there’s no way I can stop it.

I love her. I want her in my life. I want her to look at me and only want me. When she told me she was terrified I’d hurt her, it took everything in me not to blurt it out. But even I know telling her now is too soon. She’s still too damn skittish. So I hold her and let her feel me, let her feel secure in my arms, hoping like hell my silence says enough.

I’m still pissed at her parents, though, and we need to talk about it, about tonight.

Her going to dinner with people who could ship her off to a hospital and have her “situation” taken care of without me knowing scares the shit out of me. It’s far-fetched, granted, but I’ve been looking into Cara Thompson’s parents. They’re fucking loaded. They could easily do it with the connections they have.

My stomach rolls. If I could change my appointment, I would, or demand dinner another night.

The other part of me knows Cara needs this. She needs to be with them, stand up for herself and what she wants without someone there.

I need to make sure she knows I’m at her back, even if I’m not in the room.

I get up to shower, and she rolls over. By the time I’m out of the bathroom, she’s woken up.

My room is now littered with clothes and shoes she kicks off and flings, letting them stay wherever they land. Pink cotton panties are in a pile at the corner of the bed, a gray sweatshirt pooled on the floor. Her black yoga pants are hanging off the edge of the dresser.

She’s the messiest woman I’ve ever spent time with, and yet her mess only makes me smile. It means she’s here, in my space, and I really fucking like the idea of that. And I don’t even clean the place myself, so, really, who gives a shit?

I find her in the kitchen, swallowing down a glass of orange juice, which means she’s taken her medicine. She hasn’t puked in weeks, although she still periodically turns green. It’s not the only change I’ve noticed in her.

Her breasts are growing, swollen and shoving against the thin shirt…my shirt…she must have thrown on when she rolled out of bed. I’ve noticed when we have sex over the last couple of weeks, that not only is her appetite for food increasing again, but her appetite for sex is too, and when I play with her nipples, she practically comes from the slightest touch.

It’s fucking sexy as hell, and so is seeing her stomach press against my T-shirt, our baby now making itself known in the morning where she used to show only at night. We went shopping last week and she bought a bunch of maternity clothes, but the sight of her in my shirt is so much better than the few dresses and tops and pants she purchased.