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“It’s good to know that I’m always on the mind of my wife.”
“Future wife,” I tease.
“Wife,” he growls defiantly as he moves my hair to one side and peppers my neck with kisses, then moves one of his hands between my legs.
“Okay, okay,” I moan, loving his caress of my pussy. “What’s two months and a marriage license mean—wife it is.”
He chuckles sinisterly. “That’s the right answer, Mrs. Middleton.”
“Oh, about that,” I say as his fingers slide between my folds.
“About what, baby?”
“I’m not sure if I’m going to take your last name.”
His fingers stop their glorious work, and I curse myself.Why the hell would I bring this up now?God, I hate when I get diarrhea of the mouth.
“Why the fuck not?”
Welp, I put it out there now. I might as well follow through. “It seems a little outdated, don’t you think?”
“No, Megan, I don’t think it is, but what I know is I’m going to spend the rest of the night convincing you why youshouldtake it. Dinner can wait.”
Chapter 38
Who Said I’m Angry?
MEGAN
Lena pepper kisses across Deuce’s chubby belly, gently lifting him into the air with the ease of someone who has done this a million times before. His bright-eyed giggles fill the room, his tiny hands grasping at the air, reaching for her. My heart melts at the sight.
“Who’s your favorite auntie?” she coos, her voice dripping with exaggerated affection.
Deuce lets out another delighted squeal, utterly enchanted by Lena, which is no surprise. She has a natural way with him, her energy always playful yet protective.
“You’re his only auntie,” I remind her with a knowing smirk.
“Which is why I’m hisfavorite,” she quips, flashing me a smug grin before blowing a raspberry against Deuce’s stomach.
I watch them for a moment, soaking in the easy warmth between them before she abruptly levels me with a pointed look.
“Now, remind me why you’re still here?”
Hunter had practically vibrated with excitement when I told him about my meeting with Linda John. Within a matter ofhours, he had gone full alpha-mode, securing a private studio space for me so I could finish my piece without distractions. And he wasn’t wrong—if I stayed here, I’d spend every spare second hovering over Deuce instead of painting.
I sigh dramatically. “Stop rushing me.”
“Your painting isn’t going to paint itself,” Lena scolds. “Now skedaddle. Deuce and I will be fine.”
“Skedaddle?” I arch an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you use sayings like a seventy-year-old woman?”
“I worked with a lot of seventy-year-olds at the shelter,” she fires back. “They were amazing people, so thank you for the compliment.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
I lean down, pressing a lingering kiss against Deuce’s soft little lips. His sleepy baby scent—powder, milk, and something uniquely him—fills my senses.
I could stay here all day.