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Pace’s fingertip makes a mindless,idle path over my belly. “It’s not as fast as before,” he whispers, breath tickling my belly button. “Do you think he’s sleeping?” He’s sitting on the floor, his arm folded on the cot. His cheek is resting there, each end of the stethoscope plugged into an ear. “Or just really calm?”

I’m on my side, uninterested in the dinner he brought. My back aches, and I can’t get comfortable in any position; sitting, standing, sleeping. I don’t know if it’s the cot or the way the baby sits low.

“I don’t know.” Whatever energy I’d felt yesterday is long gone. I’m hoping if I lay here long enough, time will blink away.

“I used to want to see you like this,” he muses more to my belly than to me. “Locked up.”

“Because you blamed me for going to prison,” I ask emotionlessly, “or because you just wanted me for yourself?”

“At the beginning, the first one.” Sighing, he shifts the stethoscope upward. “But eventually, I just wanted to keep you contained. Safe. It’s hard seeing you out there in the world, knowing anything could happen to you.”

I blink, feeling tired. Irritated. “Then shouldn’t you be happy?”

“I should,” he answers, glancing up to catch my eye. “Instead, I’m fucking miserable.”

I look away. “Because it’s your father’s cage instead of yours?”

There’s a long pause where I can feel his eyes burning into me. “Because maybe you’d be happy in mine.”

I give a quiet scoff. “Like Effie is?”

He lifts his head, tugging the stethoscope from his ears. “Effie is miles away right now,” he says, voice a touch crisp. “I did that to protect her, even though she’s with people who’d really enjoy seeing me dead. Do you have any fucking idea how hard that is?” After a pause, he laughs, the sound hollow and grim. “You know, I’ve gotten pretty used to you being pissed at me, but I usually know why.”

“I’m not pissed at you,” I say, rolling to my back. The wounds are scabby and itchy and easily irritated, but at least it’ssomething. “I can’t fucking breathe down here,” I gasp, pulling at the neck of my shirt. Which is ridiculous. It’s not even my shirt. It’s probably Pace’s since it’s three sizes too large.

“Only a day and a half,” he says, following my movement with the stethoscope. “You can handle that, right?”

I squirm when his elbow brushes my inner thigh. “I don’t know, Pace.”

He watches me closely, eyes dipping down to where my thighs meet. “I know what you need.” Shifting, he takes out the earpieces, levering up to put them into my ears. I adjust them, and he settles back in front of my stomach, putting his lips up against the metal. “Be ready for me tonight.”

* * *

Pace’s thighsflex when I settle into his lap, his arms winding around my waist.

My dinner is on the floor—something with a lot of garlic—but I couldn’t care less about it. He feels so warm beneath me, which is only amplified when he drapes the blanket over my own lap, cocooning us.

His cheek grazes my ear as he leans in, clearing his throat. “So Lex said we should read this chapter.” Fanning open the book he’s brought, I scan the title, realizing this is one of the pregnancy books I’d read months ago.

Pace’s cock is rock hard against my backside.

“Week nineteen is a point in the pregnancy journey where the anticipation and excitement continue to grow,” he begins, hand stroking the curve of my belly. I lean back into him, fighting the urge to glance up at the camera as his hand disappears beneath the blanket. “It's a time for expectant parents to start making preparations for the arrival of their little one,” his fingers dip beneath the large shirt, skating up my thigh, “and to savor the unique experiences that come with each passing week of this incredible nine-month adventure.”

Blood humming in anticipation, I turn the page, pretending to study an illustration. “This says,” I swallow back a gasp as his thumb brushes my clit. “It says that the baby is the size of an h-heirloom tomato.”

I feel his grin against my cheek, a finger sliding through my folds. “Finally, a fruit that’s not a type of pie. Wicker will be happy.”

I inch my thighs wider for him, belly twisting up when he finds my entrance already slick and ready. “Physically,” I continue, trying to keep my voice steady, “the expectant mother may notice that her abdomen is becoming more pronounced.”

He slides his finger inside, voice like silk against my ear. “Her hair and nails may still be growing at a rapid pace, and her skin may have a healthy, radiant glow due to the increased blood flow and hormonal changes.”

This is the unsexiest book I’ve ever read.

So why is my pussy gushing?

It might have something to do with how he pulls his hand away, only to tuck it between us, shifting against my lower back. Lowering his sweats, I realize. I pretend like I’m shifting to get comfortable, just to afford him the room necessary, and when I feel the smooth, hard tip of him against me, it’s all I can do to stop the whine building in the back of my throat.

His lips graze my earlobe at the same moment his cock nudges my entrance. “Nutritional needs may also shift,” he says, gently guiding me upward.