Page 31 of Best Friends

(Eight and a half months pregnant)

I’m standing on a step stool, teetering as I stretch my body to replace a bulb in the kitchen.

The ceiling is higher in this room than some of the other rooms in the house.

Malcolm is in the nursery, painting it a cheery butter yellow color.

Since we don’t know the sex of the baby, but we want the nursery finished, we compromised on that gender-neutral color.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm growls from behind me.

His voice startles me and I almost drop the bulb clutched in my hand. His big hands land on my hips and when I glance down, he looks angry.

“You’re eight and a half months pregnant. What the hell are you doing standing on step stools? Are you insane, C.?”

My face warms. “I was just changing a lightbulb not climbing Mt. Everest.”

His scowl deepens. “Get down. I’ll change it.” At my obstinate expression he says in a softer tone, “Please, get down.”

I hesitate, but then obey. To be honest, the light socket is slightly out of my reach and Malcolm is a few inches taller than me.

He helps me down and then he climbs up the ladder quickly and efficiently.

Within minutes he has the bulb changed. As his feet reach the ground, he swings around to face me.

“Please don’t do stuff like that.” His voice is calm, but there’s a note of frustration. “I can’t watch you every second to be sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I don’t need you to watch me every second.” I bristle. “I’m not a child.”

A muscle works in his cheek as he studies me. I can see him trying to work out how best to approach me. That exceeding patience is sometimes worse than when he just loses his cool with me. I don’t like the feeling he thinks he has to tiptoe around me like I’m a crazy person.

“Did you finish painting the nursery?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. I try to sound cheerful, but it just comes out brittle.

His gaze flickers. “No. I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to help me with painting the edges around the doors and windows. You have a more delicate touch than me.” His voice is gruff.

Surprised he wants me to help with the painting, I brighten. We’d argued about me helping earlier today. He’d said he didn’t want me straining myself too much and I’d been annoyed that he was treating me like a glass figurine. It seems perhaps he’s seen the error of his ways?

“Of course I’ll help.”

He jerks his head toward the upstairs. “Then let’s do it before we lose the light.”

I follow him up the stairs, trying not to notice how nice his firm ass looks in his faded jeans.

I’m still annoyed at how controlling he can be sometimes.

I get that it’s in his alpha nature to think he’s in charge.

But he’s not in charge of me and that’s something he continually needs to be reminded of lately.

Once in the nursery I see he’s made good progress. More than half the room is finished, although the areas around the windows and door frames are still not done. He bends down and picks up a small edging brush.

“You can use this brush,” he says. “It’s the perfect size.”

He hands it to me and our fingers brush. I shiver at the warmth of his skin against mine. I may be annoyed with his bossiness, but he’s still the sexiest alpha I’ve ever known. His scent makes my pulse spike, and no matter how many times we fuck, I never get enough.

But he doesn’t need to know how much he excites me right now.

He pulls over a short step stool for me. “Be careful.”

I roll my eyes. “The most I’d do if I fell off that would be to stub my toe.”

He sighs. “Please just be careful, C.” He and goes to climb the bigger ladder.

Shaking my head, I pull off my shirt because it’s warm in the nursery.

I balance a tray of the yellow paint on the top of the stool.

Then I carefully climb up and begin painting the creamy yellow paint onto the walls.

It’s not hard work, just meticulous. But it feels good to be helping him.

The one thing I hate about being pregnant is how everyone treats me like I’m so fragile.

We work in silence for about an hour. At one point, I feel Malcolm’s gaze on me.

When I look over he’s running his eyes over my bare torso.

His eyes linger on my big stomach, and even from a distance I see the lust in his eyes.

He loves my full belly. He thinks it’s sexy.

Personally, I feel like a tug boat, but he’s turned on anytime he sees me naked.

I go back to my painting, trying to ignore the weight of his stare.

I get down at one point to refill my paint tray.

Unfortunately, when I lift the tray up onto the top of the step stool, it tips and pours all over my shoulders and torso.

I gasp and stand there with my eyes wide as the yellow paint drips down my body.

“Shit, are you okay?” he’s beside me in a moment, taking the empty tray from me.

“Fuck.” I look down at my torso and jeans that are soaked with the paint.

He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

I scowl. “It’s not funny, Malc.”

He smirks. “It’s a little funny.”

I say flatly, “In what way is this catastrophe funny?”

“Because you look like a very grumpy, very pregnant highlighter,” he says, his grin widening despite my glare.

I want to stay mad, but the mental image of myself as a highlighter makes my lips twitch. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He steps closer, his hands hovering near my paint-soaked belly. “Here, let me help you get cleaned up.”

“My jeans are ruined,” I mutter, feeling the wet paint seeping through to my skin. “And this stuff is never going to come out of my hair.”

“These pants were old anyway,” he says, already reaching for the waistband of my jeans. “And this is latex water based paint, so it’ll wash out of your hair just fine.”

My jeans are already unbuttoned because I refuse to buy maternity pants. That means, because my belly is so huge, I have to leave my jeans undone. He unzips them, holding my gaze. There’s lust in his blue eyes, but he makes no move to do anything but help me out of my paint-soaked jeans.

I help him ease the paint-soaked denim down over my hips. The yellow paint has soaked through to my legs. The wet material clings to my skin, but he works at it until he has them down to my ankles. I’m embarrassed that my dick tents my white briefs, but then he tugs those off too.

My cheeks are red as he takes in my aching erection.

I can’t see my toes over my big belly, but I can see the tip of my ruddy cock bobbing up and down.

He licks his lips at the sight of my dick, and I shiver with lust. I want his mouth on my cock, but I’m not going to ask.

I feel like I’m constantly stalking him for sex.

“Better?” he asks, tossing my paint-soaked jeans into the corner of the room.

“Not really. I’m still covered in paint.” I can feel it cooling and getting sticky on my skin, and there’s a streak running down my neck that’s making me shiver.

Malcolm reaches out and traces the line of paint with his finger, his touch gentle and warm. “You’re a mess, C.,” he says softly, his voice dropping to that tone that always makes my stomach flutter.

“I noticed.” I shiver when he uses his thumb to wipe paint from my collarbone. He slides that thumb down and rubs some of the paint onto one of my nipples. I shudder and gasp, unable to stop the sound.

“You know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “I think maybe we’d better get you in the shower, C. Don’t want the paint to dry on your skin.”

I lift my chin. “I can shower by myself. I’m pregnant, not helpless. Although, you seem to think they mean the same thing.”

“Don’t be grumpy,” he says softly. “I can’t help worrying about you. It’s my job to protect you,” he says patiently, his hand settling on my lower back. “Let me help. You probably have paint in places you can’t reach.” As he speaks, he massages the muscles of my lower back.

I want to argue, but the gentle pressure of his fingers against my sore muscles feels too good. My back has been killing me lately, the weight of my belly throwing everything out of alignment. “Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m not an invalid.”

“I know that,” he replies, guiding me out of the nursery and toward our ensuite bathroom. His hand stays on my back, thumb rubbing small circles that make me want to melt into him despite my irritation.

The bathroom feels smaller with both of us in it, especially with my belly taking up so much space. Malcolm reaches into the shower to turn on the water, testing the temperature with his hand while steam starts to fog the mirror. The sound of water hitting tile echoes off the walls.

“We don’t want it too hot,” he murmurs, adjusting the handles.

Once he gives he the okay, I step into the shower first, the warm spray hitting my shoulders and immediately starting to loosen the paint.

The water turns pale yellow as it runs down my body, swirling around the drain.

Malcolm follows me in, his hands immediately going to my shoulders to help work the paint out of my hair.

“Tilt your head back,” he murmurs, his fingers gentle as they massage my scalp.

I close my eyes and let him wash my hair, the tension in my shoulders slowly melting away. The warm water feels incredible on my aching back, and Malcolm’s touch is so careful, so reverent, that I start to feel guilty for snapping at him earlier.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly as he works shampoo through my hair. “For being such a grump today.”

And every day.

“It’s okay,” he says, his lips brushing against my temple. “You’re tired and uncomfortable and I’ve been hovering too much. I just love you so much, I can’t stop worrying about you.”

“I know. I understand.” I truly do understand, it’s just hard to let go of my independence.

He slides his hands up to soap my shoulders. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you and our baby.”