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TWENTY-NINE

DASH

I wake with Dayna’s legs tangled around mine, her cheek pressed to my chest.

I slide my hand down her hip, along the line of her stomach.

There’s no obvious sign of her pregnancy, though I check every time my hands are on her. She’s softer, a little curvier, but our kid is hiding in there.

She stirs against me, making a sleepy sound as she nestles into my chest. “Why are you breathing so loud?”

“How loud is acceptable?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles. “Anything that isn’t those decibels. You sound like a steam train in my ear.”

“Babe, you’ll literally have your head pressed to my chest, where my fucking lungs are. What exactly would you like me to do in this situation?”

She lifts her head slightly to look up at me, and I fold like fucking tissue. Her hair is tangled, her eyes heavy, but she is so fucking beautiful it wrecks me. I don’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful to me than she does right now. Her bare skin pressed to mine, her belly full of me.

“Is it mean if I say stop breathing? I mean, I don’t want you to die. Who would give me orgasms if you died? But just be quiet.”

She kisses my chest as if that can soften the blow.

It does.

I thread my fingers through her hair, tugging her head back. She moans against my lips, her fingers digging into my skin.

“I can’t believe you’re mine,” she whispers. “I keep expecting to wake up and find you’ve come to your senses.”

“I’m right where I want to be.”

I pull her down on top of me. Her tits press against my chest, her body moulded to mine like she was made for me. My arms wrap around her back, holding her.

We lie there for too long before we move.

Over the next few days, we fall into an easy routine.

I’ve never felt so fucking settled with someone in my space.

Her toiletries are in the bathroom, her clothes are in my closet, and her fairy lights are around the bed.

Her fingerprints are everywhere, little reminders that she’s here and that she’s mine.

Every night, we fall into bed together, and she sleeps wrapped around me like neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins.

Every afternoon, I wait in the foyer of her office for her to finish work. There’s still a threat out there, and there is no way in hell I’m leaving her unprotected.

It’s a week after she first moved in, and I’m waiting for her to come down from her office.

When the lift doors open, she steps out from behind a group of people, and my chest fucking aches looking at her.

She’s tired, a little pale, but she’s smiling. Did she get sick today? Is she just nauseous? Fuck, I hope she ate lunch.

Dayna rushes to me. Scared she might fall on the polished tile, I move quickly until her arms wrap around my neck and she’s safe.

She kisses me like she doesn’t care who’s watching, and that is the hottest fucking thing ever.

My tongue slides into her mouth and my fingers thread through the hair at her nape.

I wish I was inside her.

When she pulls back, her eyes are bright. “I’ve had truly the worst day, but I am so glad to see you.”

The fact she delivers that news with a smile means my brain doesn’t catch onto her words for a second.

“What happened?”

Translation: how bad is it, and who am I killing?

“It doesn’t matter. Just take me home.” I tuck her against my side. “Don’t let anyone tell you that working in an office is anything other than a dystopian hellscape.”

I have no idea what that means, but she’s not bleeding or crying so I put down the knives I’m sharpening in my mind.

“I’ve never worked in an office.”

“Of course not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They don’t let sex gods work in corporate environments, Dash.” Her hand slides under my hoodie, running along my abs. “Which is just as well because these belong to me and anyone who tries to touch them or take them is going to lose a hand.”

As we step out onto the street, I scan for threats. She doesn’t notice, oblivious, and that’s exactly how I want to fucking keep her. Nothing touches her.

“I’ve seen Brenda from production drooling over you, but she’s got the personality of a sponge. She’s not much of a threat.”

I don’t know who the fuck Brenda from production is.

I do know I like her possessive.

My lips twitch. “I’ll make sure I avoid Brenda.”

The drive home is silent, but not that awkward heaviness. It’s that easy quiet, the kind that takes years to build.

I rest my hand on her thigh as I drive and by the time I pull into my space, her head is tipped against the window.

One hand rests against her stomach, like even in sleep she’s protecting our baby.

And I can’t help but feel like the luckiest bastard on the planet.