Page 69 of Desperate Games

Her eyes light up, and it’s like the sun cutting through storm clouds.

“Wow. Where’d you get all this?” she asks, already reaching for her fork and diving into the scrambled eggs and turkey bacon like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“Where?” I echo. “Here.”

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth, and she blinks at me.

“Wait. You can cook?”

I arch a brow. “You sound surprised.”

She answers with her mouth full of rye toast slathered in grape jelly.

“I—”

“Andy, it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full,” Callie scolds primly from her little chair at the side table, mimicking her teacher’s voice.

Andy slaps her hand over her mouth and giggles. Giggles.

Like she isn’t driving me insane just by sitting there in one of her loose T-shirts, her hair loose, her belly softly rounding with my child.

“You are right again, Princess. Thank you for telling me,” she says sweetly, and winks at Callie.

My chest tightens.

Because, fuck me, the two of them together? It’s more than I deserve, but I want it anyway.

I want everything she is, everything she has to offer.

Callie beams, satisfied, then scuttles off to cram broken crayons and stuffed animals into her tiny backpack, muttering to herself like a little general preparing for war.

I take a sip of my coffee—too hot, scalding down my throat, but it barely registers.

My attention’s glued to Andy.

“How long do you need to get ready?” I ask casually.

Except there’s nothing casual about the way I can’t stop staring.

At the curve of her throat as she swallows.

At her lips shiny with jelly.

At the way her breasts push against the cotton fabric, heavier, fuller already with pregnancy.

The food I made for her.

The babies I put in her.

Christ. My cock’s hard as steel, and if I stand right now in these tactical pants, she’ll see exactly how gone I am for her.

So I don’t move.

I grip my mug instead, let the heat bite into my palms, and keep my eyes on her like she’s the only meal I want.

“Ten minutes,” she says lightly, then makes a face. “Ooh, make that fifteen. I forgot there’s more of me to wash these days. Not like there wasn’t plenty to wash before.”

Self-deprecating. Like she isn’t perfect.