Page 72 of Desperate Games

“Damn right I am. And you’re gonna be an amazing mom.”

I smile, small but true, and for the first time in weeks, my fear eases. Just a little.

Because maybe I picked right.

The Next Morning.

It’s the fourth morning this week that I’m just riding into the city, to my job at Volkov Towers, with Remy Falco.

I suppose this is my new normal.

I count the days.

And I’m right. It’s been four mornings of polite conversation, with just the right amount of space between our bodies, and his cologne choking the damn air like some kind of pheromone warfare.

The man smells like sandalwood, sin, and dark roasted arrogance, and it is absolutely not okay.

Every night that scent surrounds me, though I can’t for the life of me figure out how.

I mean, I go to sleep alone. I wake up alone. His side of the bed is still made, the sheets cool.

Where has he been spending his nights? I have no idea.

Really, I should give him back his bed, but the truth is I’ve never slept better, and carrying these babies I love so much? It’s not easy on the body, and I’ll take my rest where I can get it.

I’m not complaining. Just stating facts.

And there is absolutely zero reason for me to be so grumpy this morning because like I said—best sleep ever.

Only I think I’m grumpy for another reason, and that one has everything to do with hormones and nothing at all to do with the walking, talking porn-star-moves -in-bed-having (and, yes, I really do know that for sure) man sitting next to me.

Fine, I’ll just say it.

Pregnant me = horny me.

I should not be this affected by the shape of his hands on the steering wheel or the way his voice dips when he says “morning” like it’s a secret between us.

I should not remember how those same hands held me down, spread me open, and made me see stars.

And I definitely shouldn’t glance at his lap every time we hit a red light, wondering if he’s thick and hard, aching like I am, if he’s thinking about it, too.

What is wrong with me?

I’m supposed to be focusing on the babies.

On getting my shit together.

On not letting a gorgeous ex-operative with gemlike eyes and muscles that don’t quit ruin my damn brain chemistry.

But no. My hormones and my body have other ideas.

And Remy, with his big hands and even bigger cock—the SUV comes to a hard stop.

How the hell did we get here so fast?

One second, I’m shoveling down Remy’s spectacular scrambled eggs and drinking the glass of milk Callie pours me herself, while pretending I don’t notice how hard Remy is staring at me across the table.

The next, we’re already pulling into the private valet inside Volkov Towers.