Page 41 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

Fifteen weeks, and well into the second trimester, where I’ve resolved to spend less time with Matt.

So much for the pregnancy honeymoon period, though I was pretty lucky with my symptoms for the first trimester.

Which were mostly defective taste buds and emotional instability.

Though I guess the second is still hanging around a little.

Since I moved in, Matt and I have eaten dinner together most nights, and that new normal is starting to feel way too comfortable.

So for the past two days, I’ve gone cold turkey.

Which means we’re conversing mostly by text.

Cold turkey for real, because there’s a definite risk of becoming too dependent on him.

And then there was the dream I woke from two mornings ago, flushed and sweaty, my insides pulsing emptily.

As I lay in the murky gloom of the early morning, listening to the rapid beat of my heart, I allowed my mind to drift.

Something I hadn’t done since I’d moved in, which is probably why my somnolent brain took me on a trip down (smutty) memory lane.

Since I’d crept out of the hotel back in October, I’d been using the memory of Matt and our night together to get myself off.

But that was before. Before I knew the real him.

Before I moved in with him, when I told myself it had to stop—that it was wrong.

Not to mention dangerous. But that morning, it was my unconscious mind that conjured him.

I wasn’t to blame. He was already in my head, and I was already wet and tingling.

What was the harm in one more tiny indulgence?

So I closed my eyes and dipped back into my memories.

We were lying in that huge bed. My body was mostly covered in a fluffy hotel robe, wet from the shower, my face bare of makeup.

Yet he stared down at me as though I was a rare treasure, sifting his fingers through the strands of my hair.

His touch felt so good, and I curled into him like a cat.

Between us, there had been passion and craving and moments of connection that felt almost transcendental.

Moments where, if not for the weight of his body, I might have floated away.

But that particular moment, lying there with my head on his chest, was one of pure comfort. Something I hadn’t known I’d needed.

This is connection, I thought as my hand wandered aimlessly over the dips and valleys of him, like a cartographer exploring a new and wonderous world. My fingertips inadvertently brushing his thick cock.

“Come up here.” His words were raspy, as though his voice had been long unused.

“Not yet,” I whispered, cupping the heavy weight between his legs. Delighting in the growl of his next breath. “Can I ... can I do this?”

He laughed. “You’re asking? You never have to ask.”

“It’s polite,” I almost simpered. “So can I?”

He threw his arm across his eyes. “You’re gonna torture me, I can tell.”

And oh, I wanted to.

He submitted to my touch, my exploration, and that felt sexy as hell. I brushed the silken head, the satin steel of him against my palm. I climbed to straddle his legs, and he groaned my name, the muscle of his thigh contracting as I pressed my hand there.

His eyes turned to coal as I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and bent to swipe my tongue there. “Yeah.” The word was just a breath, and next, a low growl. “Lick it, darlin’. Make it nice and wet.”

Oh, the effect his words had on me.

“Like this?” I whispered, dragging my tongue along his length. From base to tip and back again. Swirling the tip.

“That’s good. So good .” He swept my hair from my face—a tender gesture—but I knew it was so he could watch as he said, “Put it in your mouth.”

“You should do audio porn,” I whispered, glancing up the length of his body. A body that shook with laughter. And when he stopped, he moved his hand to my head, pressing it down.

That one tiny act of dominance, and I was done.

With my mouth stretched around him, he watched me work. And the noise he made as I took him deep could’ve blown a house down.

“You’re so good,” he rasped. He gave a thirsty swallow, his head tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat. The tremor in his Adam’s apple.

I felt like a goddess. His taut breaths and his stuttered praise were my creation. Mine alone. I made his body shudder and his eyes turn molten.

“Yeah, like that. Just like that, darlin’.” Desperate then, his jaw taut and his words running together. “Don’t you make me come, Ryan. Don’t you dare make me come.”

It felt like a challenge. A gauntlet thrown. I was going to give my white knight the ride of his life. Drive him to the edge of his sanity, to the point he was unable to do anything but ...

Let go.

Give in.

Give it to me.

And those memories are why I’m hiding out in my rooms like a troll under a bridge.

Because I’m not my mother. I can resist a man.

Because I will never be her, and I’ll always put my child’s needs first.

I’m just down here, cooling things. My blood mostly. Lines will not blur. Hearts will not get hurt.

I tell myself this is just a temporary state. Pregnancy hormones. And they are a blast.

As in, if I don’t keep them in check, they’re likely to blow up in my face.

Sixteen weeks.

Matt : Do you know Matt Junior is the size of a tomato this week?

I can’t help but smile at Matt’s first text of the day. It’s hard to believe a man can be this sweet. And hotter than the devil, when he invades my dreams.

Yeah, that’s still happening, though I’m not sure if it’s truly hormones that make me feel this way or if it’s just him. Dark haired and funny, caring and kind could be just my thing.

Not that it matters.

Me : Beefsteak or plum tomato?

Matt : A lemon-sized tomato.

Me : What I’m hearing is baby Ryan is the size of a lemon. Good to know!

Matt : It’s a bit vague, don’t you think?

Me : What is?

Matt : Is he the size of a lemon from Valencia or one we get at the greengrocer? There’s quite a variance, size-wise.

Me : . . .

Matt : Calm yourself. I know you live for my scintillating conversation.

More than he knows.

Matt : Anyway, all that to lead up to the fact that I know you already know how big he is because you keep unfolding the corner of the pages of my pregnancy bible.

The pregnancy bible is one of a number of parenting books that have appeared in the house over the past couple of weeks, but the pregnancy bible, as he calls it, is kept on his nightstand.

It’s super stalkery, I know, but I look at it every day after he’s left for work.

Though I’m careful to replace it each day exactly as I found it. Or so I thought.

I guess there’s just something heartening in reading the pages Matt has read the night before. The facts he learned before dropping off to sleep, maybe to dream about them. The cute facts, not the horrifying ones. The stuff of dreams, not the stuff of nightmares.

Anyhoo, my stalking gig makes me feel connected to Matt in a way that negates my fear that he’ll discover what that connection costs me.

Me : Not me.

Matt : So that wasn’t one of your many many hair ties I found on my bed?

Damn. I roam around his big, beautiful house every day while he’s out working, discovering little things about him without him knowing.

I’ve learned he’s a closet romantic (not such a stretch of the imagination) thanks to the romance titles I found slotted among the business, philosophy, and history books on his shelves.

I don’t believe for one minute they all belong to Letty.

While he once said he can cook—back in October, when I admitted I couldn’t—I have yet to see evidence of this. Instead, he has a private chef called Mary. Mary is a grandma of three and an absolute darling. I know this because we’ve chatted as she’s prepped dinner.

In fact, I love how chatty Mary is. Almost as much as I loved hearing how Matt pays her full time but tells her not to bother coming in every day, but just to keep him stocked up in meals instead.

She also let me in on the secret that Matt has a bit of a sweet tooth, not that you’d know it from looking at that body of his.

But she showed me where his stash of candy is.

By the sheer amount, I can tell the man loves strawberry licorice. Think Twizzlers.

But his condom stash I found all on my own. In his bathroom vanity. Left-hand top drawer. At the back. I might’ve counted how many were in the box. I might also know that number hasn’t altered since I moved in.

It seems Matt is also a bit of a slob, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t be too if I just dropped stuff and a team of (paid) fairies relocated those items to their rightful spots. I guess that’s why he’s teased me about my own habits. He said it’s like I think I’m being graded on my tidiness.

Old habits, I guess. Except for the hair ties he teases me endlessly about.

These and others are the little nuggets of Matt I stash away like a squirrel hoarding nuts.

Facts, knowledge, thoughts, and feelings that I’ll save for future reflection.

Some day when it’s too late to cave, because every day I’m fighting my growing feelings.

It’s hard not to be seduced by the idea of a man who’d give up his world to follow me. Me and his baby.

And that’s what I tell myself is at the heart of our connection.

That Matt is a good man, a decent man who’s doing the best he can after finding himself in this situation.

While I battle the idea of him and me, he’s given in to the temptation of family.

No matter how less than ideal, less than pristine, our origin story is.

Coming clean would be a disservice to him. Worse, maybe even a repeat of history. And I will do everything in my power to avoid passing on my own traumas to this innocent. Every time I rest my hands on my stomach, I swear to the life inside me I’ll be the best mom I can.

Which includes my very careful response to his accusation.

Me : I really don’t know what you’re talking about.

Matt : Unfolding the pages that I’ve folded feels like a judgment ...

Me : It is. Only heathens don’t use a bookmark.

I thank the Lord and all the stars above that this is what he chooses to call me out on. Instead of the fact I’ve been lurking in his bedroom. Lying on his bed.

Matt : I’m pretty sure the definition of heathen is a person (or persons) who makes another lose their place in a book they’re currently very avidly reading.

Me : Fine. I’ll order my own copy.

Matt : Don’t. I like that we’re reading the same copy. I wouldn’t even complain if you read it over my shoulder.

Me : Now *that* is the behavior of a heathen

How is it he seems to know when I need to smile?

I ask myself as my phone vibrates almost immediately again.

Sliding the message open, I pad across to the kitchen to fill my water glass.

The apartment is modern, neat, if not a little institutionally sparse.

Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a through-lounge diner, plus a tiny galley kitchen, which I barely use.

Because I can’t cook. Currently. Maybe I should use my current free time to hone my culinary skills.

Can’t feed a toddler on takeout leftovers.

Matt : Harry Potter or Twilight?

He has his ways of learning about me. And I have mine. Snooping and grilling Mary.

Me : HP. Ravenclaw all the way!

Matt : I had you down as Gryffindor.

Me : What’s wrong with RC, Hufflepuff boy?

Matt : I’m probably more Slytherin in a Hufflepuff cloak. And just so you know, my wand is at the ready ;)

The danger in that offer isn’t getting pregnant twice.