Moonlighter

Alex

“Fuck!” I shriek, clutching the star-shaped unit before it can fall all the way to the floor.

Eric hurries into the room, stopping when he sees that I’m unharmed, but surrounded by chaos.

“Everything is fine!” I say in a voice betraying more hysteria than light home repair usually calls for. “All it takes is a couple of simple steps, and I can’t even get it right on the fourth try!”

“None. Obviously.”

“Then why the hell wouldn’t you let me just help you for a second?”

I take a deep breath of air all the way into my diaphragm. “Please take your manly self into the next room and watch some television. I need to do this myself.”

“Because?” His pretty eyes are stormy.

“Because I just do.”

“Are you trying to make me crazy, here? Or does it just come naturally?”

“Hey, guess what? This isn’t about you. This isn’t even a little bit about you. I just want to build my own freaking shelf.”

“Is it the pregnancy hormones? You live in a fucking gorgeous apartment. But I would bet my left nut that there isn’t a single thing in this place that you built yourself. Why start today?”

“I’m having a child.”

“I noticed that.”

“I was once a child, as were you. However, I lived in a house where everything was done by the help. My parents never did a thing for me with their own hands. That summer you spent with us on the Vineyard — do you remember my father ever making us a sandwich?

“No.”

“That’s not the kind of parent I want to be. So I am hanging my child’s bookshelves. Even if they are the worst bookshelves ever seen in New York City. Perfection is not the point. I’m doing it because I care, and I want my child to know that.”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I see.”

“You know that expression: born with a silver spoon in your mouth? My kid’s spoon is from freaking Cartier. Money is not our issue. But we are going to have plenty of issues.”

“Okay.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“No.” He shakes his head vigorously.

“You’re still looking at me like I might flip out at any moment.”

“Only because you’re swinging a screwdriver around while you talk. I’m just trying to make sure I stay out of the way. I’ve had enough injuries already this year.”

“Oh.” I look down at my hand where there is, indeed, a rather large screwdriver. “Sorry. Thank you for listening.”

“Anytime.” The corners of his beautiful gray eyes crinkle, as if he’s trying not to smile. “I’ll be in the other room, with the world’s worst magazines.”

He leaves, and I go back to work. I drill a new hole for the molly, and then I tap the plastic anchor into the wall with my hammer. But it doesn’t really want to go in. Part of it hangs out even when I’ve hammered at it for quite a while.

Whatever. This part will be hidden, right? I take one of the screws and fit it against the ugly molly, then I screw it in about halfway, until I can’t get it to go in any further.

The last step is to lift the star once again, and then line up the hole in the back with the screw. Clearly the manufacturer expects me to have x-ray vision. I wiggle the star back and forth, trying to hit the hole. But I can’t seem to find it.

Honestly this would be easier with a little help, but I can’t ask now. I’ve already scared off all my help. I wiggle and wiggle until finally the screw engages with the hole. Then I ease the shelf onto the screw before stepping back to admire my work.

It looks amazing. For about two seconds. And then it leaps off the wall and lands with a crash at my feet. I look down and see wreckage. There’s a big scrape on the fresh paint, too, where it nicked the wall on the way down.

And I burst into tears.

Then Eric is back again, pulling me into his arms.

“For fuck’s sake!” I sob into his shoulder. He feels so good, though, and I’m just done with this day. “All I wanted to do was hang a damn shelf for my baby girl! Idiots can do this!”

“You’re not an idiot, though,” he says, patting my back. “That must be the problem.”

“That’s…” I hiccup. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Nah,” he says. And then he bends down and actually picks me up off the floor. Which is amazing, given my size. But there’s a lot of junk on the floor, and he has trouble maneuvering.

“Eric, your knees,” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He sighs and eases me to the floor again. “Can we get out of here, though?”

“Yes.” I take him by the hand and lead him out of the baby’s room and down the hall to my bedroom, where my tissue box is. I sit down on the bed and grab a tissue, wiping my eyes.

Eric sits down beside me. Then he wraps both arms around me and pulls me down onto the bed, holding me tightly. “Everything is going to be okay. You know that, right?”

“Yup.” But it’s a lie. There’s no proof that anything will be okay. My eyes leak a little more, just to prove that they can.

“Oh, honey,” he says, pushing the hair out of my face. “Max will figure it out.”

“Will he? I doubt it was Jared Tatum who had us followed.”

“Shh.” He rubs my cheekbone with his thumb.

“It’s someone else. We don’t know what they want. My poor kid! It’s bad enough that half her DNA comes from an asshole. But now I have to try to keep industrial spies out of her nursery.”

“Mmm hmm,” Eric says sweetly. “But we will.”

I take a deep breath and lean into the sturdiness of his body. I rest my forehead against his, and he blinks at close range, those gorgeous gray eyes looking into mine.

And, wow. I’m horizontal on a bed with Eric. How did this happen?

The kiss happens in slow motion. He lifts a hand to cup my cheek. But it isn’t a casual gesture. His touch is hot, and his eyes challenge me not to ruin the moment.

As if I even could. My whole being just waits for him, anticipating his mouth on mine.

And he doesn’t disappoint. He tips my chin upward and then quietly fits his lips against mine. The slide of his kiss, and his masculine scent are all I need right now. His arms close around me, and I lean into the kiss. His whiskers are scratchy against my face. But his lips are soft.

For a moment, though, I try to hold back my heart. I’ve spent the whole day vibrating between strength and despair. If I let myself go—if I let Eric hold me and take away my fear—I honestly might not find the dignity to pull myself together again afterward.

But his kiss is slow and convincing. It asks all the questions and then answers them at the same time. See how much you need this? Yes.

Don’t we understand each other? Yes.

Are you going to let me taste you one more time?

Yes, I really am. The second I part my lips, we’re making out like teenagers in the middle of my bed, his hands in my hair.

No matter that my giant belly keeps bumping up against the hard planes of his abs.

I strain to move even closer to the heat of his mouth, and the eager slide of his tongue against mine.

And even though we don’t line up exactly the same way as we did in Hawaii, I can feel his body beckoning to mine. Our legs intertwine. My face is flushed, and my nipples are hard, and my lips are bitten from his kisses.

But this is not Hawaii. “What are we doing, Eric?” I gasp.

“Stress relief,” he grunts as his hand moves temptingly along my ass.

“But we’re not a couple.” The effect of my argument is muted somewhat by the whimper I let out as he kisses me again.

“So you say,” he says between kisses. “And yet you’re stroking my cock.”

Oh hell, I am! My palm goes still. Even through the fabric of his jeans, I can feel how hard he is. And now I’m clenching my thighs against the desire that’s already pooling there.

“Well, sure,” I stammer. “I really miss your cock. But on the other hand, I’m so—” It’s just dawning on me that getting naked in front of Eric might be embarrassing. The sports bra I’m wearing could shelter a small village. “I’m a bloated whale.”

“Maybe I have a thing for oversized marine life.” He kisses me again. Then his hand dips into my yoga pants, coasting over my ass.

And I stop worrying, at least temporarily, because I lose my train of thought. Eric kisses the way he does everything else—with understated skill and intelligence. And great reflexes. His hands mold and press. His fingers tease my skin, while his tongue stokes me toward heat and heaven.

“You’re a crazy man,” I moan between kisses.

“Where I come from that’s a compliment. Unzip me, Engels. You know you want to.”

He isn’t wrong. And after considering the idea for at least a half second, I fumble for the button on his jeans. If Eric Bayer wants to give this pregnant lady one more fun night, who am I to argue?

It’s awfully bright in here, though. There’s still a part of me who worries that he’ll get one look at my round body and run for the door. “This might be awkward,” I warn him.

“Why? Do you have a cat who likes to watch?”

“What? No!” I let out a nervous giggle. “But…I can’t be on my stomach. And I’m not supposed to lie on my back. And up against the door is a nonstarter…” I wiggle away from him and shut off the bedside lamp, plunging us into relative darkness.

“You are thinking way too hard,” he says, grasping my T-shirt and lifting it over my head. “But thank you for wearing elastic pants.” He grabs those and tugs them off, too.

His next kiss shuts me up, which is a relief to both of us. I am thinking way too hard. It’s my superpower.

But not for long. My hands are too busy pushing down his jeans and boxers. And then my palm finds his erection, with his hard, hot shaft against my hand.

“Now we’re talking.” His voice is a rough scrape. He sheds his T-shirt, tossing it to the floor.

And now I’m just a little bit sorry I turned out the light, because I’m becoming reacquainted with his impressive abs. I’m on all fours now, tracing my lips across his tight stomach, inhaling the scent of his skin.

Eric kicks off his shoes and pushes his jeans all the way off. Yes. And when I dip my chin and take his cockhead into my mouth, he lets out a happy grunt.

“Fuck yes.” His hands are in my hair. “Take more.”

I moan my assent, and then try to do just that. The truth is that I never enjoyed this before I did it for Eric. It was a part of sex that was expected rather than enjoyed.

But Eric makes me feel like a sex queen as he groans and shifts his hips. I relax my throat and take him as deeply as I dare, and the noises he makes are everything to me.

“Jesus fuck. Yes. Hell,” he babbles as I hollow out my cheeks and suck. It’s the sexiest thing I ever heard. I don’t know why he wants me so badly. It’s not because of my money, or connections. It’s sure as hell not for my giant, pregnant body.

But God it’s nice to be desired like this. To be craved. I’m having some cravings of my own. It’s not clear to me how they’re going be fulfilled. It won’t be easy, but I’m already having fun.

“Better stop that soon,” Eric rasps.

I release him with a wet pop, because I can’t wait to see what he’ll do next.

“Come here,” he says, slapping my ass. “Lose these panties. And that bra.”

“Not the bra,” I say quickly. My breasts are too heavy and tender.

“Suit yourself. Just get over here. I need to touch you.” He punctuates this statement by running a hand between my legs, over the fabric of my panties.

And my breath hitches as the damp silk brushes against my overheated body.

“You’re soaked,” he groans. “Get over here.”

I step onto the floor to shed the panties. “Better brace yourself,” I joke. “Just like you’d do on the ice before a dangerous hit.”

“Oh, please. Bracing is a bad strategy. It’s better to absorb the impact.

Like this.” He tugs my hips until I join him on the mattress again.

And then I’m straddling him. He lowers me down until I’m crouching over his thighs.

“Oh hell yes. God,” he adds as his fingers make contact with my pussy, which is already ripe and wet.

I moan shamelessly. Even this light touch makes me want to yell his name. “I…I don’t know how you’re going to pull this off,” I gasp. “But I need it so badly.”

He clicks his tongue. “I know you do. Is it okay for the baby?”

“It must be,” I say quickly. “The baby is already acquainted with my vibrator.”

His hand goes still on my body. “Alex,” he rasps. “Do you fuck yourself and think of me?”

I brace my hands on his shoulders and lean my achy body into his palm. “Sometimes,” I hedge. “Okay. Definitely.” I’m glad it’s dark in here so he can’t see my face turn red.

But Eric doesn’t laugh. He’s too busy sitting up, grabbing his cock, and lining it up beneath me. And I lower my hungry body down, welcoming him inside for the first time in months. I feel my muscles clench around him.

His moan is long and loud. “Yes,” he whispers. “Finally.” He tugs my hips down, until I’m taking him so deeply that I gasp. And then he’s kissing my neck, and cupping my breasts over the bra, and tracing his lips all over my skin.

Then he takes my mouth, and the kiss is shockingly tender. I feel goose bumps rise on my arms as his tongue greets mine with a slow slide.

My heart gives a kick. I like this man way too much. He has no idea what he’s doing to me right now. Tonight he’s the perfect imitation of an expectant father—bringing food home to his ravenous, pregnant wife. Offering to help out in the nursery.

Making love to her carefully after she erupts in a hormonal snit.

But it’s not real. None of this is really my life. I can only pretend that it is.

Pretending has its merits, though. I can rise slowly up on his cock and grind my hips against his as he groans.

I can lower my pussy again and again while our kisses bleed onward toward infinity.

I can grip his biceps while he kneads my ass and ride him until he makes a more desperate sound with each thrust.

It’s a gorgeous, mind-melting imitation of everything I want in the world. And when I finally come, moaning against his tongue, it feels real enough. His strong arms hold me tightly as he buries his face in my neck and clenches through his own groaning, shuddering climax.

But it’s over too soon. I come to a halt, still pinned against his big, sturdy body, with hot tears springing into my eyes.

I am not really sure if they are happy tears or sad ones.