Chapter Twenty
~ Jackson ~
I stood on the porch with my hand resting on my belly—a habit now, my palm following the low, round curve automatically while my eyes tracked the late afternoon light across the pasture.
The warmth of the day was fading, but still caught in the spaces between my clothes and skin. I’d gotten too big for the rail to lean on, which meant standing with my weight evenly distributed, one hip cocked slightly.
Not the most comfortable position after five and a half months of growing this kid inside me, but what the hell else was I supposed to do while waiting for a man who’d been gone for a month?
The sound came first—the familiar crunch of tires on gravel, the engine rumble that didn’t match any of the ranch trucks. I straightened as best I could with ten extra pounds out front, one hand sliding from my stomach to brace against the porch post.
Cruz’s black F-150 rounded the bend and slowed, then rolled to a stop in front of the house. The engine cut, leaving a silence I hadn’t noticed was there before.
I watched him climb out, his movements deliberate as always. He straightened and looked up at the porch, and I saw it hit him—the moment his eyes fixed on the curve of my stomach, visible even under the loose flannel shirt I’d thrown on that morning.
Cruz went completely still at the bottom of the steps, one hand still on the truck’s door handle, the other hanging at his side.
His face—Christ, his face did something I’d only seen once or twice in all the months I’d known him.
Every guard came down. Every wall dropped.
Whatever had been keeping him professional and distant and away for a month evaporated in the two seconds it took for him to get from confusion to recognition.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been on the phone calls. “You look amazing.”
He took the porch steps in two long strides and was in front of me before I could say anything. His arms came around me—careful of my stomach, but not treating it like something that might shatter—and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t a hello kiss. It was the kind of kiss that made up for a month of distance all at once, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he was memorizing the shape of it, one hand cradling the back of my neck while the other slid around to press against the small of my back.
I kissed him back, hard, one hand fisting in his shirt to keep him close. By the time he pulled back, my breathing was ragged.
Cruz’s hands were already moving, sliding over my stomach through the flannel, tracing the full curve of it with a deliberation that made something in my chest tighten.
“You’re bigger,” he said, not a question.
I snorted. “Yeah, well, five and half months of a baby inside you’ll do that.”
His hands paused for a second, then continued their slow exploration. “I know it’s probably too late in the pregnancy,” he said, his voice low and rough around the edges. “But I want you so fucking bad I can’t think straight. I should be asking if you’re okay, how the appointments went, if—“
“Blow job,” I said, the words coming out before my brain had time to edit. “I wouldn’t say no to a blow job.”
Cruz’s mouth curved into that half-smile that still managed to make my stomach drop. “Yeah?”
I shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “I’ve had one hand to work with for a month. Not exactly the same.”
His hand slid up from my stomach to the side of my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip. “Come inside,” he said.
He took my hand—not pulling, just holding—and led me through the front door. The farmhouse smelled the same as it had when he left: cedar from the woodwork, coffee from that morning’s pot, and underneath it all, the faintest trace of the beeswax candles I’d been burning when I couldn’t sleep.
The hardwood floors gleamed in the afternoon light, the furniture exactly where it had been for the past three months.
Nothing had changed except me.
Cruz steered me toward the living room instead of the bedroom, his hand warm against the small of my back.
The deliberateness of that choice registered—the couch was easier for my center of gravity, the living room a dozen steps closer than the bedroom.
A practical consideration for a body that had its own geometry now.
“I’m not gonna break,” I told him, even as I let him guide me to the couch.
“I know,” he said. “But I’m not taking chances either.”
He reached for the hem of my shirt and lifted it with careful hands, waiting for me to raise my arms before pulling it over my head.
His fingers worked the ties of my pants next, then easing them down my hips and letting them drop to the floor.
He went to his knees to help me step out of them, one hand braced against my calf for balance.
Within a minute, I was sitting on the couch cushions in nothing but my socks and the silver bracelet from Cruz that caught the afternoon light coming through the window. I’d put it on that morning, another habit I’d developed without meaning to.
Cruz knelt in front of me and looked up, his eyes dark and steady. “Okay?”
I nodded, unable to form words with him looking at me like that.
His hands started at my knees, palms warm as they slid up my thighs. They paused at the juncture of hip and leg, then moved higher, up over the full curve of my stomach. He traced it slowly, one hand following the other, like he was taking inventory of something that mattered to him.
I let him. Two months ago I might have deflected, might have caught his wrist or made some smart remark to break the tension. But I was past that point now, past the need to hide what this was doing to me. My hands stayed loose at my sides rather than crossing over my chest the way they used to.
“You’re beautiful,” Cruz said, his voice rough. “Jesus, Jax. You’re fucking beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t hold the expression when his thumb brushed over my nipple and sent a jolt straight down my spine. “It’s just a pregnant belly, Cruz. They’re not exactly rare.”
“Not just the belly,” he said, his hands still moving. “All of it. The way you’re sitting. The way you’re looking at me. The fact that you’re here at all.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.”
Cruz’s hands paused. “You did,” he said. “You always do. That’s what makes you choosing to stay here matter.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, his hands slid from my stomach to my thighs, spreading them wider as he leaned forward. “Now,” he said, his breath warm against the inside of my thigh, “about that blow job.”
Cruz got to work with his mouth, starting at the inside of my thigh. He dragged his teeth lightly upward, just enough pressure to make my skin prickle with sensation, and my hand went to the back of his head without me deciding to put it there.
His hair was shorter than it had been when he left, the dark strands just long enough to curl around my fingers.
He moved higher, breath hot against the crease where leg met hip, then wrapped one hand around the base of my cock—already hard just from watching him take in my changed body. He ran his tongue up the underside from root to tip in one slow stroke that made my hips jerk off the couch.
“Fuck,” I breathed, tightening my grip in his hair.
Cruz did it again, unhurried, his tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside before circling the head. He sealed his lips around it and sank down, cheeks hollowing with the suction. The heat of his mouth was sharp and immediate, almost too much after a month of my own hand.
My head dropped back against the couch cushions. I stopped managing my breathing, letting it come fast and shallow as Cruz worked me with long, deliberate pulls. His free hand moved between my legs, rolling my balls with firm, knowing pressure, the slight tug sending pulses of pleasure up my spine.
He pulled off periodically, dragging his tongue down the shaft and mouthing along my balls, sucking each one in turn while his fist stroked slow and easy. My thighs tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again as he worked his way back up, tracing the same path with the flat of his tongue.
“Christ, Cruz,” I managed, when he sealed his lips around the head again and sucked hard.
My thighs were shaking by then, the muscles jumping under my skin. I tightened my grip in his hair—not directing, just holding on—and Cruz hummed against me. The vibration ran up my cock, a sensation so intense I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from thrusting up.
He took me deeper, his nose pressed to the base, working the back of his throat in a way that made my vision blur at the edges.
I could feel every inch of him—the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of stubble against the inside of my thigh, the firm pressure of his hand on my hip holding me steady.
He pulled back to the tip, tongued the slit, gathering the precome there before sinking down again in one smooth motion I felt in my spine. My free hand found the arm of the couch and gripped it hard enough to leave marks.
The one frustration—and it was a big one—was the fact that I couldn’t see a damn thing. My stomach had become a round, solid wall between me and whatever Cruz’s mouth was doing.
I was operating purely on sensation: the suction, the slick heat, his tongue working the underside of my cock on every upstroke, the hand still rolling my balls, the other hand pressed flat against my hip to steady me.
It should have been frustrating. It should have been a distraction. Instead, it pushed everything higher, forcing me to feel instead of watching, making every touch sharper, every sensation more immediate.