22. Sawyer #3
Wordlessly, I reached forward to grab his hand and place it right where I’d felt the movement. His large hand dwarfed my stomach, the sight stealing my breath. “He likes it when you talk to him. That’s normally how I get him to flutter around.”
Beckett nodded, eyes glued to where his hand sat. Then, he dropped to his knees and situated himself between my legs, cupping my belly like it held the answer to every question he ever wanted to ask. “Hey, baby boy. It’s your daddy.”
As if the sight of him kneeling before me wasn’t enough, he had to go and say something like that. It was wildly tender and stupidly arousing all at once. My body was completely at odds with itself, trying to figure out which sensation to chase.
He hadn’t spoken last time, seemingly too nervous to make a misstep, but he didn’t back down this time.
“You’ve got to be good for your momma, okay? It takes a lot of work to make sure you’ll be big and strong when you come out. You can’t be tossing and turning all night,” he murmured.
Just then, the fluttering was back, coupled with a sharp jab. Beckett looked up at me, and we both broke out in quiet laughter. My heart ached as I took in the utter joy and awe in his features, the way his face softened at our son’s movements.
In spite of our past that led us here, regardless of the future and what it held in store, we shared a single thread in the tapestry of life that would forever connect us.
And it was right here beneath his hands.
It might have been by accident, but what if this life we created was always meant to bring us together?
It was crazy, but I’d never felt as close with someone as I did with Beckett.
Things hadn’t been easy since he came back, but that had everything to do with me fighting against what felt right instead of leaning into it.
So what if this was crazy? Crazier things had happened before.
Duke and Olivia were prime examples of that.
Their lives had been intertwined in so many ways before they got together, but it was the cutting of one single thread that’d finally driven them together.
Beckett rose, coming to eye level. With one hand on my belly, the other snaked up my arm and cupped my face.
I leaned into his touch, too tired to fight him or tell him we shouldn’t do this.
What good did it do? He wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d been adamant about that from the moment he learned about the pregnancy.
And I was tired of running. From him. From my feelings. From what could be.
“Sawyer…” My name was a plea, a show of desperation. His gentle brown gaze dipped to my lips. “I want the chance to redo our kiss from this afternoon. To make it better.”
I swallowed the fear clawing at my throat and nodded. “I think I’d like that.”
“Yeah?” he asked, leaning in. I could barely think as I felt his breath skate across my lips. “Is that what my girl wants?”
“More than anything,” I whispered.
That was all it took for Beckett’s mouth to crash against my own.
It was soft and gentle and full of tenderness.
This was the type of kiss that I had dreamt of my entire life.
The kind that had poets penning sonnets, and people dancing in the streets.
It was a rowdy Saturday night and a lazy Sunday morning wrapped up in one.
I threaded my hands through his hair, loving the way his thick curls felt beneath my fingers.
A low groan reverberated from deep in his throat, sending goosebumps skittering across my skin.
This man, this beautiful man, was an addiction I never wanted to be rid of.
As his tongue swiped across my own, I let him deepen the kiss.
How did I think I could survive without experiencing this again?
It was like finding a piece of a puzzle I hadn’t known was missing.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against mine. Our breathing was harsh and labored as we stared at one another, locked in a moment neither one of us would ever forget.
“Better?” he asked. There was a tremor in his voice that hadn’t been there before. He was scared, and I found comfort in that.
“Much.” I smiled as a silly realization popped into my mind. “That’s one more thing checked off your bucket list.”
Beckett’s laughter was warm, like a hot fudge sundae on a summer day. “Which one is that?”
“Kissing the small town girl in her childhood bedroom.”
“Ah, you’re right. That one is important,” he mused, fighting a smile. “But not as important as getting the small town girl pregnant.”
“You like that one, huh?”
Beckett’s hand rested gently on my belly, his thumb gently gliding over the fabric of my t-shirt. “It’s my favorite.”
My heart quickened as he leaned in for an innocent kiss. It was nothing more than a peck, but it set me alight all the same. There was a sense of familiarity to it. Like we’d been doing this for years.
It was a reckless thing for us to do, trading heated glances and tender kisses. Neither of us knew what the future might hold, but there was one thing I knew for certain.
“It’s my favorite, too.”