36. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
The coordinates bring me to a long wooden dock over water so clear I can see straight through it. I cut the engine, let the yacht drift the last of it, and tie off. I stand there for a second with my hands on the railing, looking at the cottage.
Our cottage.
Low. White. Set back behind a fringe of palms. A porch facing the water.
Perfect.
Charlotte is somewhere inside.
I step off the dock and walk up the beach. The door’s unlocked. I push it open and step into a room that smells like saltwater, something freshly cooked, and Charlotte—distinctly Charlotte.
“Charlotte?”
“Dane... you’re early,” she calls from the back of the house. “I’ll be right there.”
Of course I’m early.
Six months apart was long enough. The second I was free to leave Brisbane, I was gone. There was no chance I was wasting another minute getting back to her.
She rushes through the doorway.
And I stop cold.
For a second, my brain refuses to catch up with what I’m seeing.
I look at her face first.
Then the rest of her.
“Charlotte.”
Her name is the only thing I can manage.
Her body—beneath the thin cotton dress—is unmistakable.
Rounded. Full.
She slides her hands around her stomach, cradling it, and the gesture somehow makes it real in a way it wasn’t a second ago.
My heart stumbles.
I cross the room without thinking. My hands get there before anything else—settling on either side of her, feeling the curve of her, the warmth, the undeniable reality beneath my palms.
“Char, you’re pregnant.” My eyes drop to her stomach again. “Very pregnant.”
I look at her, then back down.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would have come the second you knew.”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate.
“I absolutely fucking would have.”
Her hand comes over mine, resting there.
“Which would’ve been a setback. It would’ve stirred everything up again. And it felt cruel to tell you, then ask you to stay away. You needed to stay in Brisbane.”
“I would never have let you go through this alone.”
“I know. But I haven’t been alone. Your mum’s been here the whole time.”
I knew Mum was still here. I thought it was strange she’d chosen to stay with Charlotte instead of going back home to Marcus and the girls, but I never questioned it. I was grateful that Charlotte had someone with her.
Now it makes a lot more sense.
Charlotte squeezes my hand.
“Christina has things to tell you,” she says. “Important things.”
There’s a weight to that—important—something I register without fully taking in. My head’s still catching up, trying to make sense of the shock of finding Charlotte pregnant and everything that comes with it.
“Okay, but she can tell me later.”
The words barely leave my mouth before I lean in.
My hands are already there, spread over the curve of her stomach, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress, the unmistakable proof of what’s inside her.
Then I kiss her.
Slow at first. Like I’m reminding myself she’s really here.
Her mouth meets mine instantly, familiar in a way that makes something tighten in my chest. Six months disappear the second she touches me. The distance. The waiting. All of it.
She makes a soft sound against my lips and melts closer. One hand slides up to my face, her fingers brushing along my jaw.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, letting some of the things I haven’t been able to say find their way through instead.
For a moment, everything else falls away.
There’s only Charlotte.
Only us.
When I pull back, there’s color in her cheeks, and her breathing is uneven.
“Do you want to see our house?” she asks. “I could show you the bedroom first.”
A laugh escapes me.
“The only room I want to see right now is the bedroom.”
She takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
The bedroom is at the far end of the cottage. I barely register anything on the way.
The tour can wait.
The second we step inside, she turns toward me, and I close the distance between us. My mouth finds hers again before either of us can say a word.
Her hands are already on my shirt, tugging it free, and she pulls it over my head.
Then I reach for her dress, and she stills.
“Dane...” Her eyes drop. “I look very different from the last time you saw me naked.”
For a moment, I just look at her.
At the woman I love.
At the life growing beneath her heart.
“Charlotte,” I say quietly. “Your body is beautiful.”
Emotion flickers across her face.
“It looks exactly like it should. Like the body of a woman carrying our child.”
A small smile pulls at her mouth.
“Eyes up here, Charlotte.”
There’s a beat. Then she lifts her gaze, slowly at first, before finally meeting mine and holding it.
“I mean it.”
Her smile softens. And when I kiss her, she doesn’t hesitate.
My hands find the hem of her dress, and I don’t rush it. I gather the fabric slowly, letting my knuckles brush the outside of her thighs as I lift it, watching her face instead of what I’m doing.
She raises her arms, and I pull the dress up and over her head, letting it fall somewhere behind me.
She’s left in her bra and underwear, and I see the moment self-consciousness creeps in. Her arms shift as if to cover herself, but I take her wrists gently and guide them back down.
“None of that,” I say.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her underwear and ease them down slowly, steady enough that she rests a hand on my shoulder to keep her balance. She steps out of them, and I stay there for a moment, my hands resting lightly on her calves before I stand again.
A moment later, there’s nothing left between us but the vulnerability she’s trying not to show.
Then I lower myself in front of her. No rush. No hesitation.
I look at her.
All of her.
The way her body has changed. Not less. Never that. Just different. Softer at her waist. Fuller. Her stomach rounded with our child. The faint silver lines low on her skin catching the light—evidence of what she’s carrying, what she’s done.
I don’t rush past any of it.
“Dane.”
Her voice is quiet, carrying that rare vulnerability she almost never lets anyone see.
“I’m looking, babe,” I say. “Don’t rush me.”
She exhales slowly and lets me.
“Don’t decide what you think I see when I look at you. You have no idea.”
She hesitates before saying it.
“I’m not sexy the way I used to be.”
“Charlotte, you’re growing my baby inside you. Do you understand how beautiful that is?”
My hands move over her—her hips, her waist, the curve of her stomach—relearning her.
“Knowing there’s a part of me inside you...” I shake my head. “That makes you sexier than you’ve ever been.”
For a moment, I stay where I am, my hands resting on the curve of her stomach, trying to take it all in.
Our child.
The thought still doesn't feel real.
Then I rise to my feet and pull her closer, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. She breathes out, and some of the tension leaves her with it.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say. “Always.”
Her hands come up to my shoulders.
“You always manage to make me feel beautiful.”
“Because you are. And seeing you like this—carrying my child—only makes me want you more. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
We move to the bed, and I guide her down carefully, one hand at her back, the other steadying her until she’s comfortable.
I’m more aware of her now. More deliberate. Like every movement matters.
There’s no rush.
I take my time, kissing her collarbone, the curve of her fuller breasts, rediscovering the parts of her that have changed and the parts that are still so familiar.
Her fingers move through my hair, and the soft sounds she makes settle somewhere deep in my chest.
I shift over her, careful to keep my weight off her.
“I’ve missed you so much, Dane,” she says, her breath catching. “I need to feel you inside me.”
The words hit me harder than they should.
I reach between us and guide my cock to her entrance, my tip feeling her warmth before I move. I pause for a second, watching her face, making sure she’s comfortable, making sure she’s ready.
Then I ease into her slowly.
Controlled.
Careful.
Just the first inch.
It takes damn near every ounce of restraint I possess.
Her warmth closes around me, and I stay there, holding still, every bit of self-control pulled tight.
She looks up at me and grins.
“Dane.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice, mixed with impatience. “Is that it? You’re going to stop there?”
I hold her gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Either of you.”
“You won’t.” Her hand slides to my lower back, urging me closer. “Give me more.”
I move another inch, slow and careful, watching her face for any sign I should stop. She exhales, and her grip tightens.
“It’s been six months,” she says, her breath catching. “I need more than that.”
“I’m scared to—” The words catch in my throat. “After last time.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Everything’s fine this time. You don’t have to be afraid.”
I search her face.
“No bleeding? No cramping?”
“None.”
“You’ll tell me if it hurts?” I ease in a little more, holding back far more than I want to. “Promise me.”
“I will.” Her fingers tighten against my back, keeping me close. “I promise. But you’re not going to hurt me, Dane.” She lets out a small breath. “Stop worrying.”
I believe her.
So I give her the rest, slowly and carefully. She makes a quiet sound, and I hold still for a moment once I’m there, letting us both adjust.
It feels the same as it always has.
Familiar.
Right.
“Ah... there it is.”
I start to move, but not the way I would have before. There’s no urgency to it. No rush. Just slow, deliberate movements.
I watch her face. Follow her reactions. The way her hands move over me. The quiet sounds she makes against my shoulder.
I keep my weight braced above her.
I keep checking her eyes.
She lets out a soft, frustrated sound. “I’m not going to break.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like I might.”
“I’ll look at you however I want.”
That pulls a laugh out of her, and I feel the shift immediately—the tension easing, the moment settling back into something lighter.