Chapter 3 #2
I look at the babies.
Then at him.
"Okay."
I leave the nursery reluctantly, but for the first time all afternoon, I let myself believe that it's okay to step away.
Downstairs, the house feels strangely quiet without the babies.
The late afternoon sunlight pours through the enormous windows, turning the warm wood floors golden. The living room smells faintly of the vanilla candle Rhett must have lit earlier and the clean, comforting scent of laundry detergent from the freshly washed blankets folded on the sofa.
I sink onto the couch. For a few minutes, I simply sit there.
Then I hear the front door open again. This time, heavier footsteps cross the entryway.
Lane.
I know it's him before I see him. There's something about his presence that's impossible to mistake.
When he walks into the living room, he's still wearing the clothes he left in that morning, although his dark hair is slightly disheveled and there are faint shadows beneath his eyes.
His broad shoulders make the doorway seem narrower, and even exhausted from a day at the hospital, he carries himself with the controlled steadiness of someone accustomed to being the person everyone else relies on.
He smells faintly of clean soap, something crisp and woody from his cologne, and the sterile trace of the hospital that seems to cling to him after a long shift.
His dark eyes find me immediately. "You okay, Esme?"
"Rhett has the babies. I’m just taking a break."
His eyebrows pull together. "Hey, baby, look at me. Everything okay?"
I nod automatically. Then I shake my head. "No."
Lane sets his bag down. "What happened?"
I look at my hands. "They've been crying all day. I couldn't figure out why."
"I checked everything," I continue. "They ate. Their diapers were clean. They don't have a fever. I tried rocking them and walking with them and singing and?—"
My voice breaks. I stop.
Lane is standing directly in front of me now. "You don't have to explain."
I look up. His expression has softened.
I swallow hard. The tears I've been holding back all afternoon finally spill over. "I just felt so helpless."
Lane doesn't hesitate. He sits beside me and opens his arms. “Looks like you need a hug. Come here, baby. Let me take care of you. You look like you need it.”
For a second, I simply stare at him.
Then I move. I fold into him before I can think better of it. His arms close around me immediately.
I feel the solid breadth of his chest beneath my cheek and breathe in that clean, woody scent again. One of his hands settles between my shoulder blades while the other moves slowly over my hair, smoothing it back from my face.
The gesture is so gentle that it almost hurts.
I close my eyes. Lane strokes my hair again. "You had a hard day."
The words are simple. But something about hearing them makes the tears come harder.
His fingers move slowly through my hair. "You don't have to be perfect."
I let out a shaky breath, relaxing against him. His hand continues stroking my hair, slow and soothing, and little by little the tension drains from my body.
Right now, being held by Lane feels dangerously close to being loved.
I lift my face. He's already looking down at me.
Our eyes meet. Neither of us speaks. His hand is still resting against the side of my head, his fingers caught gently in my hair.
My heart beats harder. I become aware of how close we are, of the warmth of his body. Of the faint shadow along his jaw. Of the way his dark eyes seem almost black when he's looking at me like this.
"Lane..."
His thumb brushes once, almost absentmindedly, along my temple. "Yeah?"
I should look away.
I don't.
Something reckless rises inside me. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's the relief of finally being held. Maybe it's the attraction I've been trying not to acknowledge since the day I met him.
I swallow. "I think I might need a different kind of stress relief."
His expression changes. The warmth in his eyes deepens.
His hand stills in my hair.
My pulse jumps. For several long seconds, neither of us moves. We simply stare at each other.
The room seems to grow quieter around us, as though the entire enormous house has disappeared and there is nothing left except his hand in my hair, my body pressed against his, and the question neither of us is brave enough to ask aloud.
Lane's gaze drops briefly to my lips. “By a different kind of stress relief, you mean the kind where I take care of your body and worship it?”
I nod, cheeks flaming. “Exactly that kind. I know it’s inappropriate and you don’t have to?—”
“Shhh.” His lips brush against mine. Electricity shoots straight down to my toes, setting my core aflame. “It’s okay to ask for what you want. I’m attracted to you, Esme. And we’re both adults who can make our own choices.”
I inhale in shock. I can’t believe a hot doctor who makes six figures wants me. But he makes me believe when he presses his mouth against mine.
Lane's hands cup my face with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. His thumbs brush along my cheekbones once, twice, as though he's memorizing the shape of my face.
Then he kisses me. It's a shock to my nerves as his hard, masculine lips claim mine. His mouth closes over mine with the kind of certainty that makes my knees go weak. His lips are warm and firm, and when they part slightly, I feel the sweep of his tongue along the seam of my mouth.
I open for him without thinking. His tongue slides against mine, slow and deliberate, and heat floods through me so suddenly I gasp against his mouth.
Lane makes a low sound in his chest. His hands tighten slightly against my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue strokes mine again, exploring, tasting, claiming.
I whimper.
The sound seems to break something loose in him.
His kiss becomes hungrier. More demanding.
One hand slides from my face into my hair, tangling in the strands and holding me exactly where he wants me while his mouth devours mine.
He bites my full bottom lip, making me moan into his mouth.
He seems to like it, because he does it again, grazing his teeth over my lower lip until I'm quivering on the inside.
Molten heat rushes through my belly. I can feel my stomach liquefying from the intense currents of pleasure that his kiss produces inside me. I'm dizzy. My entire body feels like it's been set on fire.
My core clenches, and I feel the unmistakable rush of wetness between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together, but it only makes the ache worse. My channel feels tight, yet so empty.
Lane pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips. "You're squirming."
"I can't help it."
His eyes are dark. Almost black. "Come here."
Before I can ask what he means, his hands close around my waist, and he lifts me effortlessly onto his lap.
I settle against him with a startled gasp, my thighs straddling his, and immediately I feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against me through his pants.
That sends a bolt of electric heat straight through my core. His erection throbs against my belly, demanding to be satisfied. And the feminine, soft part of me wants nothing more than to take him inside my pussy and milk his cock until he spills everything he has in my aching pussy.
Lane's hands slide to my hips, holding me in place. His voice is rough when he speaks. "Can I touch you?"
I nod so quickly it's embarrassing. "Please."
His mouth curves. "Such good manners."
Then his hands move. His fingers make contact with my shoulders, causing tiny pricks of heat to erupt along my arms. His touch is like a matchstick; it sets every part of. me it touches on fire.
Lane slides the thin straps of my camisole down my shoulders slowly, one at a time, his fingers trailing along my skin. The fabric slips lower, baring the tops of my breasts, and Lane's gaze drops.
His jaw tightens. "Fucking beautiful."
He kisses me again, harder this time, and his hands move to my breasts. He squeezes them through the fabric, and I feel the ache in my swollen flesh intensify. I'm so full that even his thumb pressing against my boob flesh makes me wince.
I moan into his mouth.
Lane breaks the kiss, his breathing uneven. "I love your tits."
My face flames. "Lane, I'm engorged."
"I mean it." His hands squeeze again, kneading the heavy weight of my breasts. "You looked so fucking hot breastfeeding the babies. I wanted to taste you myself. I've been thinking about it for days."
I can barely breathe. "You have? Really?"
"Every time I see you," he murmurs, his thumbs brushing over where my nipples are straining against the fabric. "Every time I hear you humming to them in the nursery. Every time I walk past your room at night and know you're in there sleeping."
He pulls my camisole down further, and suddenly my breasts spill free.
Lane exhales hard. "Jesus Christ."
I look down at myself. My breasts are enormous and swollen, my nipples dark and distended. There's already a bead of milk clinging to one of them.
Lane's gaze is fixed on that single drop. "You're leaking."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't apologize for doing something natural and beautiful."
His hand comes up, and he traces one areola with his fingertip, circling slowly. "These are perfect. So fucking full. You must be aching."
I nod. "The babies were too fussy to nurse properly today."
Lane makes a low, sympathetic sound. "Then let me help you."
He leans down and licks the bead of milk from my nipple.
I cry out. The sensation is electric. His tongue is warm and wet, and the drag of it across my sensitive nipple sends heat spiraling straight down to my core. My lower belly tenses, pressure building inside my channel.
Lane pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Scoop them up for me."
I hesitate for only a second. Then I lift my hands and cup my breasts, pushing them together and offering them to him.
His pupils dilate. "Good girl."
"Please," I whisper. "Drink from me. I want you to. I need you to."