We go to my bedroom so I can get into shorts and a shirt—my preferred pajamas.
“First off,” I say, flopping onto the yoga mat beside the bed. “Light stretching helps with the ligament pain.”
Tristan strips down to his boxers, and I’m momentarily agog. I will never get used to his sculpted muscles and tapered waist and tree trunk legs. My baby daddy is a Greek god moonlighting as an underwear model. Swallowing my drool, I guide us through seated twists and gentle side bends.
“You’re more flexible than I am,” I observe.
“It’s the hockey.”
“Do you think the kids will be athletic?”
He shrugs. “They’ll be whatever they want to be.”
Somehow, those words are more powerful to me than any promise of support or parental advice.
They’ll be whatever they want to be.
He is going to be the best father.
After the stretches, I hand him a small jar.
“This is moisture balm to help with stretch marks.”
He opens it, sniffs. “This smells like fancy cake.”
I lie down and lift my shirt just a bit, revealing the smooth, tight skin of my belly. He kneels by the side of the bed and licks his lips. His hands are gentle. Reverent, even. The cream is applied in slow circles, sensual and tender. His fingers follow the curve of my body, and every stroke stirs me lower, creating pleasurable tightness in my clit.
“God, I’ve missed you so much,” he mutters in a sexy rasp. “You’re all I think about.”
“Me too,” I admit. I’m about to pull him on top of me when my stomach growls, loudly and with comedic timing.
Tristan grins. “You’re hungry.”
I didn’t eat much at the brunch. No one did.
“Starving.” I sigh dramatically.
He kisses the curve of my belly, then stands. “Stay here. I’ve got it.”
He disappears and I lie sideways, hearing him clatter around in the kitchen. Drowsiness descends upon me, which is typical any time I lie down. My eyelids get heavy, and I bury myself under the blanket.
Not sure how long I nap, but when Tristan wakes me, he is holding two plates, each with a delicious-looking sandwich.
“Pan-seared chicken, lettuce, tomato, and a bit of Dijon. Do you want mayo, too?”
I sit up and take one of the plates. “No mayo. Thank you, Tristan.”
“My pleasure.”
“Did you toast the bread?”
“I’m not a monster,” he says with a chuckle.
The sandwich is perfect. He swallows his in a few bites and then watches me eat as if it’s the best part of his day.
Afterward, I clean up at the bathroom while he insists on tidying up the plates.
When he’s done, he comes back to the bedroom where I plan to keep him. I’ve had a nap and a meal, which is the ideal state of a pregnant woman for at least the next thirty minutes.
