“You were meant to.”
I settled into the rocking chair he’d made for me—carved from a single piece of oak, smooth and perfect, with cushions he’d had custom made in the exact shade of blue I’d mentioned liking once.
I adjusted my nursing gown and brought our daughter to my breast. She latched on immediately, and I sighed at the familiar relief.
Bridger knelt in front of us, his hand coming to rest on my knee.
“You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I’m exhausted, still covered in spit-up from the last feeding, and currently shaped like a loaf of homemade bread.” I looked down at my soft, postpartum belly under the loose nursing gown. I’d gained a new layer of softness since having our girl,and while I loved what my body had done, those old corporate-era insecurities sometimes tried to poke their head out.
“Still beautiful,” he insisted, his gaze burning with total sincerity as he slid his hand beneath my gown.
“Bridger,” I warned, even though I could feel my body respond with a sudden wave of heavy heat pooling right between my thighs.
“Hmm?” His fingers trailed upwards to slide under the elastic of my panties. He grinned when he realized I was wet.
“I’m feeding our daughter.”
“I know.” His rough, wood-carver’s palm was a heavy, scorching weight against my skin, sinking right into the thick fullness of my thigh. “I can multitask.”
“That’s not—” I gasped as the tip of his finger found my now aching bud. “That’s not multitasking.”
“No?” He pressed his finger down harder, rubbing softly. His other hand came up to my free breast, squeezing the my heavy, milk-rich curve gently through the fabric of my gown. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
I did. God help me, I did.
He wasn’t just touching me. He was worshipping me. Had from the moment he’d first touched me. It made me feel so damn beautiful to know he wanted me this much.
“Bridger.”
“Just touching,” he said innocently. “Making sure you’re comfortable.”
“That’s not what you’re doing.”
“No?”
The hand beneath my grown moved faster.
Our daughter kept nursing, completely oblivious to her father’s wandering hands.
“We can’t—not while she’s—”
“I know.” But his fingers were doing something that made my toes curl. “I just want to touch you. That okay?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
He smiled—that wicked smile that I’d fallen for—and kept on touching me. Gentle. Reverent. Possessive.
“Rule number fifty-one,” I said, trying to focus. “When the mountain man gives you that look, just surrender.”
“What look?”
“The one you’re giving me right now.”