Wild Flower by Abbie Williams Page B

of the great gray owls called and Justin moved with fluid grace, bracing carefully over me and cupping my face in his strong hands. He traced my lips with his thumbs before lowering his mouth to mine and kissing me so softly that I shivered.
    â€œI know, baby,” he whispered back, reading my eyes. “I know it.”
    â€œI was just thinking of the summer you started calling me ‘Jilly-Anne,’” I went on, getting my arms around his neck and my fingers into his hair. “You must have known how much of a crush I had on you, even back then.”
    â€œI wasn’t observant enough that summer, but subconsciously maybe I had a clue,” he allowed softly, kissing my nose and then my chin, which he bit lightly, sliding one hand down my ribs as he ran his tongue along my bottom lip. He whispered, “You’re so soft. Soft as silk, baby, I can’t touch you enough.”
    â€œI need your mouth…right here…” I ordered in a whisper, lifting my breasts against his bare, hairy chest. Justin grinned again and pressed his lips to my collarbone, easing the soft, stretched-out white t-shirt I was wearing over my left shoulder. My nipples were nearly slicing through the material. Pregnancy made my nerves, my skin, so very sensitive that I could hardly bear the teasing. I clarified breathlessly, “Right at this moment, I mean.”
    Justin skimmed the t-shirt over my head without further ado, taking me into his mouth, cupping my other breast in his strong hand. He lifted his head to tease me, his voice a little hoarse, “It’s kinda like palming a basketball.”
    I giggled, tipping my cheek to the pillow, and said, “A basketball with a nipple, you mean.”
    At that moment our son landed a kick on the inner curve of my belly, strong enough that I gasped in surprise and Justin lifted his head from my breasts again, dark eyebrows lofted high.
    â€œHoly shit, that was a big one,” he said, studying my stomach as though he was imagining the baby boxing his way free of the confines.
    â€œHe’s not done yet,” I said, lifting to my elbows and observing as what was surely a tiny heel pressed outward from just beneath my ribs, distorting the roundness.
    â€œOh, wow,” Justin said, laughing a little, putting his hand over our son’s foot. His voice was hushed and reverent as he said, “I love when I can see him. Look there.”
    I smiled at his expression and said, “I feel it, believe me. Wow, he’s on a roll now.”
    Justin’s smile vanished at once as he asked, “It doesn’t hurt you, does it? I don’t remember Rae kicking you so hard when she was in there.”
    I shook my head and Justin’s shoulders relaxed. I said, “It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt. He’s definitely more active than his big sister. Clinty was that way too. Maybe it’s a boy thing.”
    â€œWhoa!” Justin said then, watching as my belly subtly changed shape with each new kick. His tone was that of someone on the sidelines of an athletic competition.
    â€œShoulda had a beer before bed,” I teased, which is what Gran would have told me to do, and Justin laughed, resting on one elbow near my hips.
    â€œLook, I think that’s a knee,” he said, watching raptly.
    â€œHe was quiet all afternoon,” I said, settling comfortably on my side. “When I’m moving he snoozes and then when I finally lie down he thinks it’s a free-for-all.”
    Justin stroked my belly, following the movements of the baby, and almost lulled me to sleep. After a time he said softly, “I’m sorry I teased you this morning.”
    â€œDon’t be sorry,” I said, opening my eyes. “I was being ridiculous.”
    â€œNo, you weren’t,” he said, shifting back up the bed. He caught my hip in his right hand and aligned his much longer, bigger body so that we were lying face