Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Not thinking, I lean into Grayson’s embrace, my head coming to rest on his chest. With his body taking most of my weight, the weightless feeling I’m experiencing extends from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair.
“I had no idea how heavy it all was until now.”
Grayson doesn’t flinch at me referring to my unborn child as an “it.” He simply allows me to relish a moment I doubt I’d have with anyone else. It is probably because he knows I’m not solely referring to the heaviness of my midsection. His hold has lifted a ton of weight from my shoulders as well.
After all this time, it’s like the only burden I’m carrying is my own.
I force my sluggish eyes to open when Grayson says a short time later, “Do you think you could sleep now?”
I almost scoff at the idea of sleeping standing up until I realize how groggy I am. My eyelids are heavy, and my mouth is dry since it has limited my saliva production.
I’m seconds from passing out.
“I think I could.” Grayson’s laugh rumbles through my back when I murmur through a yawn, “But I’m not sure I could rock a giraffe neckline. Turtlenecks aren’t my style.”
I yawn again, and it sees Grayson slowly maneuvering us toward the bedroom. I love how weightless his hold has made me, but it won’t last when I slip into bed. It is growing increasingly uncomfortable to sit, so I’m unsure if a sleeping position will fare much better.
After I say that to Grayson, he says that there’s no harm in trying.
I mumble obscenities under my breath when the duvet brushing against my knee corresponds with Grayson removing his hands from my stomach. The weight I’m forced to endure alone again drags me into a moody pit in less than half a second, and I more slump into the bed than glide into it.
My throat dries for a completely different reason than tiredness when Grayson requests that I scoot over.
Mistaking my expression, he pulls out an invisible we’re-just-friends card. “I won’t try anything or do any weird shit. I’ll get you settled so hopefully you’ll get more than a couple of hours of sleep.” When his reply sounds foreign even to him, he hooks his thumb to the door. “I could get some medical tape. It will act like the pregnancy support girdle Alex is adamant Regan will never have.”
I giggle like a schoolgirl when he gags before I slide to the far-left side of the bed. “I’m happy for you to use your hands… if you’re comfortable with that?”
It doesn’t matter the gender; consent is a fundamental requirement for any relationship, including those based solely on friendship.
For the length of time it takes for Grayson to join me on the mattress, anyone would swear I asked him to be the big spoon.
I realize some of the delay was Grayson switching his dress shirt and trousers for boxers and an undershirt when he slips under the sheets next to me. His clothing is as soft as a feather and lulls me even closer to sleep.
“I’ll place one arm under you and drape the other near your stomach.”
Again, he waits for my approval before doing as suggested. Even with only one of his hands accepting some of the weight in my stomach, it is as satisfying this time around as it was earlier. It feels incredible, and I moan in appreciation of the weightlessness.
With his spare hand, Grayson arches me back until my achy hip no longer bears the weight that his hand isn’t accepting. Then he places a gap between my thighs with his knee.
“How does that feel?”
“Good. So good.” My words are more moans than straight-up confirmations.
The mad beat of his heart rages against my back when I scoot back until the arm wedged under me can act like the pillow I use to make sure I don’t roll onto my stomach partway through the night.
Within two quick shuffles, Grayson’s body swamps me, and I’ve never felt warmer or more comfortable. More protected.
When the baby shows his or her appreciation for the additional space, Grayson’s breathy exhale ruffles the hairs at the nape of my neck, though that’s the entirety of his response to the excessive wiggling of my midsection.
I’d look more deeply into his unusual quiet if the steady beat of his heart and the soothing rhythm of his breaths didn’t lull me into a peaceful and uninterrupted slumber.
15
GRAYSON
When I wake up minus the headache that’s plagued me throughout my adult life, I forget where I am. The comfort of a bed is unfamiliar—as is the scent of lavender and vanilla filling my nostrils. I’ve smelled it before. Multiple times. But it was never this close or as potent. It practically coats my skin, and it stretches my boxer shorts as they struggle to contain my morning wood.