Page 79 of Jonesing for a Spy

She nods, her head scraping up and down against my chest.

“Have you taken a test?” I hold my breath.

What does this mean?

She shakes her head. “My body’s been… off is a good word for it. I just realized my cycle should’ve started Wednesday. And it’s Saturday.”

“And you’re regular?” My words are odd and a little stilted. I grew up with two sisters. I’ve slept with women. I know the deal, but I don’t really know it.

“Very.”

I can’t decide if the anticipation is excitement or some other unnamed emotion. “Let’s go get a test.”

“Seriously, how are you not freaking out?” She asks on a rising voice.

“Freckles, I knew before my wheels touched down in Peoria that you were endgame. Well, you and me. This is confirmation.”

“The timing is jacked.” She wiggles into my back, and my dick notices.

“Maybe. And maybe it’s perfect. You’re not doing Ranger shit. You’re surrounded by family. My business is stable.” I’m not flaring up. And I’m not twenty and an idiot. “And it’s me.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see.” I kiss her temple. Energy and excitement warring inside me for dominance.

We fall silent. The warm water surrounding both of us, lulling us. Her fingertips draw patterns along my forearms, though I don’t know if she recognizes it. She does this while we’re in bed, and I love it.

The quiet is broken by her stomach growling. What time is it? Shit. I haven’t fed her.

“God, I’m a nightmare.” She sounds embarrassed.

“Why? Because you’re hungry? It’s natural.”

“I wish I were suave or”—she flails her hands, water flinging everywhere—“what is it when women look and act all polished?”

I lean in to whisper in her ear. “I want you, Mirren. Freckles, silliness, wide smiles, brothers with terrible timing, embarrassing moments. You. Just as you are. Okay?”

Her exhaled sigh is music to my ears.

“Now, do you want door dash or room service? Both will take forever. Or we can go out. What sounds good?”

Her stomach rumbles again. Her groan and my laugh tussle and echo off the marble walls. “Something good and fast.”

And without further ado, she stands, her perfect round ass right at my eye level. A groan escapes me.

She whirls. “Seriously?”

I probably look sheepish but the boy in me—the man in me—loves her butt. “I make no apologies, woman. Your ass is a work of art. And it does it for me.”

I spin her, kiss her belly, then swat her ass. “Let’s go. There’s shit to do.”

Mirren

The man is too perfect. He says the right things, does the right things, is calm in the face of crisis, and makes me feel seen.

He’s too good to be true.

And he just dropped his lips to my stomach. No worry. No panic. No freak-out.