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So much for keeping his hands to himself.

His key fob tumbled to the floor. She wound her arms around his waist, arching into him, and he pulled her closer, as near to him as he could get her, even as she stepped out of her shoes and reached for his belt, while he backed them deeper into the house.

He lifted her against him, hands under her thighs, and settled her at the edge of the antique table. She tasted of mint and passion, the essence of her rocking him to the core. He grew hard and heavy, an uncomfortable snugness at his groin. She nipped at his bottom lip, then soothed it with the tip of her tongue, pushing his need higher.

Sweet Lord, he was going to die, one of these times, with her with him like this.

“You’re okay with this?” She gasped the words into his mouth, fumbling his belt loose.

“Holy hell, yes.” He ran his hands under her skirt as it rode up, stroked the silk of her panties. He needed to be inside her more than he needed to breathe. “You have to ask?”

Her husky laugh, rough with desire, shivered over him, and she twisted to set her tote aside. It toppled, items scattering across the table.

She peeled off black silk while he opened his fly. She reached for him, clutching his biceps as he stepped between her thighs. One hard thrust and her muffled sound of surprised pleasure punched into his gut. With her legs around him, her mouth under his, he rested one palm at the small of her back, urging her into him while he braced the other on the table, driving into her with no finesse, just raw need. She screamed, burying the sound in his shoulder, fingers clenching at him while her body contracted around him. He pushed higher, his climax slamming through him with an intensity like pain.

Her broken sigh vibrated over his shoulder, and he gasped, chest heaving. Holy hell.

Slow and easy in the morning topped his list, but there was something to be said for hard and fast and spontaneous.

He eased away enough to cup the back of her head and look into passion-dark eyes. Her chest rose and fell against his, her hair drifting over his fingers. His legs shook, and he exhaled weeks of tension. He smoothed her hair, threading shaking fingers through the shining strands. She wrapped her hand around his wrist and turned her mouth into his palm.

An odd tension flitted over her face, and he stilled. “What?”

She shook her head, but didn’t speak. Unease trickled through him.

“Cait.” Maybe the sex hadn’t been a good idea after all. He zipped his fly and buckled his belt. Lord, he hated the moments when the old distance or their recent loss yawned, moments when he didn’t quite know what to do.

The elegant line of her throat moved with a swallow. She tugged her skirt down over her thighs, then traced the open vee of his collar. “You said something about needing a shower?”

“I did.” He reached for her hands and tugged her off the table, to her feet, needing to stay connected to her. This was easy—he could tackle anything hard later. “Come on and let’s share.”

Neither of them had really eaten — his half a chicken wing and one chip with spinach artichoke dip didn’t count — so Caitlin made them an omelette while he shaved. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and wandered to the kitchen.

“That smells amazing.” Hands at her waist, he brushed a kiss on the side of her neck. Smiling, she tilted her head to the side, sliding the halved omelette onto two plates. “Thank you.”

“I cook for you all the time.” She lifted a shoulder in her elegant shrug and moved the skillet to the dishwasher.

“And I’m always appreciative.” He poured a couple of cups of coffee, setting hers next to her plate, lifting his for a swallow. Bitterness exploded on his tongue, and he grimaced at the sour taste. “What the hell is this?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder and swung the dishwasher closed. “It’s decaf.”

“Why would—” The question died on his lips, and he stared across the island at her. He lifted a brow, her sudden decision to join him making a lot more sense. “Something you need to tell me?”

“I’m pregnant.” A trembling smile curved her lips, and she rolled her shoulder once more. “We’re due early January. Eleanor may have to share her birthday week.”

“She’ll adapt. I can drink decaf, and she can share.” A grin spread over his face, despite a low tug of apprehension in his gut. “Get over here.”

She walked into his embrace, folding her arms about his waist. He hugged her to him, rocking them side to side, his eyes squeezed shut. He splayed his hands over her spine.

“Are you okay?” He murmured the words are her temple, and she nodded.

“Alice says we’re textbook. In another couple of weeks, the miscarriage risk goes down significantly.” Her exhale shimmered over his throat. “I’m thrilled to be pregnant with your baby again . . . and terrified something will go wrong.”

“I get it.” He rubbed his chin on her hair. “But if we live there, we’ll make ourselves crazy.”

“I know.” She kissed under his jaw, and he smiled when she sniffed him. “I’ll feel better when we’re at twelve weeks.”

“Yeah?” He spread his hand over her abdomen, processing that I’m pregnant. A hard roundedness fit into his palm, nudging a sensory memory in his brain. His baby nestled in her womb, under his palm. “Me, too.”