Page 73 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
“I wanted to trybeforeI knew about them,” I reiterated. “I don’t—I didn’t—want to give you a half-assed version of what I thought I could handle. I wanted you, justyou.”
I hesitated, my breath a little ragged, my hands shaking, but I took her face in them before I could let myself overthink it. My thumbs dragged across her cheeks, wiping away the damp, and thank God, she didn’t fight me on it.
“I get it if you don’t trust me,” I rasped, pressing my forehead to hers. “I do. I’d hate me, too. But I’m not backing out this time, sweetheart, not from them, not fromyou.”
Her eyes squeezed shut, another few tears spilling free. She sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob, her fingers digging into the sides of her upper arms, her shirt catching on the small bump of her stomach as the wind picked up around us. “Matt?—”
“I will show upevery time,” I murmured. “Whether you want me there or not. Whether you scream or cry or slam the door in my face. I’ll keep trying until you believe that I’m not running. Until you believe me?—”
She surged upward, cutting me off with the press of her mouth on mine. There was no warning, no words — she kissed me like the air between us had become unbearable, pushing my hands off her face and wrapping her arms around my neck, like she’d been trying to stop herself from doing it, like she was furious, heartbroken, and still somehowminebut was angry about it.
I nearly stumbled back from the surprise. She stole the breath from my lungs with it, from the need in it, as if she didn’t know whether to kiss me harder or shove me back onto the concrete. But I grabbed her waist and hauled her into me, held her against my chest, drank her in the way I’d been aching to for months now. Warm, desperate, honest, with everything I was capable of giving her.
And still, throughout, I clung to the hope that maybe, justmaybe, this was me finally doing something right when it came to her.
Chapter 23
Sienna
It took me all of thirty seconds to drag him into my apartment.
The moment my front door slammed behind us, Matt’s hands were on me, his palm splayed against the small of my back, the other knotting in my hair, tugging just hard enough to angle the kiss better.
Asshole.
I arched into him, nails digging into the crisp cotton of his shirt, the heat of his mouth brutal against mine. The kiss was all teeth, all hunger, his tongue sweeping in like he was trying to rewrite every doubt he’d carved into me. I bit down on his lower lip hard enough to make him wince, and he groaned, not in pain but in approval, his grip tightening.
“Still mad?” he murmured against my mouth, his breathing ragged.
“Of course I’m still mad,” I hissed, but my voice cracked as his hand slid under the hem of my shirt, rough fingertips skimming the swell of my stomach. His thumb traced the almost non-existent line of my hipbone, possessive and reverent, like he was mapping the proof of the twins between us.
“Fair,” he said.
Before I could process it, he was lifting me, one arm under my thighs and the other cradling my back, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He didn’t stagger, didn’t so much as hesitate, just carried me through my cluttered living room like I weighed nothing, past the leaning towers of lesson plans on the coffee table.
He set me down gently on the cushions, following me down, laying me out like I was something to ravish as he braced himself on one forearm to keep his weight off my stomach. The other hand slid from my hip to my throat, not squeezing, justresting, his thumb brushing against my pulse like he wanted to feel just how fast it raced for him.
His eyes were dark, pupils so blown they were swallowing every bit of hazel. “Tell me what you want.”
I glared up at him. “I want you to stoptalking,” I hissed, rolling my hips up toward him.
He laughed, low and rough, and dragged my shirt up, his mouth following the path of exposed skin — from my stomach, to my ribs, to the curve of my breast, the tight peak of my nipple. He bit down gently, and I gasped, pain like lightning arcing through my body, back bowing off the couch.
“Christ, you’re sensitive,” he murmured, sucking a bruise instead on the tender skin just beneath.
“Because I’m fucking pregnant,” I shot back, pulling at his shirt but getting almost nowhere with it.
He, on the other hand, made quick work of my jeans, yanking them down my thighs with a frustrated grunt when they caught on my hips. “Fucking hell, Sienna, do you not own maternity?—”
“Buy some for me,” I taunted.
His nostrils flared. “I’ll buy you a whole goddamn wardrobe if it means I don’t have to fight denim next time.”
Next time.
Okay. So, thiswasdifferent.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear, and all coherent thought dissolved into nothing. His fingers stroked once, twice, through my arousal, and I whimpered, thighs trembling.
