Once inside, I smell steaks cooking, and my stomach instantly growls. We have a gym in the building, but I like the classes at Rika’s dojo, so I braved the reporters for that today, but now I’m starving. And I need a bath.
Arms come around me from behind, holding my belly, and I lean back, feeling instantly relaxed. His intoxicating scent surrounds me, and I need contact.
“Help me get out of these clothes,” I beg.
He pulls my shirt over my head and helps me out of my sports bra. I’m only six months along—our son is due in March—but I’m playing up the helpless act. The more he touches me, the happier I am. And Misha doesn’t like to see me mad.
After stripping out of my shoes, socks, and workout pants, I turn around, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.
He looks incredible. I like this house arrest he’s been keeping himself on. All he does is walk around the apartment all day, half-naked in only lounge pants, listening to music and leaving lyrics in random places. They’re written all over the refrigerator, on napkins, on Post-its stuck to the walls—which he started doing when I freaked out about Sharpie on the fresh paint in the bedroom.
It’s all a part of his creative process, he says.
Whatever. It works, I guess.
“Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”
I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.
I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully when he starts massaging my leg.
“The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of you.”
“Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between his legs with it.
I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest to chest with my belly.
He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth coating my scalp and back and making me moan.
He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.
I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.
He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.”
I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.
Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”
He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”
He levels me with an unamused look.
I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”
He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”
What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative. Even if I wasn’t any good at it.
I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.
“You need to put in an appearance,” I say.
I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he doesn’t live it up enough.
“Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”