I'd always made fun of those women who didn't work, who stayed home like the obedient little housewife, barefoot and pregnant, and always sweating over a hot stove. But after being that woman for the past three days, I knew I would never make fun of her again.
This kind of life took some serious girl power. It was no cushy job; it was more like slave labor. I was so freaking tired, sometimes my eyelids hurt from keeping them pried open. I don't care how much Pick was paying, no dollar amount would ever compensate. Except, I already felt compensated. I went to bed each night with this awesome feeling, knowing I'd accomplished something. I'd set a plan of how to tackle all my duties, and I reached every goal, every day.
I'd honestly never felt as good about myself as I did now.
It was this emotion—this love I was cultivating for the babies I nurtured as well as the man who kept looking at me as if I could do no wrong—that made it all worth it. Even when Julian woke up earlier than usual, right after I'd been up with Skylar for the past two hours because the girl just wouldn't go back to sleep, I felt quenched.
Popping out of bed before he could wake Skylar again, I snagged him from his crib and turned back to the cozy nest I'd shared with Pick two nights in a row. But Pick wasn't there. I paused and cocked my head until I heard the shower running from the single bathroom down the hall.
Wow, I hadn't even stirred when his alarm went off.
After settling Julian and myself back on the bed, I propped some pillows behind my back so I could sit comfortably, and then I pushed up my nightshirt to unsnap my bra.
"Are you hungry, little guy?" I asked as I cradled him into position and drew his face up to my nipple.
I didn't realize what I'd just done until he began to suck. The strength of his pulls was a lot stronger than Skylar's. It snapped me right out of my foggy, half-asleep daze. With a gasp, I bolted upright, suddenly fully awake.
"Oh, shit." I was breastfeeding Julian.
This had to be wrong. He wasn't mine, and I was only watching him for a couple days.
What Pick would say if he knew?
Julian didn't seem to mind, though. The kid kept drinking while his chubby little fingers rested possessively against the side of my breast.
Instantly, something inside me softened. I stroked his head, letting him have his fill. Wet nursing was no new thing; it should be okay. And Skylar certainly wouldn't go without. The preemie rarely drank much; there was more than enough to go around. And everyone said breast milk was so much better for a child than formula. Plus, if they both ate this way, I wouldn't have to get up so much in the middle of the night, shuffle to the kitchen, warm a bottle, carry it back to bed . . . yada, yada, yada.
When I realized I was rationalizing why I shouldn't stop, I flushed. The God's honest truth was I liked taking care of him this way. I liked the bond, and I loved this baby.
Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. I sucked in a breath. Oh, crappity, crap, crap. Footsteps in the hall urged me to grab a nearby blanket and toss it over my shoulder, completely covering which baby I was feeding. Do, to-do, to-do, went the whistling in m
y head, nothing going on here.
Pick appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel. My mouth dried up and I forgot what I was trying to hide from him.
He jerked to a halt when he saw me. "Oh. You're awake."
I was a too busy staring to answer him. Yeah, I was definitely awake now.
He motioned toward his dresser. "I forgot to bring my clothes into the bathroom with me."
When he entered and crossed the room to pull open the top drawer, I waved him on. "Trust me, I don't mind." Really.
"In that case." He tossed me a wink over his shoulder and dropped the towel.
My mouth fell open. Oh, sweet mercy. Naked Pick Ryan looked amazing from the back. His tush was tight and sculpted to perfection, and his spine muscles looked all sleek and shiny, wet from the shower. My gaze swept up and down, then up and down again. He really did only tattoo his arms and neck, didn't he? Oh, and his heart. I remembered seeing a peek of that one at Forbidden during the auction, but I hadn't been close enough to see what had been special enough to place it directly over his heart.
I forgot all about tattoos when he bent to pull on a pair of boxers. I caught the barest glimpse of a shadow from his junk hanging down in the front and had to press my legs together tight. He didn't turn around until he had on a pair of jeans and was zipping up the fly.
"Hey, you got a little drool." He wiped the corner of his own mouth. "Right there."
I begin to lift my fingers to wipe up the mess before I realized he was teasing. Eyes narrowing, I muttered, "Shut up," and I stuck my tongue out at him. Then I laughed at my own silliness. As my gaze caught on the single tattoo over his heart, I couldn't stand the curiosity. "You never did tell me what that one meant," I said, hitching my chin toward it.
He froze, with one of those hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expressions. Then he briefly skated his fingers over it as if he wanted to hide it. Shrugging, he yanked on a white undershirt. "Just a list of names," he said and grabbed a fresh work shirt from his closet before buttoning it up.
Holy crap, he was so hiding something. I couldn't let this drop. "I caught a glimpse of it at the club on auction night. But I've never gotten close enough to see the details. Whose names are on it?"
Ha! A direct question. Let's see him evade this answer.