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“Are you okay?” She looked up, her eyes glistening. “I just . . . I . . .” “Hey.” He stood up and rounded the picnic table, sitting next to her on the bench. He wrapped his arm around her, the feeling of her, so warm and female and way too tempting, sending a shock of pleasure through him. “Hey, don’t . . . don’t do that.” “I’m pregnant. It’s a pregnant thing,” she said. “I’ve never seen you do it.” “I don’t often.” “I can tell.” — Maisey Yates
Are you okay?”
She looked up, her eyes glistening. “I just . . . I . . .”
“Hey.” He stood up and rounded the picnic table, sitting next to her on the bench. He wrapped his
arm around her, the feeling of her, so warm and female and way too tempting, sending a shock of
pleasure through him. “Hey, don’t . . . don’t do that.”
“I’m pregnant. It’s a pregnant thing,” she said.
“I’ve never seen you do it.”
“I don’t often.”
“I can tell.