“Last night,” she says in a conversational tone, “I went to sleep wondering how your beard would feel between my legs.”

I stumble over a paver. The baby snorts, but I right quickly.

Fi isn’t even looking. She’s walking a few steps in front of me, her voice light and unaffected. “I wondered, would I feel its tickle if you sucked on my nipples?”

Heat floods my lungs. I can’t breathe. My cock is a throbbing shaft in my jeans. Maybe I make a sound because she turns, glances at me over her shoulder. Whatever she sees in my expression has her smile fading and pink washing over her cheeks.

Her steps slow, but mine don’t. I stalk forward, keeping my eyes pinned to hers. Still flushing, she backs up. I think I grin. I’m not sure. My goal is clear.

I shepherd her toward the bench set beneath the curtain of a weeping willow. My hands easily span her waist, and it’s nothing to lift her up. She stands before me on the seat. Her breath comes in soft, audible pants, her pert breasts at my eye level.

She doesn’t say a word as my hand slips beneath her sweater. Satin-smooth skin greets my palm. I slide it up, over her flat belly, past her ribs—watching her eyes the whole time. I love the way those eyes grow wide, the shock and the heat that glow in them.

She doesn’t say a word when I run my fingers over the swell of her breast and catch hold of her lace bra, tugging it down. A small sound escapes her, though, as I slowly lift one side of her top.

“The baby—”

“Is asleep. Don’t wake him.” I’m so close that I can see the flutter of her pulse against her neck. Her warm scent floods my nostrils, woman and sweet, green tea.

The soft cashmere slips over her breast, freeing it with a little bounce, and my dick surges against my jeans. I swallow a groan. God, she’s beautiful. Creamy, firm flesh, a rosy-brown nipple the size of a quarter.

“Hold your top.” My voice sounds guttural.

But she does what I demand, her breast shaking a little with each quick breath.

My hand shakes too as I cup her warm skin, plump her sweet tit for the taking. Then I kiss her nipple, grazing the tip, tickling it with my lips and beard.

“Ethan…” Her hand lands on my shoulder, holding tight.

I’m so hot, my skin burns. I kiss her breast like I would her mouth, licking and sucking, nipping the stiff bud, brushing my lips over it. And do it all over again. I get lost in the act, fucking worshiping her breast the way it ought to be.

Small, needy whimpers leave her mouth as she clutches my shoulders with both hands now, her sweater sliding a little and falling onto the bridge of my nose. I don’t care. I drag the flat of my tongue slowly over her nipple, savoring it, and she groans. Long and loud. The sound is a hard tug on my cock.

My free hand finds her hip, pulls her forward.

And Leo wakes with a squeak and a little cry of protest.

Instant bone kill. I yank my head out from under her sweater and take a step back, careful to keep my hands on her hips so she doesn’t fall.

Closing my eyes, I take a breath, then another. Jesus, I’ve never done anything like that, never let myself not think and just take what I want. And I want to do it again, and again, lose my fucking mind on pleasuring Fiona Mackenzie.

I’m almost breathing normally as I turn to sit on the bench so I can see what Little Man wants.

Next to me, Fiona rights her clothes and jumps down. Keeping her back to me, she runs a hand through her hair. When she finally turns, she doesn’t look embarrassed or regretful. She simply helps me change the baby’s diaper as if nothing happened.

I don’t know if I should be grateful or disappointed. Right now, I’m going with disappointment.

Chapter Six

Fiona

“Is it wrong that I’m thinking of hiring a mother’s helper?” Ivy picks up a perfume bottle, sniffs it, then wrinkles her nose and sets the bottle down.

“I’m inclined to say it’s wrong you haven’t already,” I say.

She sighs and runs a hand through her dark hair. It’s longer than I’ve seen it in years, spilling over her shoulders, her ubiquitous bangs grown out to frame her face. “Mother guilt blows. I feel like I should be ashamed for wanting some time to myself. And with Gray.”

“Ivy Weed, I’ve been at your house for all of two days, and I want to cry for you. Babies are tough work. You have the means to hire help, so do it. Happy mommy and daddy, happy baby.”

I don’t mention our childhood. I don’t need to. Our mom stayed at home and refused to seek any form of help, even though she had the means. She was a walking stress basket. There’s kid guilt too. And it sucks.

I glance in the small mirror set up on the glass countertop and smear a bit of poppy red sample lipstick on my lips. The shade is too strong for my light coloring. “Here, this would look better on you.”

After Dex and I had returned home, Ivy had all but attacked him with hugs of gratitude. Fairly well-rested after a few hours off baby duty, she’d been itching to go out, and called a sitter. So here we are, having sister time and idly shopping. And I’m fighting the good fight to not think about what happened in the Tea Garden.

Ivy shakes her head. “Gray doesn’t like lipstick. Says it tastes bad.”

I snicker and move on.

“Speaking of jobs,” she says as we leave the store. “How’s yours going? Bob Sugar still giving you grief?”

I laugh at the nickname Ivy and Gray gave Elena Ford, my little shithead co-worker. At least Bob Sugar was upfront about stealing Jerry Maguire’s clients. Elena is far more insidious. About two months ago she started at the design firm where I work in NYC.