And damn if my cock doesn’t appreciate the view.

“Starting without me?” I tease.

She bites her lip, smiling at me through her reflection in the mirror. “No. I’m just looking.” She cocks her head thoughtfully, running her hands up over the mound of her stomach, to her full, heavy breasts. “It’s such a strange shape. I’m fine with it, it’s temporary, but it’s just so . . . odd.”

Her suddenly vulnerable blue gaze locks on mine. “Do you still think I’m pretty?”

I can’t stop the snort that escapes me. My steps are purposeful as I approach her from behind and press up against her, my hard chest against her delicate spine, my cock sliding between the globes of her supple ass.

A sigh seeps out from my lips, like I’m thinking it over. I sweep the hair from her shoulder and scrape my teeth against the skin of her neck.

“You’ve never been just pretty, Chelsea. Heart-rippingly stunning—definitely. Unbelievably gorgeous works too.”

My palms skim from her hips over her stomach, cupping her tits in a gentle massaging squeeze, then across her collarbone and down her long arms.

Her breathing picks up and her heart thumps in her chest.

I fucking love the way she looks with me pressed against her. The contrast of the colored tattoos that cover my arms against all her pale, smooth, flawless skin. My hand glides back down, coming around her front, resting, then rubbing between her legs.

I groan when I feel her—already slippery and hot. Fuck—this woman. It should be terrifying, the way she owns me. But there’s too much joy in it . . . to leave any room for fear.

I kiss a trail up her neck to her ear, sucking, nibbling on her lobe.

“Jake . . .” She sighs.

I back up a few steps, taking her with me, until I’m seated on the edge of the bed. I cup one breast in my hand and bring my lips close to its rosy peak, blowing so gently. Then my eyes roll closed as I lick the firm nub. I close my mouth over it, sucking deeply. I could do this for hours—licking her, suckling.

A thought flashes through my mind about what it’ll be like after the baby’s born. The milk she’ll carry—what it’ll feel like, taste like. It seems kinky in a way. I’ve never really been interested in kink. But, goddamn, I could learn.

I release her nipple with a wet pop. And look up into her simmering eyes.

“I want to suck on you until you lose your mind. Then I want you to ride me.”

I then spend the whole night showing Chelsea exactly how not-pretty I think she is.

Chapter 9

June

Kennedy goes into labor the first week of June, and she gives birth about a day and a half later. Brent doesn’t miss a single second of it. Chelsea and I pay them a visit at the hospital the day after that. Them . . . and their brand-new baby girl.

There’s strong hugs and kissed cheeks all around inside the flower-and-pink-balloon-filled room. Kennedy lies in bed, with tired eyes and the sweetest smile I’ve seen. Brent places a tiny, pink-blanket-wrapped baby in my big hands.

“This is Vivian,” he says, total adoration in every syllable.

Chelsea rests her head against my arm, gazing down. “She’s so beautiful.”

I catch my best friend’s eyes—because Vivian sounds familiar.

“You named her after a comic book character, didn’t you?”

Kennedy laughs. And Brent shrugs. “Of course. She’s extraordinary, so she had to have an extraordinary name. Vivian Rose Victoria Randolph Mason is the long version.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“She’ll get used to it.”

“How was the delivery?” Chelsea asks.

She’s addressing Kennedy, but Brent beats her to the punch. “Awesome. Don’t let anyone scare you, Chelsea. This birthing babies thing is a piece of cake.”

Then Kennedy gives the real answer. “Take the drugs, Chelsea. Take all the drugs.”

****

Two weeks later, I’m in court. Smack-dab in the middle of continuous cross-examination. My phone sits in my pocket, dead as a doornail, because my charger picked this morning to crap out on me. Chelsea is home and still a week from her due date, so I figure it’s no big deal. Until the commotion in the back of the courtroom reveals exactly what a big deal it is.

Riley, Rory, Rosaleen, Regan, and Ronan file in, waving their arms and gesturing wildly to me.

“Why are there children in my courtroom?” the cranky judge booms from the bench. “Is this a class trip?”

I raise a finger. “They’re mine, Judge.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring-your-child-to-work day was a few months ago, Mr. Becker.”

I watch Rory make a giant arch in front of his stomach, then squeeze his face like he’s got a bad case of constipation—and my heart skips three fucking beats.

“My charade skills are rusty, but I’m pretty sure they’re here to tell me my wife is in labor.”

“Yes! That’s it!” Regan yells.

“Shhh!” Rosaleen hisses at her.

“Don’t shhh me!”

Rosaleen opens her mouth with a comeback, but the bang of the judge’s gavel stops her in her tracks. I should really get a gavel for the house.

“Emergency continuance, Judge?”

He nods. “Granted. Good luck, Mr. Becker—looks like you need it.”

As soon as he strikes the gavel again, I’m in front of Riley, her face pale and wild. “Aunt Chelsea is in labor.”

Okay, okay—we planned for this. It’s not like we didn’t know it was coming. My mother’s lined up to stay with the kids; Chelsea’s bag is packed.