Banking Her (Billionaire Bad Boys 2.5)

But now, lying in our bed, with Thatch sound asleep beside me, I was wondering if this ridiculous work schedule was the right choice. I’d already been traveling more, knowing I needed to front-load the extra work as much as possible, because the bigger I got, the harder everything became. But the more time I spent away from Thatch, the more I hated being away from him.

Hated. It.

Lonely nights spent in hotels without his big body wrapped around me like a second skin while his head utilized my boobs as pillows were getting old real quick. He was my rock, the one person I could trust with everything. The man who could fuck me senseless and pleasure my puss-ay in ways I never knew were possible. The man who let me get all kinds of filthy in the bedroom—but never failed to treat me like a fucking princess.

It was hard being away—for days on end—from that kind of man.

Nearly impossible, to be honest.

I ran my fingers through his thick hair, and he moaned softly in his sleep. His eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly, as if he might stir and wake up, but sleep still kept its hold over him.

It was these moments, the quiet, peaceful moments in the middle of the night, that I’d find myself watching him like a creepy little stalker and just savoring him. My man. My best friend. The giant who’d managed to fill all the voids I hadn’t even known were there until he barreled his way into my life. The man who’d managed to knock down all of my walls and love me for me.

God, I fucking loved him.

I loved him—and our tiny little baby—more than I had ever loved anything in my entire life.

Emotion filled my eyes, and I brushed a few rogue tears off my cheeks. For fuck’s sake, I felt like I was always crying. Or about to cry. Or thinking about crying. Or yelling at Thatch for making me cry, even though he had most likely done nothing wrong.

Pregnancy not only made me horny, but it also made me insanely sensitive.

Lately, I’d been a fucking mess over anything and everything. It was exasperating, and sometimes, there wasn’t any rhyme or reason for the tears. I mean, all it would take was one Folgers’s “Coming Home” commercial, and I’d be two hiccupping breaths away from doing my best impression of that time Kim Kardashian lost her diamond earring in the ocean.

My stomach growled into the still apartment, damn near echoing off the walls, and I glanced over at the clock. Right on schedule, the numbers 1:00 a.m. glowed bright into the darkness of our bedroom. About a week after I found out I was pregnant, every night between the hours of midnight and two, my body had to let its hunger be known.

Word to the wise, pregnancy hunger is on another level of hungry.

Imagine a long workday where you haven’t had time for lunch, and by the time three o’clock hits, you’re five seconds away from either reenacting The Walking Dead and gnawing your own arm off or considering rummaging through the breakroom fridge without giving a single fuck about eating someone else’s food. Now, take that scenario and go into it without eating for about three days. Yes, my friends, that is pregnancy hunger.

A starving pregnant woman should be considered a danger to national security because fuck only knows what we’re liable to do if someone doesn’t keep us well fed with our outrageous cravings. But we should also be given a free pass because we’re the miracle of life, goddammit.

Add some virginity and the baby Jesus and take away my propensity for using the word fuck and I might as well be the Virgin Mary right now.

Literally, the miracle of fucking life.

My stomach rumbled and grumbled again, and I groaned. The last thing I felt like doing was participating in actual movement. While I stared up at the ceiling, perturbed and contemplating how I could teleport a plateful of peanut butter crackers and a glass of strawberry milk into my lap, Thatch shifted his arm from around me, wordlessly got out of bed, and shuffled into the hallway in nothing but his underwear.

I wasn’t even sure if he was awake, but I’d wait until I heard anything alarming to send out a search party. And by search party, I meant our mini-pig, Phil.

Five minutes later, Thatch walked back into the bedroom and set a large glass of strawberry milk and a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on my nightstand. He slid back into bed beside me, kissed my forehead, my lips, and the top swells of each breast that peeked out from my nightshirt, and then adjusted his head on my boobs and whispered, “Love you, honey,” as he closed his eyes.

I stared down at him in awe.

Tears pricked my eyes again as I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Goddamn him for being so perfect.

More tears filled my eyes and forced a steady stream to slip down my cheeks and onto the side of Thatch’s face. And then the sobs took hold, forcing a hiccupping breath and a mouth full of sticky bread crumbs to land in his hair.