Always The Hero (Plot Twist, I'm Pregnant 2)

His fists clench at his sides, his arms shaking and veins protruding from his muscles. He looked like he was about to burst. “You’re standing there in my t-shirt, looking beautiful, so beautiful that I never want to see you in anything else except my clothes. You admitted that you like how I look and the way you stare at me makes it hard to remember that you need time. You need to heal. And me wanting to kiss you interferes with that. I can’t do that.” He stepped forward and held my face in his hands like I was the most precious thing in the world. “I’d never stop you from healing, Abigail. I can fight my wants until you are ready, even if it is the hardest thing I’d ever have to do, it’ll be worth it.”

How did I tell a man that has probably kissed a thousand women, that I haven’t kissed one man? Maybe keeping my mouth shut would be the best thing for the both of us.

Chapter Nine

Logan

I needed to steer this conversation toward dinner because the longer I stood this close to her in the closest, the more my good intentions were crumbling. She really did look fucking good in my shirt. It felt like I claimed her in a way. It was my shirt that she chose to wear over her own, mine.

And that felt so good.

“Come on. Your hair needs to get brushed, and we need to order food before it gets too late.” I received a text then, my phone dinging from across the room, and it was just what I needed to break the connection between us. My cock was semi-hard and only semi because I was controlling myself. And no one would know how much I deserved a fucking trophy for not pouncing on the woman who wore my shirt, showing off her long legs, tugging on it like a shy virgin.

Fuck, she probably was a virgin.

My vision hazed a bit from that, and my cock stood straight, there was no denying how much I wanted her now. I wanted that virginity. I wanted to be her first and last, to show her that I could take care of her in every way.

Her mind. I’d fill it with support, hopes, confidence, and dreams.

Her soul. I’d fill it with my love by cherishing and nourishing it and watch her bloom.

Her body. I’d fill it full of me, taking care of her aches, her pains, give her all the pleasure. I’d touch her every curve and kiss her lips every single day. There wouldn’t be a day where she felt unwanted.

I needed out of this fucking closet.

I took her hand in mine and led her out of the door. The enclosed space was getting to me. Once we were in the bedroom, I sucked in a lungful of air when my eyes landed on her ass, barely covered by the shirt.

Barely.

I wasn’t going to sleep tonight. I was fucked. How long would I be tired for? A week? A month? A year? I had a feeling my coffee intake was going to double.

“What are you in the mood for?” My voice broke as I asked. Damn it, that was happening way too frequently with her. I needed my manly voice back.

I rolled my eyes at myself. I was wrecked.

She jumped on the bed and crossed her legs. From where I was standing, I could see the tease of the black panties she wore, and I dragged my eyes to her face, literally dragged them because I could look at the small square showing between her legs all damn night. Abigail unwrapped the towel from around her hair, and the wet strands fell down. She went to twist them up and make a bun, but I stopped her.

“You can comb your hair. Hold on.” I opened my dresser drawer and got out the pink brush. Girl’s liked pink, right? I handed it to her, and she smiled at the same time I winced when she pulled the bristles through the knots. It sounded painful, but she just kept the smile on her face like it was the best thing in the world.

I watched her, watched how she loved the simple things so much because she had been without them. I could learn a thing or two from her. When she was done, the brush resembled a bird’s nest, but her hair was smooth, shining from the water, and then to her surprise, I handed her a few different hair ties.

Scrunchies, because they were making a crazy come back, and then regular black bands that cut off the circulation to every girl’s wrist I had ever have seen.

Abigail picked the velvet purple scrunchie, and she plopped her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, the scrunchie making it look cute and careless, yet fashionable. A few pieces of hair fell around her face, framing the delicate jawline, and she looked so beautiful right then. I wanted to take a picture.

I took my phone from the nightstand and swiped my sister’s message away and then brought up my camera. “Can I take a picture of you?” I asked, hoping she said yes because I wanted to see her whenever I wanted, especially on the days I wouldn’t be able to.

“Why?” she asked, seeming unsure.

“Cause you look beautiful right now,” I said honestly, watching the apples of her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

She nodded.

“Use your words, baby,” I urged. I noticed the more she spoke, the lighter the slur was. It would probably always be there, but the brain was a muscle, and so was the tongue. We needed to use it.

I knew one way…

God, I’m a bastard.