“Swollen like a peach.” The voice of my partner, my old man, my psycho.
I smiled, hovering my hand over my eyes to block the glare as I squinted at Priest looming over me in a tight black tee. It was short-sleeved, something he’d taken to doing if he was spending the day just with me, unashamed of his scars now because I told him so often they were beautiful. To me, they were. Badges of the tragedies he’d overcome, marks of the making of this man who meant everything to me. I loved to kiss the ridges of his healed skin and rub my thumb over the silky pink burns as if my touch could soothe some phantom ache. Priest bared his arms now sometimes, so in a way, I think it did.
He didn’t smile as he looked down at me because even though he was the happiest I’d ever seen, he still wasn’t inclined to use expression unless it was in threat. Instead, his brows were loosened from their perpetual furrow, his lips full and soft instead of pressed, and his eyes, those pale green eyes like peridot, shone with tangible emotion as he looked down at my sun-warmed form.
I laughed when he pulled a bag from behind his back, reached inside, and produced a pint of peaches.
“Yes,” I cried, trying to sit up with some semblance of grace when my belly made it nearly impossible to do so.
Priest took mercy on me, dropping the bag on the ground beside me before offering me a hand to tug me upright. He then moved behind me, bracketing his long legs on either side of my body, so I was cradled against his lap, his hand pulling me back to lean against his hard, carved torso. He did that, positioning me, often. He liked me as near to him as he could manage or people would allow in social situations—tucked under his arm, locked into his side, on his lap if he was sitting, or between his legs on a stool. Even if he was busy talking to someone else, he was aware of me in little movements, his hand tangled in my hair, a finger hooked through a belt loop, his lips moving through my hair as he listened to someone speak.
Loulou complained that there was no getting through to either of us if we were in a room together. We were caught up in each other, the magnetism between us had its own gravitational force, and we were happy to stay in each other’s orbit.
I still worked at Little Miss Murder, which had exploded since the event of the Prophet, and now made me a tidy living on top of my inheritance from Benjamin, and Priest still had his dealings with the club and a job at Hephaestus.
But whenever we were free, we were together.
I’d always known some couples were like that. Though I’d never thought I’d be one of them, it made sense for us.
We were each other’s obsession.
I watched Priest pluck a ripe peach from the box in his long, tattooed fingers, then flick open his switchblade with the other hand. With his arms wrapped around me, he cut it slowly, deliberately into a single segment, then pierced that with the end of the blade and held it to my lips. I pulled it into my mouth with my teeth, the sweet juices spilling out the corner as I chewed the large piece. Carefully, Priest angled my head back against his shoulder so he could use the edge of the blade to scrape up the wet from the underside of my neck to my jawline.
I squeezed my thighs together against the ache that bloomed when he brought that knife to his own mouth and licked up the juice.
His eyes were all darkness as they lingered on my lips while he fed me another piece. My tongue lashed out to catch a drop of juice, and I felt his cock grow against my lower back.
“Only you could make eating a peach erotic,” I breathed as his strong fingers wrapped around my throat and tilted my head back farther so he could lick at my sticky sweet lips.
“You started it,” he claimed. “Seventeen years old and drawin’ my notice like you didn’t care I was a killer.”
“If I ever cared, it was only because I found it sexy,” I admitted.
I watched as he used the now clean blade to trace light patterns along the tops of my breasts visible above the cotton dress. They’d swollen heavily with my pregnancy, practically spilling from all of my old clothes no matter how loose they’d been.
Priest was enjoying them.
Shockingly, he enjoyed every moment of my pregnancy, relishing the changes, watching my body grow as if I was a rare and delicate flower in bloom. It was erotic as hell to have him worship me in bed, the swell of my stomach, the delicate, stretched skin of my breasts.