Damn him. He knows me too well.

“Did you forget I’m the master of the game of distraction, Ryles?” He lifts his eyebrows and a cocky, lopsided grin pulls up one corner of his mouth. “I see what you’re trying to do here.”

“Are you turning down sex?”

“Oh baby, I’ll never turn down sex with you . . . I just want to get back to pronouns.” He grants me a lightning-fast grin as he cuffs both of my hands and laces our fingers, presumably to prevent mine from wandering and tempting him further. For a man who doesn’t want to pick a name, he sure seems set on clarifying his parts of speech.

He wants pronouns? I’ll give him pronouns, all right.

“Like stick it in me, type of pronouns?”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “Not those specifically, no.”

“You’d rather talk grammar than please your wife?”

That flash of a grin is back. “No, I’d rather discuss why you hate the name BIRT.”

“You’re exasperating. And a tease,” I say, knowing I’ll get the sex eventually if the tenting of his shorts is any indication of his state of mind. He may be resisting now, but I know sex will win out in the end. It always does.

“So you think the baby is a boy?” he asks, eyes wide, voice excited. And the lighthearted tone tugs on my heartstrings.

“Does it matter what I think, considering you won’t even discuss names with me? I mean we’re getting close to the wire here, Donavan.”

“I love when you Donavan me,” he says then squeezes my hand when I try to pull away. “C’mon, Ryles, fly by the seat of your pants. Let the moment rule us. Live dangerously,” says the racecar driver to the social worker. All I can do is sigh in exasperation.

“Our baby’s name is permanent. It’s not a decision to be made on the spur of the moment.” I still can’t believe he’s sticking to his plan of naming the baby after we meet him or her. I thought this strategy was a joke the first time he brought it up but now know different.

“Look, you have names you like and I have names I like. Why don’t we just wait and see what BIRT looks like when he or she is born and then we’ll both say them and go from there?” I narrow my eyes at him, desperate to know the names he prefers or if he likes any of the ones I’ve thrown out at him over the past few months. His silence on the topic is killing me. “Live dangerously with me, Ry.” He chuckles as I shake my head, trying to feign irritation and hide my own smile.

“I already do live dangerously. I married you, remember?”

“Oh baby, I remember. No man is going to forget the things you did to me this morning,” he says with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

I blush immediately, momentarily embarrassed by my very needy and very horny self, that didn’t resist him despite knowing the caterers would be arriving at any moment. And of course the thought of his eyes heavy with desire and his cock thick and hard in my mouth makes my body ache to have him again. This time for my pleasure though, and I don’t think he’d have a problem delivering on that demand.

I have to force the image from my mind because I think he accomplished exactly what he was hoping for with the comment.

“Now look who’s trying to distract whom. BIRT’s name?” I arch an eyebrow as his laughter rings around us. The man is relentless. “What if I don’t like any of the names you pick and you don’t like any of the names I like?”

“Well, that’s easy.” He shrugs. “I’ll distract you.”

“That must be the word of the day. Nice try, but that’s not easy to do when it comes to something this important . . . oh God, that feels good,” I moan as he takes my foot into his lap and starts rubbing its instep. Everything I have been overdoing the past few days between work and getting ready for the shower has manifested in the size of my swollen feet, so this feels like absolute Heaven. I sag against the wall at my back, eyes closing as I welcome the pleasure he’s giving me.

Screw chocolate, forget sex with Colton, and forgo paradise, because this, a foot rub after being on your feet all day when you’re pregnant, is absolute nirvana. He uses his adept fingers to push and press and rub to put me in a pleasure coma.

I lift my head and open my eyes to find him looking at me with a huge grin on his face. “What?”

“See?” He shrugs. “Distraction. All it takes is changing the subject, shifting gears somehow, and I can get what I want.”

He thinks he’s so crafty that I’ll fall for it every time, but when it comes to Colton Donavan, I learned a long time ago that he likes to play dirty to get what he wants. Good thing I’ve learned from the master because I know all his tricks and will put them to good use against him.

“Magic hands,” I murmur breathlessly, as his thumb presses against a pressure point that feels like it mainlines an electric current to the delta of my thighs.

“Your feet are so swollen.” His head is down as his fingers rub their way up to my calf bringing me much more joy than they should.

“There are other things on me that are swollen,” I deadpan. And the reaction I want from him is almost instantaneous when his eyes flash up and hands still momentarily. That lopsided grin of his—part arrogant bad boy, part eager lover—graces his lips as he holds my gaze.

“That so?” He tries to feign nonchalance and yet his reaction already told me he’s willing to play my game. Time to see how quick he will take the bait because this woman is desperate for more than just his touch on my instep.

“Mm-hmm. Swollen means super sensitive. And sensitive means intense.” I run my hands over my breasts that are spilling out of the cami tank top. His eyes follow and take notice of my nipples hardening from my touch against the thin fabric. I may have a huge belly, can’t see my ankles, and would never have thought in a million years I’d be seducing my husband at seven months pregnant, but the way he looks at me—with a predatory gleam, not to mention the hitch in his breath—tells me he doesn’t care. He finds me sexy. He still wants me. And that provides the confidence I need to give me the wherewithal to keep going.

“Intense is good.”

“Intense is incredible,” I all but moan as our eyes lock in a playful war of wills over who is going to make the first move. “Swollen means tight. Responsive. Multi—”

“I think I need to inspect,” he says as he shifts onto his knees, his gaze never leaving mine. His hands slide up my thighs, feather-light touches laced with intent, moving my loose knit skirt with them as they go.

“If you inspect, you must try out the goods,” I taunt. His touch tests my resolve, the sight of his tanned chest and scent of cocoa butter in his sunscreen bending my restraint.

“Demanding, are we?” He stops and lifts his eyebrows, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Haven’t had any complaints yet,” I toss back at him as he leans forward and presses a whisper of a kiss to my mouth. When he starts to pull away, I move with him because I want more. Always do when it comes to him.

Mirth flashes through his eyes because he knows he’s caught me in a catch-all: trying to be the seductress when all I want is him, in me, on me, doing something to me, and very soon.

“Do you want something?” he asks, as his fingers continue their tantalizing ascent to the apex of my thighs. I love the hiss he emits when his thumbs brush over the swollen flesh, discovering I’d taken my panties off when I changed into more comfy clothes after the shower. His touch falters, a small show of the desire and need to control warring within him before he moves his fingers back down toward my knees.

“You.” Why beat around the bush when that sweet ache deep in my lower belly is already flashing with heat and the one and only person I know that can sate it is sitting before me?

“Me?” He dips his head down and presses a kiss to first my left and then my right thigh. From beneath his thick lashes, he looks up at me then slowly wets his bottom lip. “Is that why you’re not wearing any panties? What specifically do you want from me?”

His hands begin to move again, seducing me with his contact and mesmerizing me with the knowledge of what he’s withholding.

My laugh is low and laced with suggestion. “Well, it’s not just what I want from you per se but more where exactly I want you that’s important.”

“Do you want me here?” he asks as the pads of his fingers graze ever so softly over the seam of my sex. Even though I try to stay still, I arch my hips in a nonverbal begging motion.

And then he removes his fingers.

“Don’t tease me, Donavan.” My body aches on the verge of pain for him to touch me again. His chuckle fills the silence of the room as he leans forward, his eyes on mine, and then uses his tongue to trace around the outline of my nipple through the fabric. Just enough to let me know what it feels like but not enough to let me succumb to the sensation of it.

“Oh, I’m not teasing, Donavan,” he says back, mimicking me with mirth in his eyes and purpose in his touch. “I’m just getting the lay of the land.”

“I’m pretty sure the lay of the land is that you need to fuck me soon.”

I love the lightning-fast grin that flashes over his features and the slight stutter in his movement from hearing me demand like this. He tsk-tsks with a shake of his head and another taunting tease of his fingertips.

“Rest assured, I intend to fuck you, sweetheart, but I’m all about equal opportunity.”

My muscles clench at the first part of his statement while I’m trying to figure out just what he means by the last part, because now is not the time to be witty. Now is the time to give the hormone-riddled woman exactly what she wants.