I shake my head, trying to hide my disappointment. I can’t remember the last time he rejected my advances. Ever since I moved in, he’s been at my beck and call. Yeah, he has me spoiled, but we’re not going to see each other for a week. This is like our last chance to have sex, so why is he wasting it?

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head. He gazes at me sleepily under hooded lids. He has dark circles under his eyes, and it makes me nervous when I think about how much driving he has to do today. Three hours to the airport and three hours back—and he already looks exhausted.

It’s such a busy time of year at the garden center, and I’m abandoning him in the midst of the madness. I suck at being a girlfriend. God only knows what kind of mother I’m going to make. I just don’t want to let my new family down.

He notices the pensive expression on my face and draws my feet onto his lap. With his strong hands, he begins massaging each arch, one at a time, and it feels like heaven. I fall back among the pillows as he works his magic. This has become our morning ritual. He reaches back, grabbing the bottle of body lotion off the end table. Squeezing some onto his hands, he runs his palms up my leg all the way to the knee. I look up through the skylight at a flock of birds flying overhead as he begins to do the same thing to my other leg. I close my eyes and smile. He’s going to make a great father. I can picture him doting over our baby, just like he’s doting over me. The lotion even smells like baby powder.

But I have to stop being so needy. I want to give him some tender loving care before I go—and more than just getting the mud stains out of his jeans and preparing pre-cooked meals for the freezer. I want to do something special for him.

Getting off the bed, I grab his hand, dragging him along with me. He laughs, amused by whatever it is I’m up to. Groaning, he walks over to the dresser, taking out a fresh pair of boxers. I try to hide my disappointment that he’s getting dressed as I head into the bathroom. He must really not be in the mood this morning.

I pull a tiny stool out of the corner and place it in front of the sink. Digging through the shelves, I find what I’m looking for. Everything else I need is either on the counter or in one of the drawers.

“Hey, what are you up to?” Eric surprises me, kissing the top of my head while snuggling me from behind. He’s only wearing his boxers. That’s a good sign. They’re easy enough to remove. My eyes find his in the bathroom mirror as he drapes his arm protectively across my stomach. “Are you feeling okay? The last couple of mornings have been a little rough on you.”

Oh jeez, he heard me. Maybe that’s why he’s backing off. I thought he was already gone when I was on my knees, clutching the rim of the toilet bowl. But he must’ve been downstairs with Shep, who always renders his plaintive doggie wails whenever I’m battling a case of morning sickness. Shep’s howling undoubtedly muffled Eric’s anxious footsteps. I didn’t even know he was down there listening to me. How humiliating. I’m not even comfortable with Eric hearing me pee behind a closed door, never mind puking my guts out.

“I’m fine,” I reply before turning to face him. “Sit down.”

He raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide the smirk forming on his lips. I think he likes when I get all bossy with him. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, acting like he’s ready to obey my every command.

I turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm up. This close, I can see the tiny freckles dotting his shoulders. I want nothing more than to bend down and kiss each one, but I have a job to do. I can’t allow myself to get distracted—not yet. Eric starts stroking the back of my leg as I get everything ready. He’s waiting patiently, not sure of what to expect.

Once the water is lukewarm, I gently nudge his back, urging him to lean forward as I drape a towel around his shoulders. Trailing my fingers over his neck, I ease him into a reclining position. He gets the drift of where this is going as he gazes up at me, his head resting above the sink. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes as I touch his face, my hand lingering on his cheek.

I hover over him, pausing for a minute. It’s hard to concentrate with him looking at me like that. I grip the edge of the counter. If I give in now, it’s all over, and I really want to do this for him. I take a deep breath, willing myself to continue.

I cup my hand under the running water and start wetting his hair. I work my fingers through it as he turns his head, allowing me to get the sides. His strong jawline stands out even more in profile. I feel his breath skim my breasts through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, causing my nipples to harden in response. Seeing how my body is reacting to him, he lowers his hands to his knees, gripping them tightly. He seems determined not to touch me, and that gets me going even more.

His hair is now completely wet, but I can’t stop myself from running my fingers through it. He moans with pleasure, making me glad I read that Cosmo article about how to massage a man’s scalp. He’s loving every minute of it. The ends of his hair are starting to curl as I rake my nails across his head. I can’t believe how long his hair got. He’s been too busy to go into town for a cut, but I’m about to change all that.

I turn off the faucet, and he takes it as his cue to sit up. I lift the towel from his shoulders, tossing it over his head. Only his mouth is visible as I wring out the excess moisture. I pat him dry as he leans back with his eyes closed, a sigh escaping his lips. My heart flutters from knowing that what I’m doing is making him feel relaxed and content.

Reaching for the scissors, I comb out a section of hair and start snipping away. I’m not a professional stylist by any means, but I’m competent enough to give him a decent trim. I measure how much I’m going to cut between my fingers as the pieces of hair start to fall to the floor. His eyes are shut, but there’s a smile on his face like he’s in a state of pure and utter bliss.

When I finish with the top, I kneel down to work on the sides. He can’t prevent his eyes from opening when he senses how close I am to him. He tries to get me to meet his gaze, but I keep my attention on what I’m doing, drawing the comb through his sideburn. He blinks when I bring the scissors near his face. I make a few snips then caress his neck reassuringly. I move around him to cut the other side, making sure everything looks even. We’re practically nose to nose as I make a few extra passes, wanting him to look perfect. It’s intense, feeling the weight of his stare on me. I can’t believe I got through all of that without kissing him.

I step back for a moment in anticipation. Now for the part I’ve been waiting for. I don’t know why but I’ve always wanted to shave the guy I love. Those kinds of scenes in movies never fail to turn me on. The man and woman are touching but not touching. Every movement is heightened. Every breath is labored. Every touch is charged. They’re playing at restraint when really they’re bursting at the seams. I admit that I always wanted to feel that level of sexual tension that such an intimate act creates. Not through a screen—but in person.

And Eric is about to help me live out that fantasy.

My heart races as I pick up the can of shaving cream, shaking it for all it’s worth. I tremble, squirting a generous amount onto my hand. I can’t believe how nervous I am. My mouth is watering as I dab my finger into the rich lather. He’s looking at me with such intensity that I almost chicken out and rinse my hands in the sink. Instead, I rub them together before spreading the shaving cream onto his stubbled cheeks.

I cover his mouth, gliding my fingers across the faint beginnings of a mustache. His face is nearly all white, and I chuckle to myself as I remove the lather from his lips with my thumb. He groans when he feels my finger on his mouth. I grin as I wipe the lather from my hands onto the towel before reaching for his razor.

I try to get in a good position as I raise the blade, but I feel awkward. He gazes at me warily, afraid that I’m going to cut him. He’s at my mercy now. A surge of heat shoots through me, and I press my thighs firmly together. He shifts uncomfortably on the tiny stool, causing me to look down. There’s a huge bulge in his boxers. I purse my lips to keep from smiling. I’m not surprised that he’s enjoying this, too.

I start by making a large vertical stroke down the length of his cheek. I love the sound of the bristle of his beard scraping against the path of the razor. It’s so sexy. Elated by my first attempt, I turn on the water to rinse off the razor before making another pass. I continue my way across his face from left to right, pleased by my progress. So far, I haven’t even nicked him. Familiar with the drill, he lifts his chin, allowing me free access to his neck. The blade scratches against his skin, causing him to flinch. I stop what I’m doing and wait for any blood to appear, but there isn’t any. Now that I’m in the home stretch, I have to calm my nerves. The last thing I want to do is cut him. I’m not used to handling a razor over the angles and planes of a man’s face. It’s a lot more difficult than the long, easy strokes I use to shave my legs.

With the last swipe, I want to jump up and down and scream, “I did it.” Instead, I bury his face in the towel, blotting away the last remaining traces of shaving cream. I can’t resist running my knuckles against his cheek. His skin feels so incredibly smooth. I love when he’s clean-shaven. When he’s scruffy, his stubble scratches my face and neck. His kisses end up leaving a trail of red marks that can last well into the next day. Not to mention, his mouth feels best between my legs when it’s not irritating the delicate skin surrounding my inner thighs.