Page 87 of A Song for Another Woman

"Okay." She presses back against me.

I reach around her, my hand finding her hip, steadying her. I'm slow, agonizingly slow, as I enter her. The first inch steals my breath. She makes a sound that's somewhere between a gasp and my name, and I stop.

"Emmy."

"Don't stop." Her voice is thin. "Please don't stop."

I push forward until I'm fully inside her, and we both go still. Her hand finds mine on her hip and laces our fingers together. I feel her body adjusting around me, warm, tight, and impossibly right.

I start to move. Slow. Savoring. Each thrust deliberate, measured, my mouth against the curve of her neck, her shoulder, the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver. I memorize the sounds she makes. The hitched breath, the low hum, the way she whispersyesandthereandCadelike she's forgotten every other word.

I love the feel of her changed body. The fullness of her breasts beneath my palm. The roundness of her belly under my forearm. The way her hips are wider, softer, cradling our child and still making room for me.

She reaches back, her hand finding my hip, pulling me deeper. "More," she whispers.

"Emmy."

"More. Please. I need?—"

I speed up. Not much. Just enough. She gasps, and I feel her clench around me.

But she doesn't let me be careful forever. She pushes back against me, meeting my rhythm, and soon we're both gasping, both chasing something that's been building for months.

"Cade," she says, and it's not a question. It's not a request. It's a full sentence. It'sI love youandI'm scaredanddon't leaveandI'm yoursall in one word.

I come inside her, holding her to me, my face buried in her neck, my arm tight around her waist. The release moves through me in waves, and I breathe her in.

We stay like that, joined, breathing, neither of us moving to separate. Her hand stays locked with mine on her hip. My lips rest against the knob of her spine.

After a long time, I whisper, "I love you."

"I know," she says. And then, softer: "I love you too."

I pull out slowly, carefully, and she makes a small sound of loss. I arrange the quilt over us both and pull her back against my chest. The baby shifts beneath my palm, and Emmy laughs, wet and exhausted.

"I guess he's been waiting on you," she says.

"He?"

She goes quiet. "I don't know. I just...I think so."

I pull her to me and hold her, letting her breathing go deep and settled.

And I think, I'll never let this go.

Near dawn, Emmy sleeps against me in the reading nook, wrapped in my shirt and the quilt from the truck.

I have my back to the wall, one arm around her shoulders and one hand resting low on her belly. Every so often, the baby moves. Small, rolling shifts beneath my palm. Each one knocks the breath out of me all over again.

The windows have gone gray. Outside, the dogwood stands black against the morning.

Emmy stirs. “You asleep?”

“No.”

Her eyes open halfway. “Cade.”

“I’m fine.”