The two days before Christmas had been spent in court. More prosecutions, more details, more horrible recounts of horrible events. So by Christmas Eve, which had been fairly uneventful, Krista was exhausted and with nary a flying fuck to give about flying men in red jumpsuits with presents, toys and reindeer. She’d been graciously given, by some holiday miracle, Christmas Day off but would be back working come Boxing Day.

After sipping peppermint mochas at Starbucks with Allie and the two of them exchanging equally corny gag gifts, she headed home. She was eager to shower, throw on her red and white striped candy cane flannel pajamas and settle down in front of a crackling fire with her ratty copy of Little Women as she sipped apple cider and nibbled on gingerbread.

She was crouched down and getting ready to build a fire in the hearth when the front door slammed and Brock stomped up the stairs.

Seemed they were on par with each another that evening. Both miserable. Both wanting to find a bearded man in a red jumpsuit to throat-punch. That made her quickly think of Mickey at the bar and how he was probably dressing up as Santa Claus for his grandchildren. She didn’t want to throat-punch him, but she did want one of his burgers. Her stomach grumbled at the thought.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone speaking volumes about just what kind of a mood he was in.

“Rhythmic gymnastics,” she snapped, too tired for pleasantries. “What the hell does it look like?”

He shook his head. “Go pack a bag and let’s go.”

Krista stood up and gave him a dumbfounded look. It was threatening snow, and whatever harebrained overnight, wilderness Christmas campout he might have had planned, she was not going. She didn’t even want to go out to her car and grab his Christmas present, which she’d stupidly left in the backseat. “Why?”

“We’re going over to my mum’s. It’s a Christmas tradition. Come on, let’s go.” He headed down the hallway to his bedroom to start packing.

She chased after him. “What?”

As if elaborating was going to cause him some kind of physical discomfort, he rolled his eyes and scowled. “It’s a Christmas tradition. We go over to my mum’s house, play board games, eat pizza and drink rum and eggnog. Spend the night and then wake up and have Christmas morning. Been doing it for years. Now go pack. We’re already late. Traffic was insane.”

“I-I’m invited?”

He gave her another irritated look. “You think I’m going to let the mother of my child spend Christmas alone? Especially when her family is in another town? Besides, you’ve already met the Three Stooges, and my mum will love you. GO PACK!” And then, just to drive the point home even further, he came up behind her and shooed her out of his room, across the hall and into her room. “And don’t bother changing out of your pajamas. That’s pretty much the party attire anyway,” he called back as he returned to his own room to finish packing.

It was a huge risk.

He knew that.

Bringing Krista to his mother’s house. He’d rather have a bath with a toaster. But what else could he do? He’d be the king of assholes to leave her at home all alone on Christmas, and yet bringing her meant that the baby can of worms might get popped open before they were ready. Not to mention the woman he was confused as hell about would be given access to the only four people in the entire world who knew a damn thing about him, and what she uncovered, she might not necessarily like. He’d tried so hard to keep his distance, keep his walls up. But bringing her to his mother’s could end all of that.

What other choice did he have, though?

“Have you told your family about the baby yet?” Krista whispered as they wandered up the cobblestone path to his mother’s front door.

“No, not yet. Have you told yours?”

She glanced down at her feet. “No.”

He didn’t bother knocking and just opened the door. “We’ll tell them tomorrow, and you can tell your parents tomorrow when you call them, okay?” He reached for her hand and pulled her inside. Better to just rip off the bandage and get it all over with. Almost eighteen weeks, the baby bump was still hideable beneath her baggy pajamas. Maybe they could wait until tomorrow … or at least after dinner tonight to spill the baby beans.

The house was toasty warm and smelled the way you think Christmas should.

The big fake Christmas tree he’d helped his mother buy a few years ago took center stage in front of the giant bow window, while stockings and garland dressed the fireplace and a Christmas village among fake fluffy snow took up the coffee table.

The three other big black Chevy trucks in the driveway and on the side of the road told him that his brothers were already there. Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest, as he’d nicknamed them. Not that they were actually stupid; on the contrary, but they were younger than him and at times certainly acted like it.

But if it hadn’t been for the Chevy dealership out front, the booming loud voices emanating from the kitchen easily gave them all away. Sudden laughter, followed by a “fuck off, you twat!” and then more laughter.

Brock took Krista’s coat from her and instructed her to kick her ankle boots into the hall closet. She was doing just that as he hung up their coats when the voice of his mother and a red velour leisure suit came whizzing around the corner.

“You’re late!” she chastised. Brock rolled his eyes. “Oh well, at least you made it. Was traffic a bitch?” She lifted up onto her tippy toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. She weighed next to nothing. But unlike Heath, the goofball, he didn’t pick her up. Instead, he contorted himself and nearly bent double to hug her back, his body engulfing her small frame until she practically disappeared. She smelled like shortbread and baby powder, and he closed his eyes for half a second, squeezing her just a fraction harder.

Her breath hitched next to his ear.

She’d spotted Krista. Brock released his mother and spun around. Krista was practically cowering in the corner like a lost kitten. His chest tightened, and he fought the urge to wrap a protective arm around her. She was a strong, stubborn woman, though, and would probably bat his arm away.

“Wh-who?” Brock’s mother stammered. Reluctantly, her eyes left Krista and zeroed in on Brock’s.

Shit. Maybe he should have told his mother he was bringing a guest.

“Mum … uh, this is Krista.” He moved out of the way as best he could in the tiny foyer.

“Hi,” Krista said softly, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hart. You have a lovely home.”

Brock’s mother’s midnight-blue eyes, the same shade as Heath and Rex’s, went wide with surprise as they flitted back and forth between Brock and his Christmas Eve surprise. And then suddenly, as if being smacked by an invisible hand, she snapped out of it, took Krista’s hand and gave her a big smile.

Brock sighed inwardly. Not that his mother wouldn’t have ever been anything but kind, cordial and delightful to Krista, but he was still nervous.

“Well, isn’t this a wonderful surprise. Brock didn’t tell us he was bringing anyone. Or that he was seeing anyone. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” Instead of releasing her hand, she pulled Krista close and brought her in for a hug.

The voices from the kitchen grew louder, and soon three enormous bodies took up the living room, all with rum and eggnog in one hand and cookies in the other.

Heath appeared to have a stack of cookies in his palm. “You came!” he cheered, a big, stupid, cookie-filled grin on his face.

Their mother spun around. “You’ve met her?”

“We all have,” Rex added. “Bumped into Krista at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago and had the proper introductions. Right?”

Krista simply nodded, giving each of the brothers, including Brock, a steely glare before returning to their mother and tossing on a big smile. “That’s right!” She eyed the boys again. “I was just coming off work, and who should be following me around the grocery store but three of the Harty Boys.”

Heath snorted. “I like that … the Harty Boys.”

They made their way into the living room and sat down. Rex brought Krista and Brock each a rum and eggnog, and Brock’s mother, who had yet to stop grinning at Krista, decided to shove her son to the side and squeeze in between him and Krista on the love seat.

Oh, this was going to blow up so badly in his face. He just knew it.

“So, Krista, how long have you and Brock been seeing each other?” She laced her fingers through Krista’s.

“I, um … ” Krista looked at Brock for help. Fuck, he didn’t know. Were they seeing each other? She shrugged and turned back to his mother. “A few months, I guess. September, maybe?”

Brock had to keep himself from snorting.

“But it’s serious?” his mother asked.

Krista shrugged again. “Maybe.”

He had to hand it to Krista. She was playing it cool. They hadn’t even discussed what they were yet. Which was stupid, but every time she tried to get him to talk, fear gripped his chest and he shut down. He never talked about himself, ever. It was just easier that way. Emotions muddled the fuck out of things. Facts were easier. When you had the facts, you could be responsible and get shit done.

Emotions were tools of the procrastinator.

His mother patted Krista’s hand. “Well, he’s never brought a girl home for Christmas before, so it must be.”

Brock took a sip of his eggnog. The instant hit of rum to his brain immediately helped take off the edge. Heath always knew how to make a good rum and egg nog. Three parts rum to one part nog.

Krista did the same, but it must have occurred to the both of them at the same time, because just as Brock coughed and reached forward to take away the glass, Krista spat the contents back in. Four sets of eyes around the room looked on curiously.

“Dude,” Rex said with a snort. “Control freak much?”

Brock glared at his brother.

“I, um … ” Krista trailed off, looking at him imploringly.

“Too hot?” his mother asked.

“Too much rum?” Heath joked.

Krista shook her head. “I, uh … uh, no … I … ”

Apparently, that was all his mother needed, because the lightbulb flicked on so bright over her head that it was practically blinding. She grabbed Krista by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me, dear. We’ll fix you something better in the kitchen. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, Heath adds too much rum.”

“Go big or go home,” Heath called after them with a laugh.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Rex asked, giving Brock a what-the-fuck look.

But Brock didn’t have time to deal with his brothers. He knew his mother knew. The woman had had four pregnancies of her own and certainly wasn’t an idiot. He had to defuse the situation. He had to help Krista. Pushing himself up from the couch, he beelined it for the kitchen only to hear “How long?” whispered from his mother’s mouth.

“How long what?” Krista stammered, her eyes darting up to Brock’s.

“How far along are you?”

Krista made a sheepish look and let her eyes travel to her feet. “Mrs. Hart … ”

“Joy.”

“P-pardon?”

“My name is Joy, dear. Call me Joy.”

“Mum.” Brock stepped up behind Krista.

“Let the woman speak,” his mother snapped, her eyes hardening as they took in his frazzled state only to soften again when she glanced back at the equally frazzled Krista. “You were saying, dear?”

Krista swallowed with a nod. “Okay … Joy. You have to know, I didn’t trap your son. I didn’t trap Brock. It … it was a night of drunken stupidity.”

Brock didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he placed them on Krista’s shoulders. The woman was tense.

Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes, and she reached for Krista’s hands. “It’s Brock’s?” Her eyes flitted back up to Brock. He nodded at the same time Krista did. “I’m going to be a Nana?” Krista nodded again. “Can I … can I?” She lifted one of her hands from Krista’s and made to touch her stomach, hesitating until Krista nodded again. A rogue tear dripped down her cheek, and she looked up at Krista with a smile. “Welcome to the family, dear.”

Brock let out another sigh. Well, that had gone better than he expected. Much better.

“What’s going on in … here?” It was Heath, and had he been wearing shoes you would have heard them screech on the linoleum floor. Instead his socks slipped, and he nearly crashed into fridge. His eyes darted back and forth from Brock to their mother to Krista to their mother’s hand on Krista’s stomach.

Krista swallowed. “Hi, Uncle Heath.”

“So are you guys getting married then?” Chase asked gruffly as they all sat around the dining room table a little while later, playing Risk and eating pizza. As was tradition, each brother had their own large pizza sitting in front of them. Obviously, Krista was free to have her own as well, but she chose to split one with Brock’s mother. Seemed both women liked the idea of chicken, mushroom and spinach. Brock had shaken his head at their order. He went with meat and plenty of it. Always.

“I’ve asked,” Brock grumbled, tipping back his drink and draining it. “She said no.”

Krista rolled her eyes at him, and he snorted. “It’s complicated.”

Chase picked up the dice from the board and started shaking them in his meaty palm. “I don’t see the complication. You’re having a baby together. You have sex. Makes sense to be married.”

Brock’s mother joined Krista in another eye roll. “It’s the twenty-first century, you big buffoon.” She snorted. “Family styles are always changing. Would I like for my grandchild’s parents to be married and in love? Of course. But let’s let Brock and Krista figure out how they want to raise their family, okay?”

God, Brock loved his mother. A family therapist, she’d had nothing but patience for her sons as they grew up. When Brock’s dad had died, Brock had been only twelve, and his mother was in the middle of getting her master’s degree. She had planned on quitting to get a full-time job and just raise the boys, but Brock wouldn’t allow it. Instead he took odd jobs on the weekends and after school to help make ends meet, and his mother alternated between part-time school and a night-shift job on a cleaning crew. It had taken her a little longer to complete school, but she’d never just quit. And eventually, she’d gone on to get her PhD as well and was now Dr. Joy Hart. There wasn’t a woman in the world he was prouder of or admired more. And the way she had embraced Krista and her and Brock’s unorthodox relationship just proved his mother was one hell of a woman.

“You asked her to marry you?” Heath asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Brock lifted his shoulder. “It’s the right thing to do.”

His mother scoffed. “The right thing to do is be in that child’s life. Whatever becomes of the two of you,” she pointed her finger between Brock and Krista, “would just be a bonus.”

Truth be told, though, he was beginning to have feelings for Krista. He was just total shit at showing it. Then she’d ask questions, and the fear would settle in and he’d clam right up. He’d never lived with a woman, never let a woman get this close, and for some reason, it scared the living shit out of him. But Krista, despite how much they butted heads and both seemed to be control freaks, made him want to open up. He just didn’t know how.

“Are you going to find out what it is?” Rex asked, diving into another slice of pizza.

Krista shook her head. “Brock doesn’t want to, and I kind of like the surprise aspect of it.”

Heath laughed. “Well, for your sake, I hope it’s a baby and a girl and has your size head. Brock’s head was enormous! And all Hart boy babies weigh at least ten pounds or more at birth, right, Mum?” He continued to chuckle as he elbowed Brock in the ribs before devouring a piece of pizza in four bites.

Brock and his mother both winced at the same time. It was true. He and his brothers had been big babies.

“If they offer you the drugs, take the drugs,” his mother started, “that’s all I’m saying. Harts make big babies with big heads. I don’t know about a girl, because I never had one, but if it’s a boy, chances are he’ll come out looking like a toddler.”

Brock glanced over at Krista. Fuck, the woman had gone white as a sheet.

Krista yawned and then yawned again as she helped clear the table after dinner and board games. The clock on the mantle said it was closing in on eleven. She hoped the Harts weren’t early risers on Christmas. She was exhausted.

After a rousing game of Risk that had Heath coming out victorious and Chase and Brock red in the face with steam coming out of their ears, they played Hearts (how fitting), dominoes and then finished the night off with poker, which saw Chase and Brock getting redemption from their baby brother and fleecing him of nearly three hundred dollars. The boys were busy putting the board games away and stoking the fire, so Krista joined Joy in the kitchen to help put away dinner.

“I just wanted to say thank you for opening up your home to me,” she said shyly, opening up the dishwasher and putting the dirty glasses inside. “And for being so cool with the fact that your son is having an illegitimate baby with a woman he hardly knows. Believe me, this was not how I saw my life going, either.”

Joy stopped what she was doing and turned to face Krista. “No matter whether you two love each other or not, that baby will be so, so very loved. And Brock will be so, so very loved by that baby. He needs that. He’s spent his entire life making sure that our family didn’t fall apart after his father died. Making sure his brothers succeeded and didn’t fall off the rails, making sure that I was always taken care of, that I could continue with school and finish my degree. He is the most responsible man I know. Almost to a fault. He made his family his life. So whether you’re married or not, in love or not, I know that this baby is going to have the best daddy in the world. And that makes me incredibly happy.”

Krista swallowed and then bit the inside of her cheek. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s an amazing man. He spent nearly his entire life taking care of everyone else. He put his emotions aside to get the job done, and now his shell is extra hard. Extra tough to crack.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “But I think you might be just the woman to crack it.”

Krista pulled back the covers on the bed. Those big plush pillows looked so good. Her body was positively screaming to be horizontal.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing a bed tonight,” Brock muttered, pulling back the covers on his side of the queen-size bed in the spare room that used to be his old room. Unlike Krista’s old room at her parents’—which was still a shrine to her younger self—Backstreet Boy posters and No Doubt concert tickets still tacked to the wall—Brock’s room had been redone and was now just a soft muted brown with teal accents and a camel-colored bedspread.

She lifted one shoulder and climbed under the covers, sighing with pleasure at being off her feet. “We’ve done it before.”

He snorted. “You mean that first night?”

“Mhmm.”

“You snore, you know.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “I do not!”

He nodded. “Do too. Almost had to go sleep in another room. It was like spooning with a grizzly.”

“We didn’t spoon,” she said indignantly.

He lifted up onto one shoulder and rolled over to face her. “Yes, we did. You may have passed out right away, but later in the night, you snuggled up next to me and told me in your drunken lady mumble that you were cold and wanted to spoon.”

“I DID NOT!”

He gave her a look of impatience. “Why is this something I would lie about?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” His voice took on a silky-smooth purr as his hand skimmed across the sheets and landed on her belly. She covered his hand with hers, but he pulled it away and made to push his fingers beneath the waistband of her pajama pants.

“In your mother’s house?” she hissed. The idea of getting freaky in his childhood home, in his childhood bedroom, equal parts turned her on and terrified her.

But as always, her libido won out.

“I’m in charge tonight,” she said confidently.

“Krista … ” he hummed, his voice stirring embers of arousal inside her into tall, licking flames.

“You shanghaied me into coming to Christmas dinner with your family, when your mother didn’t even know about me. You owe me.”

He was quiet for a moment, but then she was pretty sure she heard a barely discernible, “Fine.”

Yes.

She swallowed. The power tasted divine on her tongue. “What was that?”

He cleared his throat. “I said fine.”

She had to keep herself from laughing. Some nights he willingly gave up the power, like that night by the fire, though he got anal sex out of it, so it wasn’t really an exchange of power. But then other nights he was reluctant. It was nights like these that made Krista’s inner dominatrix come out.

She knew that the power struggle between them was going to be ongoing, at least for as long as they decided to continue sleeping together. They both liked to be in charge in the bedroom and had a hard time (especially him) relinquishing that control. And even though they’d never really sat and discussed it, because they never sat and discussed anything, she appreciated that he was willing to give it a try, at least for a little while.

Then the thought occurred to her: Could she get him to open up while she was in control? Ask him questions, demand he answer her? Or would he shut down and call the whole damn thing off? Was it worth risking no orgasm for information?

Or she could pump Joy for information on Brock. Corner each of his brothers and make them dish the dirty deets.

She’d have to stew on it a bit.

“You know how hard this is for me, right?” he said quietly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed and ground his molars to control his nerves.

She nodded solemnly. “Yes, I know.”

He licked his lips. “W-what would you like me to do?”

Grinning in triumph, Krista pushed him over onto his back and then sat up, looping one of her legs over his hips until she was sitting on top of him, straddling him.

“I want some answers,” she said, running her hands up his hard stomach until her thumbs and fingers rested over each of his nipples. “I’m tired of being shut out. I’m going to ask you four questions, and you have to answer three. Deal?”

As if sticking a fork in an electrical socket, his whole body jolted, and the man went ramrod straight. Were four questions too many? Should she have started with two?

“Deal?” she asked again, tugging ever so slightly on his nipples.

All he could do was nod.

“Good. Question number one: What is your favorite color?”

He already appeared bored. She tugged up hard on his nipples until he clenched his teeth and sucked in air.

“Fuck,” he gritted.

“They’re my questions, and I’ll make them as invasive or benign as I please. Got it?”

He swallowed.

“Got it?” she tugged up even harder on his nipples. He hissed but managed to grind out a barely discernible “yes.”

“Good. Now answer the question.”

His gaze landed on hers. “Blue … like your eyes.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Damn, the man could be seductive.

“Hmm,” she hummed, averting her gaze, not wanting him to see how his words affected her. “Interesting answer. I’m guessing there’s a certain part of your anatomy turning a shade of blue too.”

He bucked up beneath her. “Probably.”

She chuckled. “Then answer the questions more promptly so we can fix that. Question number two: What is your best memory?”

As if the man’s body couldn’t get any more rigid. His face turned an almost unhealthy shade of white, and he shifted beneath her.

“Remember, you only need to answer three of the four,” she said softly, worried that she might have pushed too hard too quickly.

“Christmas when I was ten,” he whispered. “My dad had it off. We were all home. Heath was only two but the size of a four-year-old. It snowed like crazy that year. He tossed all of us into a huge sled, and we went tobogganing. Then we all, my parents included, slept in the living room that night in front of the fire in our new Ninja Turtles sleeping bags.”

She couldn’t quite tell, because he was looking anywhere but at her face and the room was dark, but the reflection off the clock on the nightstand glimmered in his eyes, and she could have sworn there were tears.

“Which Ninja Turtle were you?”

“Leonardo,” he said, his voice hitching just a tad.

She struggled not to giggle. Krista didn’t giggle. “Of course. The responsible, serious one. Makes sense.”

“Also the smart one,” he added wryly.

“Donatello was smart too. The techie nerd.”

“That’s Chase.”

She hummed softly and ground her pelvis against his erection. “And let me guess, Heath was Michelangelo. And Rex was Raphael?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She licked her lips and swirled her hips again. “Leonardo was always my favorite. For a turtle, he was sexy.”

His hands came up and he gripped her hips, forcefully pulling her down onto his lap so she could feel just how hard, how turned on he was. She felt the same way. Sitting atop Brock, riding him, even with fabric between them, was her favorite place to be these days. The way he looked at her as they both reached climax stole the oxygen clear from her lungs and made her whole body vibrate and burn.

She sobered and stopped her hip swirls, despite how strong his grip was on her hips and how much he was encouraging her to continue. “Okay, next question. What is the most reckless thing you’ve ever done? You’re so responsible, so … grown up, what’s one thing you’ve done that is so out of character you didn’t even recognize yourself when you were doing it?”

His lips curled up into a diabolical smile. “That’s the fourth question. I don’t have to answer it.” Her mouth opened in protest, but her cut her off. “Favorite color, best memory, ninja turtle, this question.”

Shit, he was right.

Making a mock pout with her lips, she glared down at him. “Fine.”

Suddenly, she found herself up and off him and flipped over onto her back, her arms pinned above her in one of his hands.

“Damn, you really are a ninja.”

That smile was back. The man didn’t smile often, but when he did, holy hell. “Marry me, Krista.”

She exhaled loudly and motioned to push him off her, even though her efforts proved to be futile. It was like trying to move stone.

Way to kill the mood, dude.

“Don’t ask me that again until you’re head-over-heels, can’t-imagine-your-life-without-me, in love with me, okay? Because until that’s how you feel, my answer will always be no.”

His head dipped, and he took a nipple through her nightshirt into his mouth. She squeaked, followed by a groan from the blooming heat that spread through her chest and zoomed down between her legs.

“I do feel things,” he said softly, lifting his head and gazing down at her. Krista’s eyes went wide. “But if you’re not willing to agree to marry me right now, can we at least make each other feel good … as per our arrangement?” Levering himself onto one arm, he released her hands and went to work tearing off her pajama pants and relieving her of her shirt. She was already panty-free, so once the pants were off, she was bare.

She smiled. “We can definitely do that.”

His grin widened, and his eyes morphed from green to black in two seconds flat. He cupped her face and brought his lips down to hers.

The kiss was slow and romantic. A kiss that she wasn’t used to getting from this feral sex beast. Normally his mouth smashed down onto hers and his tongue challenged hers to a dance-off. But this kiss was gentle and so full of emotions that she had to suppress the lump that was forming in her throat. His hands traveled down her neck and body, cupping her butt and pulling her up to him, urging her to rock against him, accept him into her body. They both moaned as he finally entered her. The perfect fit.

His chest rumbled, and she was granted another rare smile before his teeth found her neck and his thrusts picked up vigor. Harder and harder he hammered into her, the sounds of their heavy breathing and bellies slapping the only noises in the room. And then, even though she was close to combustion, she couldn’t help the fleeting thought that interrupted her brain—thank God the mattress wasn’t squeaky, because they’d never hear the end of it in the morning.

“I … I’m close,” she panted, angling her head back into the pillows as his teeth raked down the vein. The vein that pumped her hot-for-him blood.

“Me … too.” He grunted.

“Look at me,” she ordered. “I’m still in charge. Look at me.”

Brock lifted his head and gazed down at her. What stared back at her in those endless pools of emerald was startling. A carnal need that mirrored her own along with a whole lot of other confusing feelings. And they did a bang-up job of confusing her, too. She knew she had feelings for him. Strong feelings. Yes, he was an overbearing control freak, but he was also kind and caring, and the way he’d stepped up to the plate with the baby spoke volumes of his decency. She just had to figure out a way to get deeper beneath his tough shell. Chisel through to the heart of her hard Hart and find out what he was really all about.

And then she broke. Completely and utterly. The look in his eyes, the way his body took hers in such a perfect and all-consuming way, she fucking shattered. Squeezing her eyes shut on impulse, Krista bowed her back and arched up into him, letting her nipples rub against his hard chest and his pubic bone slam mercilessly and divinely against her throbbing clit.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip to stem her cries while Brock dipped his head again and smothered his grunts of release in her hair and the pillow as he poured himself inside her.

A few moments later, after Krista had hastily ducked out to the washroom to clean up, thankfully not seeing a soul—a big burly Hart, tiny matriarch Hart, or Santa Claus himself—she pulled her pajama shorts back on and climbed into bed.

“Should we talk about names?” she asked, running her tongue along the seam of her lips as she took in the sexy, sweaty beast of a man lounging on the bed. His eyes were shut, and his breathing had returned to normal, but a sexy dash of red still colored his cheeks, and his cock beneath the sheet hadn’t completely returned to rest.

“Names?” he grunted, seeming to be almost asleep.

Damn it, were the walls back up?

“For the baby.”

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Oh. Uh … yeah, we can.”

“I like Hannah for a girl and Ansel for a boy. What about you?”

He shook his head and tucked his hands up and under it, the sheet shifting with his movements to reveal a dusting of pubic hair.

“All the men in my family have one-syllable names.”

Well, now they were getting somewhere. He was going to talk about his family. She’d just spent the evening with them but all in all still knew very little. She turned over onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, giving him her full and undivided attention. “And that’s a tradition you want to stick with?”

He nodded. “Yeah. If you’re okay with it, I wouldn’t mind naming the baby after my dad, if it’s a boy.”

Krista nodded. She was a reasonable person. As long as his dad’s name wasn’t something atrocious or heinously feminine, she could probably go along with it. “What was your dad’s name?”

“Zane.”

“Zane?”

“Yeah.”

“And is that your middle name?”

“No. My middle name is Lionel.”

“As in Lionel Richie?”

A small grin lifted at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly. I was named after Lionel Richie because my parents were listening to him when I was conceived.”

She couldn’t control the unladylike snort that roared through her nose. “Really?”

He nodded again. “All our middle names are whoever our parents were listening to during conception. They had a warped sense of humor, those two. My mother still does.” Krista noticed that from the start. Joy Hart was a little spitfire.

She shook her head and sat up higher, loving the glimpse she was getting into their baby’s family. They were proving to be fun and loving people, people she enjoyed being around.

“What are your brothers’ middle names?”

“Chase Marvin, for Marvin Gaye, obviously. Rex Barry, for Barry White, and Heath Leppard.”

“Leppard?”

“Def Leppard,” he said dryly, with an amused eye roll.

“Is that a tradition you want to continue with our kid, too?”

He reached over, and his hand grazed her hip. “No. Mainly because we didn’t have any music playing when he or she was conceived, but also because we can start our own traditions, if you’d like.”

She moved closer to him, allowing her breasts to touch his arm, the zing of arousal and need flying through her body once again, settling between her legs.

“Besides,” he said, rolling her over onto her back and covering her with his menacingly powerful frame. She locked her ankles around his back and let her heels rest in the crevice of his butt cheeks. “A Pink Floyd song was playing at the bar before we left, and Zane Floyd just doesn’t have a very nice ring to it.” Then he shucked her shorts off and drove home, ending the conversation.

Brock’s eyes flashed open at the sound of someone rattling around in the kitchen. Even though this was his childhood home and the sounds and smells were as familiar as the back of his own hand, it wasn’t his home anymore, and he was wide awake at the simplest noise. Barely moving, so as to not disturb the naked, snoring woman next to him, he grabbed his phone and released it from the charger.

It said seven o’clock.

Jesus, couldn’t his routine-obsessed mother sleep in even one day a year?

Of course not. She was probably up at five thirty like she was every day, ran on her treadmill downstairs for forty minutes, did thirty minutes of yoga and had a shower. Now she was getting the coffee going and preparing the Finnish coffee bread her mother used to make each Christmas. Joy Hart was a creature of habit and routine if he’d ever met one.

He pried himself out from beneath the sheets, grabbed what he needed from his duffle bag and slipped out the door. When he returned roughly thirty minutes later, he had to stifle a chuckle. Krista was taking full advantage of the empty bed now. She said she found sleeping on her belly painful, but that didn’t stop her from getting comfortable. Arms and legs spread wide, head on his pillow, she was a sprawled-out, sexy naked starfish snoring louder than any man he’d ever met or any bear he’d ever come across while out grouse hunting.

She was something else, that’s for sure. Fierce, hard-headed and frustrating as fuck. And as much as he told himself her stubbornness was annoying and just going to get her into trouble, he had to admit that it also made him admire the crap out of her. She was not a woman who just rolled over and exposed her belly at the first sign of a problem. She was a fighter. And fuck if he wasn’t falling for her. Hard.

Careful not to wake her up, he stuffed his toiletries bag back into the duffle bag, then pulled out Krista’s Christmas present. He’d driven around all fucking day yesterday looking for it. And of course, because he’d left it to the last minute, nearly every store had been sold out. But at the eleventh hour, for a price that made him damn near have a coronary, he’d found a suitable gift.

Would he have preferred something a tad more feminine?

Yes.

But at the eleventh hour, beggars and procrastinators can’t be choosy. This would have to do. Next year he’d get her a better one if she wanted. A matching one with the baby if he could find one.

Fuck! Did he just think about next year?

Shaking his head, he laid the gift out on the bed for her, turned the receipt over, grabbed a pen from off the nightstand and scrawled, “Put this on before you come out” on it. Then with one last look at the naked mother of his child and a smile that made his face hurt, he headed to the kitchen to go and find some coffee.

“Dude, that’s the sweater you bought her?” Heath asked, causing Brock’s head to snap up from where he’d been staring into his coffee, willing Krista to wake up. He glared at his brother and shook his head. Heath ignored him. “That sweater is more freaky than ugly.”

It was true though.

He’d been desperate in his hunt for an ugly sweater—a Hart family tradition. They all had one. And Krista couldn’t be any different. Though had he started looking sooner than December 24^th , he probably would have found something better than a bright red sweater with a ghoulish-looking snowman on it who looked more like that character from The Nightmare Before Christmas. The figure was holding his head in one of his branch limbs, like some kind of headless horseman/snowman. And of course, he’d found it at some hipster novelty store downtown and it had been fifty bucks. He’d balked, blanched, choked and coughed as he took it up to the till and the goateed, man-bunned cashier in various patterns of plaid had rung him up, going on and on about how big of a seller this sweater had been this year.

To who? Brock had no idea.

But despite the moderately terrifying sweater print, Krista pulled it off. She’d tugged it over her nightshirt and had traded her shorts for those flannel candy cane PJ pants. Her untameable mane was pulled back into a messy bun on the top of her head, and fuzzy bunny slippers scuffed down the hallway. He’d never seen anything so adorably sexy in all his life.

Rex sat down on the opposite side of the couch as Heath and barked out a laugh. “Oh, poor little Krista. Brock really dropped the ball with your sweater.” He clucked his tongue disapprovingly at Brock.

“It was all I could fucking find,” Brock said with a growl. “I ran around for hours yesterday trying to find an ugly sweater, and they were all sold out everywhere.” He made room for Krista next to him on the couch.

He watched Krista’s eyes widen as she took in the sight. A comical one if there ever was. There was no getting around how big Brock and his brothers were. They were all well over six feet and two hundred pounds. So the fact that all four of them had crammed their muscles into various ugly Christmas sweaters was hilarious, even for them.

But they did it for their mother.

There wasn’t much they wouldn’t do for her.

“You guys look like bears in brightly colored leotards,” Krista said with a snort as she leaned forward and grabbed a shortbread cookie off a tray. Rex and Heath both chuckled.

“Insulting, but accurate,” Heath said with a head bob.

“I especially like yours,” she said, nibbling on the cookie.

Heath beamed proudly at his outrageous sweater. He’d picked it out himself, the sick bugger. It had two reindeer, one of them being Rudolph, of course, engaging in some X-rated behavior. Rudolph appeared to be enjoying himself at least.

Brock’s wasn’t nearly as pornographic. Though he’d have to talk to Heath about his sweater next year when there was a kid crawling around. He might have to force his brother to get a more G-rated alternative.

Krista bumped Brock’s shoulder. “Your floppy-eared puppy with holly on his collar is quite a bit tamer than your brother’s. Who picked out yours?”

“Decaf coffee? Tea? Hot apple cider?” his mother asked, poking her head out of the kitchen.

Brock nodded in his mother’s direction. “She did.”

Krista chuckled before turning back to his mother. “Apple cider would be lovely, thank you.” She made to get up and head to the kitchen, only Brock’s mother and Chase were already emerging, a tray of cider and mugs in hand. Chase had a plate with more cookies and coffee cake, along with some fresh fruit and yogurt and granola. They always went light for Christmas breakfast in the Hart house, because for dinner they went hard.

Brock’s mother set the tray of ciders down, and Brock heard Krista cough beside him, cookie crumbs flying all over the sweater.

“That’s, uh … that’s quite the sweater you have on, Joy. Which one of the boys picked that out?”

Heath’s grin was wide and jolly as he sipped his coffee. “I did.”

Brock simply rolled his eyes. Heath had thought it appropriate to get their mother a sweater as X-rated as his. Only hers had two gingerbread people on it in the sixty-nine position, and both of their crotches had distinct bite marks on them, while the female gingerbread person appeared to have a face covered in icing.

“Next year you’re both going to need some tamer sweaters,” he grumbled, taking a sip of his Bailey’s-laced coffee. “Can’t have that shit around the innocent eyes of my kid.”

His mother chuckled softly as she handed Krista a steaming, Christmas-themed mug. Krista brought her nose down to the rim and inhaled.

“Oh, dear,” his mother started, “I didn’t think I raised such a prude. Sex, oral, vaginal, anal and otherwise is all very natural and healthy. I was never shy about discussing such things with you boys growing up, and you all turned out just fine.”

“Well, I’m a nymphomaniac,” Heath said with a laugh. “I’m not sure how fine I turned out.”

Their mother rolled her eyes and made a rude noise in her throat. “You are not.”

Brock glanced down at Krista, and the poor woman’s cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “We, and by we I mean my mother, Heath and Rex, have a bit of a warped sense of humor in this family. Sex has always been an overly open topic here.”

Krista swallowed and nodded, wincing slightly when she sipped her cider.

“Well, I am a therapist after all,” his mother added, her bright blue eyes twinkling.

Heath and Rex had inherited their mother’s eyes and coloring, while Brock and Chase were clones of their father, right down to the green eyes, serious demeanor and dark hair—though Chase, like Rex, kept his head shaved bald for some reason. It was days like this, especially, that he really missed his dad, missed their family banter and all the jokes, because for a serious, no-nonsense cop, Zane Hart could toss out some wicked one-liners.

“Is that what you do?” Krista asked, some of the color leaving her cheeks. “You’re a sex therapist?”

Joy took a seat right smack dab between Rex and Heath on the couch. “Well, family therapist, but I specialize in sex, sexuality and relationships. But I’ll still see you if you’re not having issues in the bedroom.” She winked.

Brock cringed slightly at his mother’s wicked little smile. The last thing he wanted to think about was his mother’s sexual prowess or knowledge about how to “spice” things up in the bedroom. As far as he was concerned, his mother had not had sex since the night Heath was conceived.

Oh fuck. Now Def Leppard was in his head.

He shuddered.

His mother rolled her eyes again. “I certainly hope he’s not this big of a stick-in-the-mud at home,” she said, not blinking and looking dead serious at Krista.

Brock’s coffee tasted foul on his tongue.

The mother of his child in a godawful Christmas sweater chuckled next to him. “Not at all. No need for intervention.”

His mother seemed pleased with that, nodded and leaned forward to grab a strawberry. “Shall we open gifts?”

Brock let out a long, loud sigh of relief that made everyone, including Krista, laugh until cookie crumbs were flying.

Krista wandered into the kitchen an hour so later, after all the hubbub of the gift opening, to find Joy elbow-deep inside a turkey, packing it full of stuffing.

Despite the fact that Brock was still so tight-lipped about his family and life, she loved how open and honest Joy was. Maybe she could get his mother to spill the beans about Brock, save Krista the headache.

She saw a few dishes in the sink that needed to be scrubbed, so without even thinking twice, she donned the gloves, poured in some soap and went to task. “Can you tell me about Brock?” she asked, not bothering to look up from the sink. “What was he like as a kid? What were his hobbies? What are his hobbies now? Does he have any friends?”

The men had all gone outside to shovel the driveway and bring in some more wood for the fire. Though when she’d peeked out the window a moment ago, Brock was shoveling, Chase was stacking wood in the wheelbarrow, and Rex and Heath were having a snowball fight. Now was the perfect time to get the skinny on Brock while he was out of earshot.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with her non-turkey hand, Joy paused and waited for Krista to look at her. “Let’s just get a couple of things straight, honey.”

Oh, shit, what did she say wrong?

“I know my son can be a closed book. A hard nut. A fucking frustrating grump who acts more like a caveman some days than a human being. But he’s my son, and his secrets, his information is his to give and his alone. I know it’s like pulling teeth to get information out of him. I’m his mother. I know that shit firsthand. But I won’t be the one to tell you about him. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. You have to figure out your relationship,” she waved her hand flippantly, “whatever it is, on your own. With no help from me or anyone else. I’ve seen him do things for you I’ve never seen him do for anyone else. His shell is cracking, just maybe not as fast as you would like.” Her eyes softened. “But I won’t be the one to spill the beans. Just like if you told me all your dirty little secrets, I wouldn’t breathe a word of them to Brock. You’re both adults. Act like it.”

Krista swallowed hard, feeling like a child who’d just been slapped with a strap across the wrist. Her cheeks burned, and her gut churned.

She averted her gaze, not sure if she should still be looking at Joy and fearing what could possibly be written all over her face when the wise woman spoke again. “I think you’re a lovely young woman, strong and bright and beautiful and exactly what my son needs. You are so very welcome into this family, you and this baby. Lord knows I could use some extra estrogen in this house from time to time, but just know I’m not one of those meddling mother in-laws. You need to fight your own battles. I’m here if you need to talk, but I won’t go to Brock for you. And vice versa. And I definitely won’t fill you in on him just to make your life easier. That information is earned through trust and time.”

Krista nodded. “I understand.”

Joy mimicked her nod before going back to her task of violating their dinner with her tiny little hand.

“So, uh, a sex therapist, eh?” She needed something to break the tension, and the fact that her child’s grandmother was a sex therapist seemed like as good a topic as any.

Joy tittered. “Well, I’m a psychotherapist and will see families and individuals for various reasons. But I specialize in sex and sexuality.” She glanced at Krista, who was looking around in search of a second apron. “Hanging off the fridge there. The one with the owls on it.”

Nodding, Krista slipped it over her head and tied it behind her back, wondering how much longer before a real telltale bump began to show beneath her clothes. “That’s really cool. What made you want to specialize in sex and sexuality?” Noticing a pile of washed carrots sitting on the counter next to a compost bucket, she located the peeler and began peeling. She needed to keep her hands busy.

Joy grunted and rose up onto her tippy toes in her red velvet slippers to really jam the stuffing into the turkey. “It’s always interested me. Maybe because my own sex life, before the boys’ dad, that is, was not a pleasant one. My ex, who was also my first, was a misogynist. When I got out of that relationship and into one with Zane, I realized how good things could be and I wanted to help other women, help other people realize their entitlement to pleasure as well.”

“That’s amazing. And so cool.” She felt a little stupid, standing next to this incredibly liberal and educated woman. What else could she say? Amazing and cool didn’t seem like responses worthy of this woman’s knowledge and expertise.

But Joy didn’t seem fazed in the least and just kept talking and cramming the turkey. “Was upfront with the boys from the get-go. None of this ‘pee pee’ and ‘wee wee’ bullshit. Call them by their real names, ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ or ‘vulva’ to be more anatomically correct.”

This woman was raw and didn’t pull any punches, and Krista loved it. Loved her, even if she was a tad spooky when her mama bear came out.

“And when the boys’ father died, it was just me, so I had to be Mom and Dad. If they had any ‘manly’ questions, I needed them to feel comfortable enough to come and talk to me about it.”

“That makes sense.” Krista took a sip of her third mug of cider, allowing the warmth to flow down her throat. It tasted like Christmas.

“Masturbation, sex, relationships, anything they wanted to know more about, they could come to me.” She scooped some more stuffing out of the bowl and started really giving it to the turkey, trying to cram every last crumb in there. “The same open-door policy stands for you, too, you know. And the babe. I don’t judge.” She blew her salt and pepper bangs out of her eyes. “The amount of conversations I’ve had about masturbation and safe sex … ” She snorted at her own mirth. “Guess I failed Brock on that last one, eh?”

Krista’s eyes went wide, and she could feel her face getting warm once again. She knew it wasn’t just from the piping-hot cider. “Well … uh, thanks. I mean … judging on my current predicament, I’m all educated up on how babies are made, and I’ll be open and honest with our kids, too. But it’s nice to know that they have a nana to go to if they have any questions.”

Joy’s face broke into a giant smile, her eyes glittering like Venus on a clear night. “You said kids.”

Krista shoveled a forkful of turkey into her mouth and had to stop herself from groaning in delight, especially since the juicy breast and well-seasoned gravy made her tongue want to have a spontaneous orgasm. She was sure neither she nor Brock would hear the end of it if she made even a peep that sounded sexual. So instead, she put her head down, shut her eyes and let the flavors envelop her in silence.

“Are you guys at least dating?” Heath asked over a mouthful of mashed potatoes. His plate resembled the Himalayas if the sky snowed gravy. “Is she your giiiirlfriend, Brocky Boo?”

Brock shot his youngest brother a stern look of warning, but Heath shrugged it off and grinned with puffy potato cheeks.

Krista looked up at the man on her left. What exactly were they? Well, besides parents-to-be, roommates and fuck buddies? Was it a relationship? Were they dating?

She had to catch herself from snorting. Dating. Ha. Besides her staff Christmas party, which he had invited himself to and had ended horribly, they hadn’t been on one date. So no. They were not dating. But what exactly were they doing? Was there a label for it? Should they label it?

Brock lifted one shoulder. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean I like her, she’s hot, makes killer gingerbread men, and I’d rather stop breathing than stop screwing her. So … I guess she is my girlfriend.”

The table went dead quiet, and all eyes, all eight of them, stopped and stared at the patriarch sitting at the head of the table. Krista’s mouth hung open, and when she glanced around the table, she wasn’t the only person sitting there with a goofy paper Christmas Cracker hat on her head who looked like a widemouth bass.

Brock made a rude noise in his throat and took a sip of his beer. “Pass me the brussels sprouts, Rex … please.” Then everything went back to normal. It was weird and odd and all kinds of crazy. And as they sat there eating the incredible dinner that Joy had prepared, Krista couldn’t help the giddy feeling that bubbled inside her.

She was his girlfriend.

Uncomfortably full of dinner, but also Christmas cheer, Krista and Brock waddled through the front door later that night, gift bags in hand. Brock’s brothers must have had a sixth sense or something about Krista coming to celebrate Christmas with them, or maybe Brock had told them he was bringing her and not taking no for an answer, but either way, all three of them had a gift for her. And really wonderful gifts to boot.

Heath had bought her a gorgeous forest-green wool scarf with matching gloves, while Rex and Chase went in on a beautiful black leather jacket, one that matched Brock’s.

Joy had glowered for a moment at Brock for making her feel like a putz as she didn’t have a gift for Krista, but besides Brock, Krista didn’t have a gift for anyone, so if anything, she was the putz and said as much to Joy.

“Nobody is a putz,” Rex said with a laugh. “Well, nobody besides Brock. He really shouldn’t have blindsided you guys.”

“Agreed,” Joy and Krista had said in unison.

Brock had just sat there with a scowl on his face as he passed Krista her gift. And what a gift. Even though the scarf, gloves and jacket were amazing, Brock’s gift was out of this world. Literally. He’d gone and purchased a star, an actual up-in-outer-space ball of fiery gas millions of light-years away, with the intention of naming it after their baby once he or she was born.

And of course, as hormonal pregnant ladies are wont to do, Krista had welled up with big, fat, ugly tears and cried when she’d opened the envelope.

His amazing gift had certainly put hers to shame. She’d felt like the putz of putzes when, after opening up the envelope that contained the star, she was forced to hand over her gift. A lump of coal compared with his diamond.

She had no idea what to get the sexy teddy bear. Mostly because she didn’t know him. And every time over the past few weeks she thought of a gift for him, her mind immediately went to the gutter.

Thanks again, pregnant lady hormones.

Whipped cream and strawberries and her with no clothes on, edible underwear and kinky sex toys. A coupon book for nights of whatever he wanted. Dirty shit. Lots and lots of dirty shit.

So, in the end, she’d bought him a book. A freaking cookbook. A cookbook consisting primarily of stir-fry recipes, because that seemed to be his go-to meal. She’d yet to have a bad one, but he was getting repetitive.

Fortunately, and almost convincingly, he seemed genuinely interested in her gift and leafed through it for several minutes.

Next year she’d do better.

Brock’s house was cold, especially compared with the warmth and charm they’d felt at Joy’s just moments ago, and an involuntary shiver raced up Krista’s spine as she climbed the stairs. She was exhausted, even though she’d done nothing all day but eat.

“I’ll light the fire in a second.” Brock yawned, coming up behind her as she made her way down the hallway toward her room. He flicked on the furnace, and she heard it hum to life beneath her feet. “But first I want to show you something. It’s your other Christmas present.”

She groaned. “Another one? Jeez, you trying to make my gift seem even crappier?”

He shook his head and reached for her hand, his other one on the knob of the spare room that they never went in. “It wasn’t a crappy gift. I’ll get a lot of use out of my stir-fry book,” he said with real and genuine affection in his voice. He turned the doorknob. “Now, it’s not quite done. I thought you might want to have a hand in the final touches … ” He opened the door and flicked on the light.

She gasped and stared in amazement as she slowly spun around the room and took in the nursery. “Oh my God … ”

This man … 

“You’d mentioned you wanted to do the baby’s room in yellow and gray with an owl theme, right?”

She nodded and ran her hand over the smooth, painted wood of the white sleigh crib.

“I haven’t put up much art or anything, just a few things I’ve found. But feel free to go crazy.”

“I … ” She shook her head “I can’t believe you did all of this. When?”

He shrugged. “You work a lot. I had time.”

“Did you make the crib?”

He shook his head and came up beside her. “No. I know a guy who does woodworking as a hobby. I commissioned it.”

“It’s … ” She ran her hand over the silky wood again. “It’s incredible.”

He shrugged and toed at a piece of nothing on the carpet. “I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to help you. Take away the stress. My brothers thought I was nuts, given how big of a control freak you are.”

She was flooded with the need to be with him. Near him.

She ate up the distance between him and rested her arms on his shoulders, her hands tickling the nape of his neck. She had to lift up onto tiptoe to kiss his chin. “Thank you,” she murmured.

His arms drifted around her waist. He grunted.

She chuckled against his skin. “That all you have to say?”

He grunted again, his head tilting down and his eyes finding hers. “What do you want me to say?”

She blinked up at him and smiled. “I dunno. You just grunt an awful lot.”

He grunted again, and she giggled.

“I like the sound of your laugh,” he whispered, still gazing down at her. “It’s not a girly giggle.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “No? What is it? A womanly giggle?”

The corners of his eyes creased, and his mouth lifted into a lopsided smile. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad I moved in,” she said softly. “I’m happy I don’t have to do this alone.”

His hands tightened around her, and he pulled her closer. “You’re not alone.”

“Not now.”

His lips brushed her forehead. “Not ever. You, this baby, I’ll always be here. Protect you both. Take care of you.”

Emotion caught in her throat from his words. She pushed back up to her tiptoes again and lifted her head. He angled his down to hers and took her mouth. But unlike all their other passionate embraces that were fueled by lust and a carnal need, this kiss was slow, sweet and filled with something much more than Krista could even begin to decipher. Her heart constricted inside her chest, and a lone tear slowly slipped down her cheek as he continued to kiss her, to hold her, to protect her.

Her hands slid down from his shoulders and roamed across his big chest and down to the hem of his shirt. He was so warm. The heat from him radiated through the fabric and into her skin, swirling through her.

Seconds later, she found herself scooped up in his arms and being carried fireman-style down the hallway to his bedroom. He gently placed her on the bed and began peeling away her clothes. The way his eyes devoured her made her entire body pulse. He looked at her like no other man ever had. As if she was all he would ever need or want. Gooseflesh raced across her skin as he removed her pants and underwear. But his searing stare quickly warmed her. He wasn’t nearly as patient with his own clothes and removed them with deft precision and speed.

The man was perfect. And he was hers.

She reached for him. “Make love to me, Brock.”

Desire sparkled in his green eyes as he put one knee into the bed and covered her.

“Move into my room,” he said, hovering above her, his lips just inches from hers. It wasn’t a request. But she was used to his bossy alpha-hole ways, and for the most part, they only turned her on more.

She gazed up at him. This was the man she was falling for. Her mouth quirked up into a grin. “So we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?”

He grunted and let the tip of his cock brush her clit. Oh, he was playing dirty now. “Sleep here tonight,” he said. “Move into my room.” He did one of his signature hip swirls and she nearly combusted on the spot.

“Why?”

“Because.” He pushed deeper inside her. “I don’t like you being across the hall.”

“You like me in your bed?” she teased, squeezing her muscles around him. “Easy access?”

He pushed forward until he was all the way inside. They both let out contented sighs. Languidly, almost torturously slow, he began to thrust.

“I like you here. You belong here.”

“I belong here,” she said, more to herself than anything.

Until the police force, Krista had never really felt as though she belonged anywhere. She wasn’t like the other kids in high school or even her older brother. She’d always felt like a bit of a screwup or a black sheep compared with everyone else. But with the RCMP, she belonged. And now, with Brock, as his girlfriend, in his house, carrying his baby, she felt like she belonged. She was part of something. This was where she was meant to be. In his house. In his bed. Beneath him. With him.

“You belong here,” he repeated, his eyes not leaving her face. “You belong with me.”