Bound By Their Babies. Caroline Anderson
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Em, you don’t have to justify it to me, I’m heartily in favour of you doing what nature intended, but you’d talked about formula milk so I was just surprised,’ he said lightly, trying to ignore his crazy reaction.
Since when had breastfeeding been erotic?
‘I’m going to put our food on. Cup of tea while it cooks?’
‘Please—decaf if you’ve got it?’
‘Of course. I have enough trouble sleeping without chucking caffeine into the mix.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, you’re all right. You stay there with Zach.’
He headed for the kitchen, trying to work out what was going on in his head. He knew what was going on in his body, and it was entirely inappropriate and out of order.
Didn’t stop it, though.
He turned on the oven, put the kettle on, braced his hands on the edge of the worktop and let his head drop.
He did not need this—this sudden and unexpected and unwelcome complication to a situation that was already complicated beyond belief. She was a widow, a vulnerable woman with a young child, putting herself out to help him. The last thing—absolutely the last thing—she needed was him turning weird on her. Protective he could cope with. Lust—no. Absolutely not.
He thrust himself away from the worktop, put the supermarket ready meal into the oven, then prepped the veg.
Not that opening a tray of pre-prepared sugar snap peas, baby corn and tenderstem broccoli took much prepping, but anything rather than go back in there while she was still feeding Zach. And that in itself was ridiculous. He spent his life surrounded by women in various stages of undress, was thoroughly familiar with their most intimate anatomy, saw new mothers breastfeeding on a daily basis. So why was he reacting like this now, and why with Emily, of all people in the world?
And there was no way—no way!—he was letting himself answer that question! It was a whole other can of worms, and he needed to get a grip. He wasn’t an adolescent exploring and exploiting his emerging sexuality, he was an adult, more than twice the age he’d been when he’d first met Emily. Surely to goodness he’d developed a little self-control and discretion in all that time?
Not to mention common decency.
With a low growl, he pulled two mugs from the cupboard, made the tea and went back in, studiously avoiding looking anywhere near her chest. Not that he could see anything, anyway. She was being incredibly discreet and she’d obviously got it down to a fine art—
‘I think there must be some kind of narcotic in breastmilk,’ she said with a smile that sent his resolutions into a tailspin. ‘It’s like he’s drugged, he’s so heavily asleep.’
He hauled his eyes off the sliver of smooth, pale skin he could see above the baby’s downy head as she tugged her top down. ‘Will you be able to sneak him into his cot, or will he wake up the minute you let go of him?’
She gave a wry laugh. ‘I’m guessing that was Matilda?’
‘Yup. Every time.’
‘Zach’s usually all right. I might go and try if you don’t think I’ll wake her?’
‘No, she should be fine. Go for it. The travel cot’s ready.’
She unravelled her legs and stood up gracefully, and he gritted his teeth and dragged his eyes off the smoothly rounded curve of her bottom as she headed through the door.
What the hell was going on with him?
He picked up his tea, cradled the mug in his hands and blew the steam away crossly.
He was better than this. If ever a woman was off limits, it was Emily, and especially now. He knew that. It was just getting his body to listen that was the difficult bit, and right now it seemed to have gone stone deaf.
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