The Unwanted Wife (Unwanted #1)(49)

“Because I’m bored now,” she complained sulkily, and he muttered something in Italian beneath his breath.

“What does that mean?” she demanded to know, and he slanted a wry sidelong glance at her before snorting softly.

“I said, ‘God save me from stubborn women,’” he obligingly translated, and she scowled.


“I am not stubborn,” she insisted stubbornly, and his gorgeous lips twitched in amusement.

“Of course not.” He shook his dark head in a most condescending manner, one that Theresa immediately took exception to.

“And you don’t have to patronize me,” she seethed. “I’m not made of glass.”

“You’re just spoiling for a fight aren’t you?” he mused, his lips curling up slightly. She folded her arms over her chest and kept her eyes mutinously fixed on his strong jaw. He sighed dramatically and hoisted her farther up against his chest before making his way downstairs. When they got back to her room, he deposited her gently onto the side of her bed and stood staring down at her placidly with his hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blue cargo pants. She loved him in cargo pants; they rode low on his lean hips and certainly did wonderful things for his already gorgeous backside. Now, while he brooded above her, her mouth went dry at the picture of masculine perfection he presented in those pants and his favorite old T-shirt, a torn, stretched gray thing with a Batman emblem on the front. His hair was a mess and he was in serious need of a shave but he looked absolutely gorgeous and she was suddenly breathless with desire for him.

His eyes narrowed speculatively on her flushed face. The corners of his lips tugged upward as he stretched abruptly while adding a jaw-popping yawn to the movement. His T-shirt rode up over his toned, ridged abdomen and revealed his smooth bronze skin. Theresa nearly groaned out loud as she squelched the urge to reach out and stroke the satiny skin on display just inches from her face. The elaborate stretch finally ended and he groaned as he rolled his head on his shoulders, working the kinks out of his neck.

“I’m exhausted,” he informed her huskily, sinking down beside her, and she hurriedly scooted closer to the headboard. He ignored the evasive movement and threw himself backward, lying down with his knees over the side of the bed and his feet braced on the floor. Once again his shirt had ridden up and Theresa stared at the tempting skin of his ripped torso mutely. He lifted his hands to cover his face, hitching the shirt up even further, and he sighed again. “Just let me rest here for a couple of minutes, cara. I need to recover my strength after hauling you down those stairs. You have put on a lot of weight over these last few months.” She was so captivated by the delectable picture he made, laid out like a buffet in front of a starving woman, that it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she yelped in outrage and thumped his hard bicep in response. His mouth, the only part of his face that she could see beneath his hands, shifted into a lazy smile.

“You hit like a girl.” He smirked, keeping his eyes covered and she attempted to hit him again. He was ready for her this time and grabbed her clenched fist to tug her toward him until she was awkwardly sprawled on top of him. She tried to shift off him but his arm tightened like an iron band around her waist, keeping her in place with the barest of efforts.

“Let me go,” she demanded between clenched teeth, wriggling urgently as she tried to get away from him. To her frustration she could barely move and eventually she wore herself out and stopped moving. Her hands were braced on his hard broad chest as she tried to keep her upper body away from his; one of her feet was dangling over the side of the bed and the other was trapped between his legs. She glared down into his face but his eyes were closed and he looked so relaxed that for an implausible moment she actually believed that he might have fallen asleep. His eyelids lazily drifted up when she stopped moving.

“Just relax will you?” he implored wearily.

“I can’t relax like this,” she whispered, and he groaned before, with seemingly great effort, he shifted until they were both lying in the middle of the large bed. He was on his back, his sock-clad feet, because he had somehow managed to kick off his sneakers in the process, crossed at the ankles. She was stretched out beside him and he had one hard arm wrapped around her waist and the other curled up beneath his head. How he had managed to change their positions without once releasing her remained a mystery to her.

“You’re still not relaxed,” he observed after a few minutes of silence, and she lifted her head from where it was resting just beneath his armpit and frowned grumpily up into his face.

“Of course I’m not,” she snapped. “How am I supposed to relax when you’re exactly where I don’t want you to be?”

“You brought this upon yourself.” He shrugged, unconcerned.

“How on earth did I do that?”

“By not following the doctor’s orders,” he mumbled, sounding half-asleep. “This is the only way I can be sure that you’ll stay in bed.”


“I’m not going to have sex with you,” she said, and he sighed, the sound so long-suffering that Theresa’s hackles rose.

“Of course not but you are going to sleep with me,” he informed her, his voice filled with grim purpose. “So you might as well relax.” She said nothing, merely remaining tensed up like a coiled spring beside him. The hand he had resting at her waist began sweeping lazily up and down her side, while he brought his other arm around to lay his large hand low on her abdomen, where the baby rested. She tensed even further but he did nothing more threatening than pet and stroke her gently. Gradually she began to relax, allowing her thoughts to drift slightly.