Wounded, Page 20
Jasinda Wilder
A man enters the bathroom, murmuring in appreciation of her naked body. He slides his hands down her sides to her hips, then over her slightly rounded belly and up to her br**sts, which he cups in tender hands.
He rests his chin on her shoulder and takes in her reflection with her. He lifts a hand to run a tendril of her freshly dyed ink-black hair through his fingers. “I love it, Rania,” he says.
“You do?” She turns to look at him, kisses his nose.
“Yes, I do. I really, really love it. It looks so perfect. So you. ”
“So I didn’t look like me, before I dyed my hair?” Her voice holds a note of teasing.
The man just snorts. “You know what I meant. ”
She laughs. “Yes, my love. I just enjoy teasing you. ”
He chuckles with her, then moves his hand from her breast down between her thighs.
She smacks his hand away. “We don’t have time for that, Hunter. We have to be at the doctor in half an hour. Or don’t you wish to know if our baby is a boy or girl?”
He backs away, but not before giving her backside a playful smack. “Well, then, you’d best get moving, shouldn’t you?”
She snorts, turning to slap his arm as he dances out of the way. When he is gone, she turns to look at herself again, running her fingers through her hair. Her expression is distant, as if seeing a young girl in the mirror, young and innocent.
The woman shakes her head, and the girl is gone, replaced by her own face once more.
But for weeks afterward, she sometimes sees that little girl in the mirror, sees her in the flash of hair so black it is almost blue, in the wide, dark brown eyes that now hold love, happiness, and completion.
