Getting Played by Emma Chase –> Review

Dean
I find Lainey in the living room—standing on a ladder, with those long, toned legs peeking out from itty bitty cotton black shorts and a power drill in her hand, while Bruce Springsteen sings “I’m Goin’ Down” from a speaker in the corner.

And, dear God—the things I could do to her on that ladder.

Wonderful, filthy things that instantly make my heart pound and my cock throb. She’s the perfect height for me to just walk over there and put my mouth between her legs. I picture it, see it in my mind—the way she’d grip my hair and pant my name, arch her back and writhe against my face . . .

But then I catch sight of the small bump of her stomach, and reality smacks me in the head. I think about the baby—and how making Lainey lose her mind three feet off the ground wouldn’t be the safest option. My protective instinct overrides the desire to get freaky on the ladder.

“Hey, Dean.” She sets the drill on the ledge and picks up a beeping light green rectangle, running it along the wall.

“What are you doing up there?” I ask.

I don’t have a decorative bone in my body, but the room looks good—with light gray walls and navy corduroy covered couches, reclaimed wood tables and a dozen different-sized candles filling the white-washed brick fireplace. It’s clean and simple but warm, the kind of place you’d look forward to coming back to every day.

“I’m going to hang up those boards.” Lainey gestures to three square planks, with ornamental arrows, burned black into the wood. “I just want to make sure this stud-finder works.”

“If you’re looking for a stud,” I wink, “I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Ha-ha. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She turns back to the wall, reaching up over her head and stretching onto her tippy toes on the narrow step. I move under the ladder to catch her if she goes ass over end, and a stab of terror slices through me at the thought that Lainey would still be doing this if I wasn’t here. Alone. Without Jason even in the room in case something went terribly wrong.

What the hell is up with that?

“I read that you’re not supposed to reach above your head when you’re pregnant.”

“That’s just an old wives’ tale.”

I wrap my hands around her hips, holding her steady.

“Maybe the old wives knew what they were talking about. Come on, come down.”

Slowly, Lainey lowers her arms and turns in my hands. I lift her off the ladder by her hips, tilting my head back and holding her above me for a moment, before sliding her slowly down. And the feel of her softness rubbing against me, the friction—it’s fantastic.

When her feet are on the ground, I dip my head and our faces are just millimeters apart. Close enough to count the sprinkle of cute, light freckles that dust the bridge of her nose.
 “That’s better,” I say softly, taking the stud-finder out of her hands. “I’ll do it.”

“Okay.” Lainey’s tongue peeks out, wetting her bottom lip. “Thanks.”

Like I said . . . fucking killing me.