The Maverick's Thanksgiving Baby

She blew out a breath. “I don’t think our baby needs to be raised by two parents trapped in a loveless marriage.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so dire. If we want to, we can make this work.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

He ignored her question as if she hadn’t even spoken. “We should be able to make all of the necessary arrangements for a wedding within a couple of weeks.”

“Did you get kicked in the head by a horse? I am not marrying you.”

The lift of his brows was the only indication that he’d heard her this time, as he steamrollered over her protest. “We can have a quick courthouse ceremony here or a more traditional wedding in LA, if you prefer.”

“So I do have some say in this?”

“The details,” he agreed. “I don’t care about the where and when so long as it’s legal.”

There was something about his determination to make her his wife that thrilled her even as it infuriated her. And she suspected that, deep in her heart, she wanted what he was offering: to get married and raise their baby together.

But she didn’t want a marriage on the terms he was offering. She didn’t want a legal union for the sake of their baby but a commitment based on mutual respect and affection. Unfortunately, that offer wasn’t on the table. And even if it was, there were other obstacles to consider.

“What about the detail also known as my job?” she challenged.

“What about it?”

“How am I going to represent my clients in Los Angeles if I’m living in Rust Creek Falls? Or am I supposed to happily sacrifice all of my career ambitions for the pleasure of becoming Mrs. Jesse Crawford?”

His only response was a scowl that proved he hadn’t given much thought to the distance that separated them geographically.

“I’m sure you can find a job in Rust Creek Falls, if you want to keep working.”

“Or maybe you could find work in Los Angeles,” she countered.

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being completely unreasonable.”

“It’s not unreasonable to want our child to be raised by two parents.”

“Look at us, Jesse. We can’t even have a simple conversation without fighting and you want us to get married?”

“Yes, I do,” he said again.

She shook her head. “Obviously we have a fundamental difference of opinion.”

“I don’t recall there being any differences of opinion when we were in bed together.”

And with those words, the air was suddenly charged with electricity.

The heat in his gaze spread warmth through her veins, from her belly to her breasts, throbbing between her thighs. He wasn’t even touching her—and she was fairly quivering with desire.

No one had ever affected her the way this man did. No one had ever made her feel the way she felt when she was with him. But even more unnerving than the wanting of her body was the yearning of her heart.

She pushed away from the breakfast bar and carried her empty mug to the sink. She had to leave, to give them both some time and space to think about how they should proceed.

“Maggie.”

She looked up, and he was there. Close enough that she couldn’t breathe without inhaling his clean, masculine scent. Close enough that he had to hear her heart pounding. And although his eyes never left hers, she felt the heat of his gaze everywhere.

He lifted a hand to touch her hair, his fingers skimming over the silky tresses to cradle the back of her head. Then his mouth was on hers, his lips warm and firm and sure, and she melted against him.

She’d forgotten how strong he was, how solid every inch of his body was. Hard and unyielding. And yet, for all of his strength, he was incredibly gentle. It was that unadulterated masculine strength combined with his inherently gentle nature that had appealed to her from the first.

His hands slid down her back, inched up beneath the hem of her sweater. Then those wide, callused palms were on her skin, sliding up her torso to cup her breasts. Her blood pulsed in her veins, hot and demanding. His thumbs brushed over her nipples through the delicate lace, and she actually whimpered.

He nibbled on her lips. Teasing, tasting, tempting.

“I want you, Maggie.”

She wanted him, too. And though she knew it might be a mistake to let herself succumb to that desire while there was still so much unresolved between them, that knowledge didn’t dampen her need.

“Tell me you feel the same,” he urged.

“I do,” she admitted. “But—”

She forgot the rest of what she’d intended to say when he lifted her off her feet and into his arms.

He carried her up the stairs and down a short hallway to his bedroom with effortless ease. When he set her on her feet beside the bed, she knew that if she was going to protest, now was the time to do so. Then he kissed her again, and any thought of protest flew out of her mind.

Her mouth parted beneath the pressure of his, and his tongue swept inside, teasing the soft inside of her lips. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her buttocks, pulling her close. The evidence of his arousal fueled her own. Blood pulsed in her veins, pooled low in her belly, making her want so much that she actually ached.

She lifted her hands to the buttons of his shirt and began to unfasten them. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth of his bare skin beneath her palms. But the cotton T-shirt under the flannel impeded her efforts. With a frustrated sigh, she tugged the T-shirt out of his jeans and shoved her hands beneath it.

Jesse chuckled softly. “I didn’t realize this was a race.”

“I want to feel your body against mine,” she confessed.

He released her long enough to get rid of his clothes. She sat on the edge of the bed, intending to do the same, but she was still struggling with her boots when his jeans hit the floor. As he kicked them away, she couldn’t help but admire the knit boxer briefs that molded to the firm muscles of his buttocks and thighs at the back and did absolutely nothing to hide the obvious evidence of his arousal at the front.

Her mouth went dry and her fingers froze on the knotted laces. He knelt beside her and efficiently untied the boots and pulled them from her feet. Then he unfastened her jeans and pushed them over her hips, down her legs, finally stripping them away along with her socks.

“Your feet are cold,” he realized, warming them between his palms. “You need thicker socks.”

Not in California, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. She didn’t want to speak of the distance that separated their lives; she didn’t want anything to take away from the here and now.

“Or I could get under the covers,” she suggested.

“That’s a better plan,” he agreed.

But first, he lifted her sweater over her head and tossed it aside, leaving her clad in only a lace demi-cup bra and matching bikini panties. He sat back on his haunches, the heat in his gaze roaming over her as tangible as a caress, making her nipples tighten and her thighs quiver.