She was in Max's arms, his hard body curled against the back of hers, his arms cocooning her to him. His hand splayed across her womb, their baby kneading softly against it, comforting her. It was idyllic, this, she thought sadly. And dangerous, because it matched exactly so many of her secret yearnings. The soft, warm feel of his breath on her hair told her that Max was still sleeping. He was relaxed, his arm heavy on her, their bodies damp with sweat in the warmth of the room. Max must have covered them both, because a thin sheet was thrown over them. How long had he lain awake while she slept? she wondered. What had he been thinking? Problems stirred to life, and she stirred with them, moving as stealthily as she could out of his arms, and sliding to the edge of the bed, scraping her hair back from her face with a hand before sitting to gather her thoughts, taking stock of where she was. It could only be his bedroom. Max's character was stamped all over the deep tones of rusts, browns and black.
