He’s nuts for the generous line of her hips; has a crush on the roundness of her bottom; feels a very special love for the way her breasts have grown bigger during the last weeks and seem to persistently tease him by staying in his line of vision. Those are constant reminders of her current state. As though he could forget about it.
Above all, he’s mad about the growing bump of her belly. He’s spent hours staring at it, observing it as - slowly but surely - her regular clothes started to grow too tight, eventually becoming downright unwearable. She bought new, larger, softer, brighter ones, then. He went with her because he wanted, needed to keep on watching her. Not that he has an issue with the notion of Jane wearing no clothes whatsoever – as long as she keeps that inside their house anyway – since he’s quite infatuated with her ever-changing, ever-curving and swelling shape. No clothes means there is nothing to cut or interrupt the alluring contour of her figure. Nothing to cover and hide the pale, taut skin of her tummy with its pattern of delicate veins carrying flows of blood and life.
Thing is, it also means that it’s even harder to keep his hands off her. He really can’t see how he could not want to touch her. Like, all the time. He doesn’t mean this in a sexual way. Not necessarily. Well, okay, maybe a little bit. Let’s say he wants to lick her breasts, grabs her expanded hips, marvels at the creases and folds of her body when she moves against or above him and closes her eyes in ecstasy. He also wants - wants it so bad that his skin seems to prickle at the idea - to gently lay his hand on the soft and smooth flesh of her tummy and just feel her and the baby. Their baby. His fingers circle her belly button, the palm of his hand rests lightly and waits for a kick, a punch or maybe a head butt from the little one snuggled in there. Lincoln’s learnt patience and can wait for hours.
Michael told him it’s atavistic. Damn his brother and his stupid big words, because Lincoln had to look it up in a dictionary. Something about the primal, primitive, vital need to perpetuate the species and protect the being carrying the future. It sounds quite animalistic and carnal, but it’s okay because Lincoln can actually, physically feel it – feel his heart twist and constrict and swell, pumping blood into all the right places, from guts to hands to brain.
When he looks up, she’s leaning against the doorframe and is staring quizzically at him. She’s slipped on a pair of pajama pants, their elastic waistband stopping right under her navel, and a short tank top not reaching much lower than the underside of her breasts. With unabashed fascination, he eyes the way her round stomach pushes the fabric, poking out from the thin layers of clothes.
“You coming to bed?” she says with a enticing voice and an even more enticing shift of hips-belly-thighs when she moves away from the doorjamb. He won’t tell her how much he loves to see her walking – last time, she laughed in his face.
She doesn’t need to ask twice.