Chapter 6 Caught in the Glow #2
His hand slides around, fingers finding my clit, circling it with devastating precision as his other hand tightens in the lights across my back. The dual sensation, the stretch of him inside me, the pressure on my most sensitive spot, sends me rocketing toward the edge.
I come hard white-hot pleasure crashing through me in waves. My entire body convulses, the lights digging into my skin as I clench around him. Stars burst behind my eyelids as I cry out his name—both his names, in a desperate, broken sob.
“Santo! Scythe! Please!”
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t slow, driving me through my orgasm.
“You don’t want me to stop, do you, Vasilisa?”
His voice drops, dark and certain.
“You want to be used.”
A hard thrust.
“That’s…”
Another.
“…what you…”
Another.
“…said.”
“Yes… yes…”
It’s a broken whisper, overstimulated and barely aware. My mind slips, my body trembling as he keeps going until I’m shaking, oversensitive and delirious.
When his pace finally stutters, I know he’s close. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise as he buries himself deep inside me with a guttural groan.
“Fuck,” he groans his voice raw as he empties himself inside me.
For several long moments, we stay frozen like that both of us panting. The lights feel hot against my skin from my sweat, almost uncomfortable. “You okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades.
I nod, still catching my breath. “More than okay.”
He pulls out slow with a hiss tucking himself away before he helps me stand. He turns me gently, his eyes search mine, and I see the question there still, the suspicion. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly, reverently.
“My beautiful wife,” he whispers against my lips. “My clever, surprising, secretive wife.”
I look up at him, my heart still racing. “I love you.”
He smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before he starts unraveling the lights rubbing every indent left behind. “I love you too. Even when you’re hiding things from me.”
My stomach flutters.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, scooping me up and carrying me toward the stairs. “And then maybe you can tell me what prompted this particular surprise.”
“Christmas spirit?” I offer weakly.
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “If this is Christmas spirit, I might become religious.”
I rest my head against his shoulder as he carries me to our bathroom, setting me gently on the counter.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs.
I don’t. I just spread my legs as he wets a cloth with warm water and begins to clean me, tender, precise. The edge of Scythe is gone now, replaced with Santo’s steadier hands. His dark gaze tracks every inch of me as he runs the cloth over my thighs before setting it aside. He frowns.
“Lights were a beautiful idea,” he murmurs, “but Dea, they marked you up.”
“I like the marks,” I whisper, smiling as my head tips against the mirror.
He leans down, grabbing my arms, inspecting my back, along my waist. Then he moves to the base of my neck, where his bite still throbs faintly.
He brushes his thumb across it, then turns to the drawer, pulling out a small tube of antibiotic cream. “This one’s going to bloom dark,” he mutters, almost to himself, before glancing at me with a sheepish smile. “I hate when I mark you too hard.”
“I love it.”
He dabs the ointment onto the bite gently, like he’s afraid to hurt me now. Like he’s trying to protect what just minutes ago he was ruining.
And I don’t know why, but the truth tumbles from my lips before I can stop it.
“I’m pregnant.”
His hands freeze. His breath stops. The room goes still.
I curse inwardly. So much for making it special.
“I found out yesterday,” I rush on, unable to stop the spiral.
“I-I put on the lights and I wanted it to be a surprise. I knew if I told you before, you’d hold back, you’d get all soft on me, and I didn’t want that, Santo.
I wanted Scythe. I wanted the way you always take me.
I need that. I need you. And I know—I know you’re going to start treating me like I’m made of glass now, and I don’t want that either. ”
I’m breathless. My heart is pounding from the vulnerable, unraveling confession I just spilled at his feet.
His hands slowly lower to the counter, framing my thighs. His expression is unreadable.
“You’re pregnant,” he says, the words coming out like he’s tasting them, like they’re too big for his mouth.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He exhales sharply, then lets out a sound, a small, disbelieving laugh, but it’s cracked with something softer. Wetter.
He drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed into my lap, his hands gripping my hips as if he’s grounding himself.
“My heart outside my body,” he says hoarsely. “How am I supposed to survive with two pieces of my soul wandering this world now? How, Dea?”
My fingers slip into his hair, combing through it gently.
“You’ll survive,” I whisper, “I told you maybe we should wait, but—”
His eyes lift to mine, and they’re shining now, stormy, stunned, and so full of love it takes my breath away.
“Wait?” he repeats, shaking his head, smile blooming so bright it reaches his eyes. “Never. No.”
“You’re giving me a child,” he breathes out, as if he still can’t believe it. “You. My light, my wife, my everything. You’re giving me a child.”
“You’re going to be unbearable,” I tease gently. “A tyrant. You’re never going to let me lift a finger again.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m not,” he growls, standing and lifting me into his arms. “You’re never walking again. Not while carrying my baby.”
“I love you,” I whisper, curling into him. “But you have to let me walk at least sometimes.”
“I love you more,” he murmurs against my hair. “More than anything. And we can negotiate on the walking”
A laugh bursts out of me in his arms, feeling the glow from the inside out.