Chapter 13 #2
I get her bra down enough to free her breasts and take one in my mouth while my hand works between her thighs.
She gasps and twists beneath me, and I suck harder, dragging my tongue over the tight nipple until she’s writhing.
I switch to the other, biting lightly, soothing it with my tongue, loving the way her body answers every time I do.
“I wanted this,” I say against her skin, lifting my head just enough to look at her. “Since I carried you in here.”
Her eyes are dark on mine. “Then have it.”
Somehow that makes my cock throb harder than it already was.
I drag her underwear down, kissing lower as I go, over her belly, the soft inside of her thighs, then part her and put my mouth on her before she can say another word.
She cries out and grabs for me at once.
There’s no gentle beginning this time. No slow easing into it. I already know how she tastes, how she sounds when she’s close, how her thighs tighten when she’s trying not to beg. I eat her like I need it, tongue working her hard while my fingers spread her open and sink inside.
She’s hot and slick and so responsive it makes me half-wild.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “Give it to me.”
Her hands are in my hair, holding, pulling, helpless and demanding at once. I fuck her with my fingers and suck her clit until her whole body goes tight, and when she comes, she comes hard, thighs shaking against my shoulders, my name broken across her lips like a prayer she resents needing.
I work her through it because I can’t seem to stop, because the sight of her like this ruins me, because I like the way she falls apart when I keep going longer than she expects.
By the time I climb back over her, she’s flushed all over and breathing hard, eyes dazed and mouth soft from being kissed too much.
“You look wrecked,” I tell her.
She reaches between us and palms my cock through my trousers. “So do you.”
I laugh once, low and rough, and get rid of the rest of my clothes while she watches. She pushes her dress up higher and opens her legs before I even ask, and that simple, hungry movement nearly strips the rest of my control.
I crawl back over her and kiss her deeply while I stroke myself through her wetness. She moans into my mouth and reaches for my ass, pulling me closer, telling me more with her body than she has with words all day.
“We can still stop,” I say, though it’s a lie from the moment I speak it.
“No,” she breathes. “We really can’t.”
That settles it.
I push inside her slowly enough to feel every bit of resistance, every shudder, every inch of heat giving way around me. Even after everything, the first slide in is enough to pull a groan out of both of us.
“Fuck,” I say into her mouth.
She clings to me tighter. “Don’t be gentle just because you think I’m fragile.”
I pull back enough to look at her. “That is not why I’m being gentle.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
That makes her smile, and the sight of it under me nearly does exactly that.
I start moving before she can answer, long deep strokes that make the mattress shift under us. She opens for me so beautifully it feels obscene. Every time I drag out, she tries to follow. Every time I push back in, her breath catches and her nails bite into me a little harder.
We can’t stop touching each other.
That is the simplest truth in the room.
My mouth is on hers, then her throat, then her breasts again.
Her hands are on my shoulders, my back, my ass, my face, as if she needs all of me at once and I’m not doing much better.
I keep one hand braced beside her head and the other sliding under her thigh, holding her open and close and exactly where I want her.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say.
“It’s not enough.”
God.
I fuck her harder for that.
Not careless. Not punishing. Just with the full force of wanting her too badly. She takes it and gives it back, rocking up into me, meeting me stroke for stroke as much as she can. The sound of us gets louder. Wet, frantic, undeniable. Her moans. My breathing. The bed against the wall.
She kisses me in between gasps and says the filthiest little things without seeming to realize how much they affect me.
“More.”
“Please.”
“Right there.”
I give her exactly what she asks for.
She comes apart again with her face buried in my neck, cunt clenching around me so hard I nearly lose it right there. I’m close enough that my rhythm stutters, and she feels it immediately, her hand sliding between us to stroke my stomach, then lower, nails scraping lightly.
“Come inside me,” she whispers.
That nearly finishes me on the spot.
I thrust deep, once, twice, and then I’m done.
I bury myself all the way in and come hard, mouth against hers to swallow the sound of it, hips jerking through the last of it while I empty into her.
She holds me through it, arms and legs around me, like she’s no more interested in distance than I am.
Afterward we stay exactly where we are. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us slick with sweat. My weight half on her, half braced off, enough not to crush her but not enough to break the closeness either.
She strokes a hand down my back. I kiss her shoulder. My hand settles over her hip and then higher, over the curve of her belly, without really thinking about it.
She goes still for a second. Not pulling away, just noticing.
So do I.
The room quiets around us in a different way then. Not less intimate. More.
I kiss her once, slower now, and slide my palm over her belly again, almost absentmindedly, except nothing about it is absent. She watches my face, wary and open at the same time.
Neither of us says anything. We don’t need to.
Because despite every good intention we had, every reason to keep our hands to ourselves, every warning sign and unanswered question, the truth is right here between us.
We can’t stop touching each other.
And I’m no longer pretending I want to.
We lie there for a while without moving.
My breathing settles first. Hers takes longer. I can feel it where she’s pressed against me, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the lingering tremor in her body every time my hand drifts over her skin.
I should get up. So should she.
Neither of us does.
My hand is still resting over the curve of her belly. Not by accident now. Not absentmindedly. I know exactly where it is.
She knows it too.
When I slide my palm there again, gently, she goes quiet in a different way. Not tense. Just waiting.
I look at her. She’s flushed, wrung out, wary, and still so beautiful it catches me off guard. There’s too much history between us for two people who should barely have any. Too much silence. Too many half-truths. Too much of the wrong kind of timing.
And still, here she is. Still with me.
I let out a breath and say the thing as plainly as I can.
“I don’t care whose baby it is.”
Her eyes lift to mine at once.
I keep my hand where it is. “I want to protect you.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. I can see the caution in her face, the exhaustion, the part of her that no longer trusts plain promises because life has taught her what they usually cost.
So I don’t dress it up.
“I’m not asking you for anything right now,” I say. “I’m telling you what I mean to do.”
Her throat moves. “Viktor…”
“If there is danger in this house, if there is danger connected to me, if there is danger connected to anyone around you, I’m not leaving you exposed to it.”
She studies my face as if she’s trying to find the catch.
There isn’t one. Not in this.
I brush my thumb once over the fabric pooled near her belly. “Whatever you decide to tell me later, whatever you keep to yourself for now, it changes nothing about that.”
Her eyes shine a little, though she looks angry about it. “I don’t need rescuing.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t say things like that.”
“What should I say instead?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because there is no softer version of the truth I just gave her. Not one that would mean the same thing.
I move a strand of hair back from her face. “You can be angry with me. Suspicious of me. You can refuse every question I ask. But you are not doing this alone if I can stop it.”
That gets through to her. I see it in the way her mouth parts, then closes again.
Not because she’s convinced. Because some part of her wants to be.
And I understand that too well.
After a moment she says quietly, “You don’t even know what you’re offering.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my hand over her belly, then comes back to my face. “You really don’t care?” she asks.
About the father.
About the uncertainty.
About the mess.
“No,” I say.
That’s not fully true, perhaps. I care very much, just not in the way she fears.
I lean in and kiss her forehead, then her mouth, once and slow.
“What I care about,” I say against her lips, “is you.”
And that, unlike everything else between us, is becoming very hard to deny.