Page 36 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

"If there’s anything you’d like to change, please do and add it to my card," I say, meaning it more than she could know. Having her under my roof, so close yet untouchable, is both heaven and hell.

We eat in companionable silence. I try not to stare as she delicately cuts into her waffle, bringing small bites to her pink lips. God, how I long to taste those lips again, to feel her soft skin under my hands. To ride up that shirt, catch a glimpse of thoseround breasts riding up through her bra… to spread her legs and slam her around on her knees.

But not yet. I've waited this long—I can give her more time to adjust. Tonight, though…tonight I'll make my move. I'll show her exactly how much I want her, how perfectly she fits into my life and my bed.

For now, I content myself with stolen glances.

After we finish our meal, I clear my throat, setting down my fork. "I was thinking, if you're up for it, I could show you around. There are a few new pieces I've acquired that I think you might appreciate."

Zara's eyes light up with interest. "I'd love that. It's been so long since I designed this place; I'm curious to see how you've made it your own."

"Excellent," I say, rising from my chair. "Shall we start upstairs?"

She nods, following me as I lead her through the duplex apartment. My pulse quickens as we climb the stairs, her ass moving so delectably right in front of me. It takes every ounce of constraint not to reach out and give her a little playful smack.

Once upstairs, I point out various artworks and minor architectural changes as we go, savoring her impressed reactions.

Finally, we reach the door to my bedroom. I hesitate for a moment, my hand on the doorknob. "There's something in here I particularly want you to see," I tell her, pushing the door open.

As we step inside, Zara's gasp is audible. Her eyes widen, fixed on the large painting dominating the far wall. It's a striking piece—a nude woman, her back to the viewer, her curves rendered in soft, sensual strokes.

"Oh, Abram," she breathes, moving closer to examine it. "It's beautiful."

I watch her, drinking in her reaction. The way she tilts her head, studying the brushwork, the slight flush creeping up her neck. She's even more captivating than the artwork before her.

"I'm glad you like it," I murmur, fighting the urge to close the distance between us. "It reminded me of… well, never mind."

“No.” She turns quickly. “Tell me,” she urges, cocking her neck at me.

I clear my throat, my voice low and husky as I begin to describe the painting. "The artist captured such exquisite beauty here. The gentle curve of her spine, the soft glow of her skin…" I pause, my eyes flickering to Zara. "It reminds me of you, actually. Your grace, your allure."

Zara turns to me, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Me?" she whispers.

I nod, taking a step closer. "The way the light caresses her form, it's… ethereal. Just like you."

Our gazes lock, and suddenly, the air feels thick, charged with an electric tension. I can see the rise and fall of Zara's chest quickening, matching my own rapid heartbeat.

"Abram," she breathes, her voice barely audible, and I see her lips part just a little.

I'm drawn to her like a magnet, my body moving of its own accord. We're so close now; I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

My hand rises, fingers ghosting along her cheek. Not yet, I tell myself, as my hand itches to rip off her clothes. She deserves perfection.

"Come," I whisper, fighting the urge to close that final distance between us. “There’s a lot more to see.”

***

As night falls, I lead Zara to the dining room after we share wine in the living room, my hand hovering at the small of her back. The sexual tension constantly lingers, crackling between us like live wires. I pull out a chair, the soft velvet upholstery whispering against her skin as she sits.

"I hope you're hungry.”

Zara's eyes meet mine, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Starving," she replies, but the way her eyes roam over my torso makes me wonder if we're still talking about food.

I move to the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with carefully crafted dishes. "I had the chef prepare something special," I explain, setting a plate before her. "Seared scallops with a saffron beurre blanc."

The delicate aroma wafts up, and I watch as Zara's eyes close briefly, savoring the scent. "It looks incredible," she murmurs.

I take my seat across from her, unable to tear my gaze away. The candlelight flickers, casting a warm glow across her features. "I wanted everything to be perfect," I admit, lifting my glass.

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