Page 47 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

The moment he slides inside me, a gasp tears from my throat. It’s a perfect fit, like the missing piece of a puzzle snapping into place. He starts slow, but each thrust is deeper, more insistent, as if he’s reaching for something far beyond the physical connection between us. My fingers dig into the wall, desperate for an anchor.

“God, Adrian ...” The words are part groan, part plea, and all Isabella.

My moans ring out, unrestrained, filling the space with the raw sound of desire.

“Harder,” I pant out, the slick tiles offering no purchase as my breath hitches. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He braces himself, his movements becoming a relentless rhythm that drives me to the brink.

“Can’t ... hold on ...” he grunts, each word punctuated by the slap of skin on skin.

“Then don’t,” I gasp out, teetering on the edge of oblivion. “I’m right there with you.”

With a few more powerful thrusts, my world fractures into blinding pleasure. A cry rips from my throat, echoing off the shower walls as I shatter, waves upon waves of intense satisfaction rolling through me.

He follows closely behind, a low groan vibrating against my back as he finds his own release. For a suspended moment, we’re nothing but tangled limbs and ragged breaths in the humid air.

Eventually, he spins me around, and his lips find mine in a kiss that’s somehow both searing and tender. He pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and reaches for the shampoo. “Your turn to play hairdresser,” he quips, handing me the bottle.

“Only because you’ve absolutely ruined mine,” I retort, though I can’t hide the affection in my voice. We take turns lathering, rinsing, and teasing—his fingers expertly massaging my scalp, eliciting involuntary moans that have nothing to do with what just happened ... or so I tell myself.

“Conditioner next, or are you going straight for body wash?” he asks, already anticipating my needs.

“Both. And stop acting like you know my routine,” I chide, even though he clearly does by now.

Once we’re squeaky clean and still chuckling at our inside jokes, I give him a playful shove towards the shower door. “Out. I need to shave.”

“Really? After all we’ve done, you think leg hair is where I draw the line?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Out, Adrian,” I insist, unable to suppress a smile. “Or are you volunteering to help with that too?”

“Fine, fine. But only if I get to stay the night,” he bargains, stepping out onto thebathmat.

“Deal,” I say quickly, almost too quickly, because the truth is, I want him to stay more than I care to admit.

***

The scent of lavender from our earlier shower still lingers as I’m draped over Adrian’s chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear—unexpectedly soothing.

“Did you know,” he starts, an idle finger drawing lazy loops on my arm, “that babies can recognize songs they heard in the womb?” It’s so random, it almost makes me laugh.

“Are you planning to serenade my belly with legal briefs?” I quip back, unable to help myself.

“Only the most influential cases,” he replies without missing a beat. He’s trying to keep it light, but there’s a weight to his words as if he’s laying foundations for something life-altering.

I shift, feeling the gentle swell of my stomach against the soft cotton of my shirt. It’s a tiny mound, barely noticeable, but to me, it’s as monumental as Everest. My hand instinctively covers his, pressing it to the proof of our complicated entanglement.

“Isabella,” he breathes out, and the way he says my name feels like a caress. “We can’t keep this quiet anymore. You’re already in your second trimester.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” I say dryly, though my heart trips over itself. Fun isn’t the word I’d use for the rollercoaster ride of emotions I’ve been on since that fateful night.

“We need to tell everyone,” he continues. “Our parents … and Caleb.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor there—one that speaksof the fear of turning his private life public again after the mess his divorce left in its wake.

I nod, because what else can I do? This isn’t just about us anymore. “You’re right.” The words are heavy, tasting of change and the unknown.

“Tomorrow,” he says, decisive. “We’ll sit them down and explain everything.”

“Everything,” I echo, half-questioning. Because how do you explain the unexplainable? Us?

“Everything,” he confirms, sealing the promise with a kiss that feels like both an ending and a beginning. And for the first time, I realize that we’re stepping into a future neither of us can fully control.

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