Page 94 of Claimed By the Enemy
“With you. Safe, happy, and completely in love.”
Dom’s kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s afraid I might break. But when I press closer, when my hands slide up his chest to tangle in his hair, he deepens the kiss with a groan.
“I thought I’d lost you tonight,” he whispers against my lips. “When Uncle Enzo’s men took me, when I realized you might walk into whatever trap they’d set…”
“You didn’t lose me. You’re never going to lose me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Dom’s hands are gentle as he undresses me, reverent in the way he touches my skin. When his palm settles over my still-flat stomach, his eyes fill with wonder.
“Our baby is in there.”
“Our baby.”
He smiles—soft, a little stunned. “I guess I’m not shooting blanks after all.”
I swat his arm. “Wow. Romantic.”
Dom leans in and kisses me again, deeper now. His hands skim along my sides, resting just beneath the curve of my ribs. I feel his restraint. He’s careful not to press too hard, not to rush.
But I don’t want delicate.
I want to feelus.
“I’m not going to break,” I whisper.
He laughs against my mouth. “Says the woman growing a whole human.”
“Says the woman who’s been through hell and still wants you.”
His breath catches, and in that moment, I see everything—the love, the fear, the awe. The way he’s holding all of it, just for me.
I guide him back toward the bed, crawling up into the middle of it and holding out my hand. “Come here.”
The sheets are cool beneath my back, but the warmth of his body erases everything else. Dom lowers himself beside me, propped on one elbow, just… watching. His fingers trail lightly over my stomach, then higher, tracing the edge of my bra.
He leans in and kisses the spot just below my ear. Then licks it with a lingering sweep. The sound I make surprises even me—soft, sharp, needy.
“You like that,” he says, lips brushing my skin.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His hand slides lower again, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear. My breath catches. I shift, just enough to open myself to him.
When his fingers find me, I gasp—hot and slick and already throbbing. He groans softly, and the sound is pure reverence.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
Our eyes lock as his fingers move—slow, rhythmic, unhurried. He watches every reaction, every flutter of my lashes, every bite of my lip.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers. “So fucking soft.”
My hips lift involuntarily, chasing the pressure of his touch. He adds another finger, curling just right, and I shudder.
Still, he doesn’t look away. Not once.
