Page 95 of Cage the Storm
Then I notice it.
The small tremor in her shoulders. The way her fingers press against her face a moment too long. She’s exhausted. More than she’ll ever admit. And I feel it. The need to do whatever I can to make her more comfortable. I ask, “You want a bath?”
She blinks one eye open, lips twitching. “You, Nicolai Caputo, the boss of La Cosa Nostra, offering to pamper his pregnant wife?”
“I’d kill for you. Bath’s nothing.” I grin, slow and cocky.
“Ridiculous.” She shakes her head, but she’s amused.
But when I stand, reaching for her, she lets me help her up. That tells me everything I need to know.
I guide Luna up the stairs, my hand resting against the small of her back. She moves slowly; her patience is wearing thin. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this easier for her.
The moment we step into our bedroom, I let go just long enough to turn on the bath. Luna watches me, like she’s trying to figure out if I have an ulterior motive.
“You don’t trust me?” I smirk, rolling up my sleeves. She shakes her head.
“I just,” her voice softens, “I don’t deserve this.”
Something tightens in my chest. Without thinking, I reach for her, hands framing her face.
“You deserve everything.”
She blinks, fighting back tears, so I don’t push. Instead, I grab the hem of my shirt and tug it over my head. She watches as I shed my clothing, and I raise a brow. Waiting.
Her lips twitch, and her dress falls to the floor, and I stare. I can’t help it. Her belly’s round and tight under her hands. She’s uncomfortable when I look at her naked. But I can’t help it.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re glowing, Luna.”
I step closer and run my palms over the curve of her stomach. Her skin’s so warm, and the baby kicks my hands. “See?” I say. “You agree with me, don’t you, little one?”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks turn pink. I kiss the spot where the kick landed, then her hips, and just below her navel. “I’m serious,” I say against her skin. “You’re everything.”
Her hand finds my hair, tugging gently. “And the water’s getting cold.”
I can take a hint, so I step in first, settling against the porcelain, reaching for her. She takes my hand, then lowers herself into the bath, pressing her back against my chest, exhaling as the warmth envelops her.
I slide my hands over her arms, down to her round belly, feeling the steady movement beneath my palm. Our child. She sighs, sinking into me, letting the quiet wrap around us. Right now, nothing else matters.
The water moves against her skin as she leans back, head resting on my shoulder. In the soft light, she looks relaxed and happy. I fight the urge to press my teeth against the pulse in her throat, but she’s too tired.
Still, her scent hits me like always—feminine, sweet, with a hint of vanilla.
My palm drifts lower, fingers brushing the edge of her thigh. She shifts, barely, but I catch it, the small hitch in her breath.
I hold still, waiting. Patience, I remind myself.
But her nipples pebble as she adjusts, and my control splinters.
I let my hand drift higher, tracing the underside of her breast, testing. “Nico?—”
“Tell me to stop.” My voice is raw, and my cock is hard against the small of her back. “Say it, and I stop.” She doesn’t.
Her head turns, lips grazing my jaw in answer, and I take. Not rough. My thumb circles her nipple, slow and relentless, until her nails dig into my thigh. Her other breast fits perfectly into the palm of my hand; it’s heavy and perfect. She arches into my touch with a breathy moan.
“Look at you,” I murmur against her ear, nipping the lobe. “Still greedy for me, even at nine months pregnant.”
She shudders, pressing her thighs together, but I’m already there. My free hand slips between them, fingers trailing through her slick folds.
