Page 96 of Cage the Storm
“Fuck!”
I swallow her curse, my tongue claiming her mouth as my middle finger strokes her clit—light, teasing, just how she craves it. Her hips jerk, water sloshing, and I tighten my arm underneath her breasts.
“Easy. I’ve got you.”
She’s so fucking wet and desperate for my touch. I savor every spasm, every gasp, and every clench of her wet pussy. This isn’t about taking; it’s about giving this woman everything I have to offer.
“Let go,” I growl, adding pressure, circling her clit faster as I insert two fingers in her tight cunt.
She detonates around my fingers, a sob caught in her throat as she comes, her hand clutching my wrist. I hold her through it, murmuring filthy praise into her skin, until she sags back against me, spent.
“Show-off.” Her laughter is breathless.
“Always for you,amore mio,” I whisper, kissing her shoulder.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
LUNA
The first contractionclaws me awake like a knife down my spine.
I freeze, fingers fisting the sheets, waiting for it to pass. Nico’s arm lies heavy across my waist, his breath warm and even against my neck. But the pain doesn’t fade away; it radiates down my thighs until my teeth ache from clenching.
I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. The moonlight spills across the room as I pace with my hand braced against the wall. Another contraction hits—harder, longer—and I bite my lip. Afraid to wake up Nico.
Breathe. Just fucking breathe. I scold myself.
Nico stirs, and I freeze. Even asleep, his body looks strong and lethal. He’ll panic. He’ll try to fix it. And I can’t take that look, the one that turns my pain into his failure for not noticing sooner.
The next wave buckles my knees. I catch myself on the dresser, a choked whimper slipping out. Fire licks up my spine, and my stomach tightens like a fist.
Wrong. This feels wrong.
“Luna?” His voice is raspy.
“Go back to sleep,” I lie, forcing a laugh.
He’s already sitting up, sheets pooling at his hips. I see the exact moment he registers the dampness on my nightgown, the way I’m cradling my stomach.
“Antonio!” Nico’s roar shakes the walls.
Footsteps thunder down the hall. Antonio has lived in the west wing since my eighth month. Nico grips my wrist, pressing two fingers to my pulse like he’s measuring his Blanton’s. “Breathe, or I’ll knock you out and deliver the kid myself.”
Antonio crashes through the door, glasses crooked, hair a mess. He pales at the wetness streaking my thighs. “She’s bleeding, we need the OR.” Bleeding? I thought my water broke.
“No.” Nico’s hand slides to my nape, possessive. “You’ve delivered babies before.”
Antonio’s voice is clipped. “She’s been cramping since this morning. I told her to call me if it got worse.”
Nico’s eyes cut to mine. “You didn’t.”
“It got worse after dinner. I thought it would pass again.”
His jaw flexes. Not angry—afraid.
Antonio doesn’t wait. “Then we’re out of time. She’ll bleed out in your beloved fucking courtyard, Nico. Move.”
The contraction hits like a landmine. I scream into Nico’s neck, my nails digging deep. He doesn’t break stride—just lifts me like I’m weightless, voice urgent, barking orders to the guards swarming the hallway.
