Page 109 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
“Please.”
I sighed but obeyed, letting darkness fall. I heard the door open and felt him guide me forward a few steps. His hands settled on my shoulders.
“Okay. Open.”
I blinked my eyes open—and gasped.
The room had been transformed. The walls were painted a soft sage green, with hand-stenciled gold stars scattered across the ceiling. A plush rocking chair sat in the corner beneath a reading lamp. Shelves lined one wall, already filled with books and stuffed animals. In the center of the room, bathed in late afternoon sunlight, stood a wooden crib.
“You...you did this?” I whispered, stepping forward to run my fingers along the smooth oak railing.
“Built the crib myself,” Federico said, a note of pride in his voice. “Installed it yesterday while you were out with Beatrice.”
I traced the delicate carvings on the headboard—little forest animals peeking out from behind leaves and branches. “It’s beautiful.”
“You like it?”
I turned to him, tears blurring my vision. This dangerous man, who had once manipulated his way into my life—he’d built a crib for our baby with his own hands.
“I love it,” I said, voice thick. “I love you.”
His smile was slow, genuine—the kind only I got to see. “Come here.”
I stepped into his arms without hesitation, sinking into the warm, solid heat of him. His hands came around my waist, fingers splaying across the small of my back like he needed to feel every inch of me. My cheek pressed against his chest, and for a moment, we just breathed together.
Being here—wrapped in his arms, in this room he’d made for our child, knowing everything we’d survived to get here—God. It undid me.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” I whispered against his shirt.
“Like what?” His voice was rough, quiet, like he already knew.
“Like I finally have a home,” I said. “Safe. Wanted. Worshipped.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, something dark and reverent flickering in those storm-gray eyes. “You are all of those things. You’ll always be. This is your home. Forever. We’re building a family together, god damn it.”
Then he kissed me.
And Jesus. That kiss.
It started soft, reverent—his mouth brushing mine, our breaths mingling. But then I whimpered, and something in him snapped.
He groaned and fisted my hair, angling my head, and took the kiss deeper. Hotter. Tongue tangling with mine, teeth grazing my bottom lip, his other hand sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me tight against the hard length of him.
I moaned into his mouth, feeling dizzy from it. God, he tasted like everything I loved—danger, devotion, and that wild, possessive hunger.
“You’re turning me on,” I gasped when we finally broke apart, only for him to mouth down my jaw, biting lightly at my throat.
“I fucking hope so,” he growled. “Because that dress is coming off.”
“Seriously?” I asked, half-laughing, half-melting as he trailed his hand under my hem, fingers skimming the inside of my thigh. “We have guests downstairs!”
“They’re too drunk to notice us gone,” he murmured against my skin, voice so deep it thrummed through my chest.
And just like that, I was wet again.
Hungry again.
His.
