Page 110 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
Always his.
These pregnancy hormones were no joke. One touch from Federico and I was ready to combust.
I pulled back for just a second, “Lock the door.”
His eyes darkened. He reached back without looking and flipped the lock.
My fingers went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Everyone’s downstairs,” I murmured against his neck. “We need to be quick.”
“Always in a rush,” he teased, but his voice had dropped an octave, rough with want.
I finally got his belt open, then his zipper. My hand slipped inside, wrapping around him. Hard. Ready. Pulsing with need. Mine.
His breath hitched. His head fell back against the wall, jaw tight, throat working as he tried to hold it together. “Fuck.”
I sank to my knees, looking up at him through my lashes as I freed him from his boxers. His pupils dilated wide, his jaw clenched tight.
His eyes met mine. Hungry. Greedy. “Autumn—”
I didn’t wait. I pressed a kiss low on his abdomen, then lower, tracing a line with my mouth. He sucked in a breath, his hands sinking into my hair, not rough but grounding—like if he let go, he’d lose his mind.
I took my time, letting him feel every intention, every stroke of lips and tongue. He was barely breathing, a hand pressed flat to the wall.
His voice was hoarse now. “You’re going to kill me.”
I took him in my mouth without warning, watching as his eyes rolled back. His hands came to my hair, gentle but firm, gathering it away from my face so he could watch.
And watch he did—like he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
I worked him slowly at first, then with increasing pressure, taking him deeper with each stroke. His breathing grew ragged; his muscles were tense with restraint.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “Your mouth.”
I hummed around him, pleased with his reaction. I increased my pace, hollowing my cheeks. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as I kept going, slow and deep, until his body trembled and I felt the tension coil in him tight.
His thighs trembled. “Stop,” he said suddenly, voice strained. “I’m too close.”
And just when I felt him losing control, he pulled me up with a growl—lips crashing into mine like he needed to taste every inch of me.
His kiss was sick, filthy, perfect. All tongue and teeth and possession, and I felt myself melt against him. My thighs clenched involuntarily. My hands were in his hair, pulling, needing more. Needing him.
“You drive me insane,” he growled into my mouth.
“Good,” I panted, drunk on the way he felt, the way he kissed, the way he always managed to take my breath and give it back harder.
He spun me, pressing me back against the wall with his hands sliding under my dress. “Quick?” he rasped. “I’ll give you quick.”
I pressed my palms flat against the wall as he nudged my legs apart with his knee. His fingers found me through my underwear, already wet and ready.
“So fucking soaked for me,” he muttered, pushing the thin fabric aside. His fingers traced my entrance, teasing, before one slid inside. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
He added a second finger, curling them forward in that way he knew drove me wild. His other hand came around to cover my mouth.
“Quiet,” he reminded me. “Unless you want everyone downstairs to hear what I’m doing to you.”
The thought only turned me on more. My thighs trembled as he pushed deeper. His fingers worked me relentlessly, his thumb circling my clit with just the right pressure. My hips bucked against his hand.
“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “So good for me. Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
