Page 89 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I should look away. Pretend to be tired. I should turn over and let the moment pass.
I meet his gaze, and I know he’s not the only one starving.
When he finally moves, it’s slow. Intentional. The way he approaches me isn’t commanding, not like the man they all see in the war room or at the head of the table. There’s no demand in his touch tonight. Just a quiet hunger. Unspoken, but heavy in the air between us.
He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand bracing the mattress.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
He doesn’t smile. “So are you.”
I reach for him.
It’s simple, just fingers curling into his wrist, then sliding up the lean length of his forearm. The contact breaks something open in both of us. His other hand cups my face, tilting my head, and then he kisses me.
His mouth moves with mine like he’s trying to drink me in. I pull him closer, my hands slipping beneath his shirt, dragging across warm skin and taut muscle. He exhales against my mouth, one arm slipping around my waist as he leans over me, pressing me gently into the mattress.
The tension between us has been stretching for weeks, kept in check by careful lines neither of us dared cross.
Tonight… the line blurs.
His fingers tug at the tie of my robe. I shift beneath him, thighs parting instinctively, body arching as his hand glides over my leg, up the swell of my hip.
He groans low in his throat, kissing me harder, deeper. My robe falls open slightly, and his hand skims over the bare skin of my belly. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He touches me with reverence, but there’s nothing timid in it.
Only purpose.
Only want.
I slide a leg over his hip, anchoring him against me. Our bodies press flush. His mouth trails down my neck, warm and insistent, and I gasp as his teeth graze the soft skin above my collarbone.
“Kion…”
He pauses, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine.
I wait for him to pull away. For the silence.
Instead, he laughs—low, rough, breathless.
“What?” I whisper.
He smiles, just a little. “We keep doing this.”
“What, stopping?”
“No. Testing how far we can go before I completely lose my mind.”
I laugh too. A shaky, half-dazed sound. I reach up, brushing a damp curl from his forehead.
“You’re doing better than I thought,” I tease.
He leans down and kisses me again, slower now. Then he pulls back, just enough to look at me. “After this one…”
“Hm?”
“I’m giving you another.”
I blink. Then laugh. “You’re what?”
