Page 80 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
That gets him. Maybe not visibly—but his fingers shift just slightly, like he’s gripping something invisible.
He stands a moment later, but not before brushing his hand against my shoulder. The touch is so light, so fleeting, but it lingers long after he turns away.
Something in me stirs: warm, slow, unmistakable.
Before I can second-guess myself, I reach up and catch his wrist, fingers wrapping around him gently.
He pauses, looking down at me.
I rise from the chair slowly, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart is steady beneath it. Unshaken. Like always.
And then I lean in. Our lips meet, his soft and full and pliable.
He kisses me back, slow and measured, his hand coming up to rest against the small of my back. His mouth moves with mine like he’s done this a thousand times in his head but is still tasting it for the first time.
When I deepen the kiss, he lets me—for a moment.
But only that, and then he pulls back.
I blink up at him, surprised. “What’s wrong?”
He smooths a hand over my spine. “We can’t.”
I scowl. “Why not? You kiss me like you want to. You touch me like you want to.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you treating me like I’m made of glass?”
His mouth twitches into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Because you are, right now.”
I fold my arms, frustrated. “I’m pregnant, not dying.”
He chuckles low in his throat, and God help me, the sound only makes it worse. “You’re impatient.”
“I’m horribly impatient.”
“You’re also still healing.”
“I can heal and get laid at the same time, Kion.”
That makes him laugh, and I want to throttle him.
“Do you think this is funny?” I demand.
“Only a little.”
I glare at him. “I’m not kidding. I haven’t had sex in months, and you’re walking around in half-unbuttoned shirts and growling at anyone who breathes in my direction, and you won’t even let me kiss you properly.”
He raises a brow. “You just kissed me.”
“Barely! That doesn’t count. That was… polite.”
He steps closer again, crowding into my space, and leans down until his lips brush the shell of my ear.
“You want impolite?”
My breath catches.
