Page 43 of His Secretly Pregnant Cinderella

No. He could not push it off like that. He could not make it as if he had not been a willing participant.

He gritted his teeth.

She was not in the bedroom. And he flung the bathroom door open, and she gasped, sinking down beneath the water, as if it could hide her pale, lovely curves.

His body got hard, and he stood there for a moment, and he was at a loss for what to say. He had done this, not knowing what he would do when he got there. And it was... Intoxicating. This moment of not knowing. When had he ever not known? He always knew. He was Constantine Kamaras. And he knew everything. Because he made it his business to know everything. He did not let other people handle things, he got them done. Because his family tripped about like they had no responsibilities, and someone had to shoulder it all. Because he knew that when things went badly, people died. Because he knew these things, he was never uncertain.

And he was torn between yelling at her, for what, he didn’t know, and reaching down and lifting her up out of the tub and taking her into his arms. Flinging her down onto the bed and making her his again.

And he simply stood there. Inactive. And he despised it, because it reminded him of another time when he had not been active. A time when he’d been afraid.

She was only a woman. And he was not afraid.

“What are you doing?”

“Tell me,” he said. “What is it you want?”

“I told you I’d...”

“No. What is it you want? From the world. From your life?”

“I don’t know anymore,” she said. “I do not even know what to hope for or what to ask for. I did not imagine this being my life.”

And that, he imagined, was as honest as anything ever could be.

She had lost the man she thought she would be with, even before his death. Though he did wonder if Alex would have actually managed to talk her back around to being with him. He had been persuasive like that. But they would never know. Not now.

A beast growled inside of him. And he could not take his eyes off her.

Her breathing went shallow, her eyes dark. And then she braced her hands on either side of the tub and stood.

Water cascaded down her bare body, the glorious bump that housed those precious lives inside of her a site that he could not take his eyes away from.

His body throbbed with need. He moved to her then, quickly, and pressed her naked, wet body against his, kissing her, fierce and deep. She sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him. He lifted her up out of the water and set her down onto the ground in front of him. She was petite, and he wanted to shield her. Protect her.

She made him want to rage at anything that might threaten to harm her. She made him want...

She made him want. In ways he had not, for a very long time. If ever.

His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst through the front of his chest. And then she placed one small delicate hand there, as if to soothe the raging inside of him, and it made him growl. He backed her up against the wall, kissing her neck, his hands moved over her slick curves, his need a living thing.

And then he swore, pulling away from her. “This is not to be,” he said.

“Why not? You clearly still want me. You want me.”

“What difference does it make?” he asked, his voice fractured.

“It could make all the difference if you would only let it.”

“What do you want, Morgan?”

And he realized why he had come in and asked that question. Because he felt like she had come into his life, his world, perfectly ordered and controlled, always, and upended it. And he wanted to rage at her as if she was an uncaring goddess in the sky and ask her what the hell she wanted from him.

Why she had the audacity.

“I’m afraid I want the same thing you do. I’m just not as afraid to admit it.”

“It is not to be.”

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