Page 30 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

I arch into his touch, shameless in my need. "Show me."

He chuckles darkly. "Not yet, sweetheart. First, I'm going to make you fall apart for me."

His mouth moves to my collarbone, tongue tracing patterns that make me shiver. "I love how responsive you are," he murmurs against my skin. "How you get that little catch in your breath when I touch you right... here."

His fingers find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, the one that makes me melt every time. I can't suppress the soft moan that escapes.

"That's my girl," he praises, voice rough with desire. "I want to hear every sound you make. Every whimper, every gasp, every scream of pleasure."

I fumble with his belt, needing to touch him, but he catches my hands.

"No, sweetheart. Let me take care of you." His voice is rough with restraint. "I want to fuck you so goddamn hard right now, but I won't risk our daughter."

"Then touch me," I plead, hips shifting restlessly. "Please, Vincent. I'm going crazy."

"I know, baby. I can see it in your eyes." His hand slides up my thigh with agonizing slowness, pushing my skirt higher inch by inch. "You're burning for me, aren't you? That sweet pussy's probably dripping wet already."

"Yes," I admit breathlessly, beyond caring how desperate I sound.

"Let me see." His fingers trace the edge of my panties, barely touching. "Tell me what you want."

"I want your hands on me. Your fingers inside me. I want—" I break off with a gasp as he strokes me through the silk.

"Christ, you're soaked," he murmurs, applying just enough pressure to make me crazy. "Is this from the danger? From watching me fight?"

"Yes," I admit breathlessly. "Seeing you protect me, protect us—it turned me on. The way you moved, the way you handled that gun..." I bite my lip. "It was the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

His eyes flame with possessive satisfaction. "My violent little doctor. Getting wet watching her man eliminate threats." He increases the pressure, circling slowly. "I could feel you watching me. Could see the heat in your eyes when I put Marco down."

"Vincent, please?—"

"Please what?" He's relentless, stroking me through increasingly damp silk. "Use your words, Melinda. Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need you to touch me. Stop teasing."

"But I love watching you squirm." His smile is sensual, powerful. "The way your cheeks flush, how your breathing gets shallow. The way you press against my hand like you can't help yourself."

He pushes the fabric aside finally, fingers sliding through my folds with maddening lightness. "Fuck, you're incredible. So wet for me already."

I cry out when he finds my clit, circling it with precision that steals my thoughts.

"That's it," he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Let me hear you, Melinda. Let me hear how much you need this. How much you need me."

"I need you so much," I gasp, hips rocking against his hand. "Vincent, please?—"

"Please what? More pressure?" He demonstrates, making me arch. "Or maybe you want my fingers inside you?"

"Both. Everything. Just—oh God?—"

He slides two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot while his thumb works my clit. The dual sensation makes me arch against him, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other cradles my belly.

"Look at you," he growls, pumping his fingers with deliberate rhythm. "So fucking beautiful when you lose control. I could watch you come apart all night."

"Don't stop," I beg, feeling the tension building.

"Never," he promises, fingers moving faster. "You feel so good around my fingers, sweetheart. So tight and wet. I can't wait to be inside you again."

"If you weren't seven months pregnant," he continues, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes me weak, "I'd bend you over this couch and fuck you until you screamed my name. I'd make you come on my cock until you couldn't walk."

"Vincent," I moan, the image he's painting making me burn hotter.

"I'd take you hard and deep, make you feel every inch of me. Make you remember who owns this perfect body." His fingers curl just right, hitting that spot that makes me see stars. "Would you like that, baby? Would you want me to fuck you senseless?"

"Yes," I gasp, beyond coherent thought. "God, yes."

"I know you would. My dirty little doctor, getting off on the danger, on watching me protect what's mine." His thumb circles my clit with maddening precision. "You're mine, Melinda. Mine to protect, mine to pleasure. This pussy belongs to me."

The crude words send fire through my veins. I'm close, so close, trembling on the edge as he teases me with expert skill.

"I can feel you tightening around my fingers," he murmurs, voice velvet and sin. "You're going to come for me, aren't you? Going to fall apart in my arms like a good girl."

"Vincent, I'm?—"

"I know, sweetheart. Let go. Come for me, baby. Show me how good I make you feel."

The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing around his fingers as pleasure explodes through every nerve. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream, nails digging into his back.

He eases me through it, fingers gentling as the aftershocks subside, whispering praise and endearments against my hair. When I finally relax against him, boneless and satisfied, he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me with deliberate sensuality.

"Fucking perfect," he growls, eyes dark with hunger. "I could do that all night. Could make you come until you forget your own name."

I'm about to tell him I'd like that when a sharp pain tears through my abdomen. Different from the baby's kicks, this is cramping, intense, rhythmic.

"Vincent," I gasp, hand flying to my belly.

"What is it?" He's instantly alert, medical crisis overriding post-orgasmic haze.

Another cramp hits, stronger this time. I count the seconds—thirty between contractions. Too early, too fast.

"The stress," I whisper, clinical mind taking over even as fear claws at my throat. "The gunfight, the adrenaline—it's triggered early labor."

Vincent's face goes white. "How early is too early?"

"Seven months..." I calculate quickly, trying to stay professional even as another contraction grips me. "Sixty percent survival rate without complications. But she needs a NICU, specialized care."

He's already reaching for his phone, barking orders for medical transport.