Page 44 of Desperate Games

The baby.

But I don’t say a word. I can’t.

Because that’s the moment he pushes forward.

Inch by inch.

Thick. Hot. Hard.

My jaw falls open. A helpless sound leaves my throat. Not a scream. Not a moan. Something caught between prayer and surrender.

Every inch of him stretches me, fills me, claims me.

I can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself back.

The heat of his skin as it collides with mine.

The low, ragged groan he lets out when he bottoms out—when there’s nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be but inside me.

“Fuck, Andy,” he pants, bending low until his chest brushes my back. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made to take every inch of me.”

My body reacts before my mind can.

I arch into him. Press back.

Beg silently for more.

He doesn’t make me wait.

He sets a rhythm—deep and slow at first. Torturously controlled.

Every stroke deliberate. Every thrust a silent promise.

His hands slide over my hips. My waist. One finds my breast, squeezing just enough to make me gasp. The other presses over my lower belly, fingers splayed, almost reverent.

“Right here,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, but it brands me. “Right here’s where I’m gonna leave it. Gonna fill you so deep it sticks.”

A shiver rolls through me, unstoppable.

Because that part of me—that dark, desperate part that came up with this reckless plan—is singing with joy.

And the rest of me?

The part that craves more than just his body?

That part is terrified.

Because Remy Falco is everything I never let myself want.

And if I’m not careful, this won’t just be about making a baby.

It’ll be about falling in love.

I close my mind off to those thoughts. I don’t want to think at all.

I just wanna feel.

Lucky for me, Remy is a master at making me feel.