Page 93 of Filthy Rich Daddies

“Through all of it.”

She sighs. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Okay, fine. I don’t. But I reserve the right to mock you later.”

“I’m doing it in my head already.”

She tilts her face toward mine. Her lips are close. Her eyes are still a little watery, but the expression there is stronger now, more grounded. Something like gratitude. Something like trust.

“I was scared,” she says softly. “And you didn’t back away.”

“Never.”

Her kiss comes slowly, gently. A question, not a demand.

I answer without hesitation.

It’s not hungry this time. Not rough or fast or heated with frustration. It’s tender, full of all the things we couldn’t say in the first five minutes of a breakdown.

It’sI see you.

It’syou’re safe here.

It’sthank you for not leaving.

She pulls me closer, and I lift her carefully, one hand under her thighs, the other cradling her back. She’s heavier now with the pregnancy, but I’d carry her forever if it meant she kept looking at me the way she does right now—open and unafraid.

I lay her down on the wide couch tucked in the corner of the second-floor library. It’s rarely used—mostly for napping in between chaotic board meetings or post-holiday coma recoveries. Right now, it’s perfect.

She cups my face. “You really think I can get through this?”

“Iknowyou can.”

I settle beside her, hands roaming her curves, slow and deliberate. I know where her body is sore, where the tension lingers. I don’t rush her. I don’t try to make this about escape.

We’re already here. Together.

Our lips meet again, deeper this time. Her fingers find the back of my neck, and my palm slips under her shirt to rest against the bare curve of her belly. She gasps into my mouth.

I don’t ask if she’s okay. Iknowshe is.

She guides my hand lower, and I follow her lead. Her breath catches. Mine does too.

We move together in the quiet, surrounded by shadows and soft lamplight. It’s the first time I’ve made love to someone who cried in my arms that same hour—and all I want to do is hold her through both.

This is intimacy. Not sex. Not heat.This.

This quiet honesty. This absolute trust. This trembling vulnerability and the softness we make room for inside it.

When she comes apart beneath me, it’s not a scream or a shudder—it’s a sigh. Like she’s finally, finally letting herself exhale. I follow seconds later, her name slipping past my lips in reverence. And then we just lie there.

No words.

Just her breathing in sync with mine. My hand, still pressed against her belly. My heart, full in a way I didn’t think it could be.

And for the first time since I showed her that nursery, I let myself believe she might willingly walk into it again one day, smiling.