Page 32 of Pregnant Bratva Wife (Vadim Bratva #13)

Our living room was a mess of spilled drinks, loud laughter, and overlapping conversations. Someone had cranked the music just enough to make people talk louder, and Beatrice was waving around her mocktail like it was a gavel.

“—and that is why I will never again do tequila shots with Dante.”

Dante downed a shot and bowed. “You’re welcome.”

Megan snorted beside me on the couch, nursing a lemonade. “You know what’s wild?” she said, raising her voice just enough for the room to hear. “That my creepy brother-in-law stole five grand from under my mattress just so my sister would call him.”

Federico just lifted his glass and took a slow sip, smirking over the rim. “You’re welcome too,” he said dryly, winking at Megan.

“Oh, don’t start,” Megan groaned. “You faked a mugging. That’s next-level stalker energy.”

Since learning the truth, she had taken everything in stride—including my marriage to a mob boss who had orchestrated our financial ruin as a twisted courtship ritual.

“To be fair,” Dante chimed in, “Federico’s the only one of us who could pull off that level of creepy and still get the girl.”

“Because I have terrible taste,” I deadpanned.

“Hey!” Federico pouted like a little man-child. “I thought you loved me.”

“Alright, alright.” I rolled my eyes, fighting a grin. “He’s my stalker, okay? Leave him alone.”

Federico growled and leaned forward. “Damn right.”

He landed a peck on my way from across the coffee table.

Three months into my pregnancy, and I still couldn’t keep my hands off my husband. Even tonight, in the middle of a family dinner at our place, my body hummed with want. Federico pulled back and winked, like he knew just what I was thinking.

My cheeks flushed like I was still that girl who banged up his car.

Our living room was filled with family—both those by blood and those chosen.

Dante and Beatrice were arguing over who happened to have the most embarrassing drunken stories.

Gastone was in the corner with Larissa and Giovanni, but only to play with his niece.

I noticed Gio literally glowering when Gastone refused to return his daughter to him.

Adorable.

Carlo and Dino were arguing with Achille and Luca over sports.

Elena and Kate were already eating dessert, and dinner hadn’t even been served.

Federico moved over to my side of the coffee table. When I looked up, his smile crinkled up his cheeks into such perfection, I near melted.

“I wasn’t done kissing you,” he whispered as he leaned down, and what started as innocent quickly bordered on indecent. His tongue traced the seam of my mouth, and I melted against him, forgetting for a moment that we weren’t alone.

“Get a room!” Caspian called out, tossing a cocktail napkin our way.

Federico broke the kiss but kept his lips close to my ear. “Speaking of rooms,” he murmured, voice low and just for me, “I need to show you something.”

My pulse quickened. “Right now?”

“Right now.” His eyes held that intensity that still made my knees weak. “Upstairs.”

I glanced at our guests, but no one seemed to notice as Federico took my hand and led me toward the hallway.

Megan caught my eye and gave me a knowing smirk. I mouthed “five minutes” at her, which earned me an eye roll and a thumbs up.

“Where are we going?” I asked as Federico guided me up the stairs, his hand warm against the small of my back.

“You’ll see.” There was such excitement in his voice, it had me trembling with the same.

We turned down the hall, past our bedroom, toward what had been an empty guest room. Federico paused at the door, suddenly looking almost...nervous? It was so unlike him that I felt my own heart flutter in response.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“Federico—”

“Please.”

I sighed but obeyed, letting darkness fall. I heard the door open and felt him guide me forward a few steps. His hands settled on my shoulders.

“Okay. Open.”

I blinked my eyes open—and gasped.

The room had been transformed. The walls were painted a soft sage green, with hand-stenciled gold stars scattered across the ceiling.

A plush rocking chair sat in the corner beneath a reading lamp.

Shelves lined one wall, already filled with books and stuffed animals.

In the center of the room, bathed in late afternoon sunlight, stood a wooden crib.

“You...you did this?” I whispered, stepping forward to run my fingers along the smooth oak railing.

“Built the crib myself,” Federico said, a note of pride in his voice. “Installed it yesterday while you were out with Beatrice.”

I traced the delicate carvings on the headboard—little forest animals peeking out from behind leaves and branches. “It’s beautiful.”

“You like it?”

I turned to him, tears blurring my vision. This dangerous man, who had once manipulated his way into my life—he’d built a crib for our baby with his own hands.

“I love it,” I said, voice thick. “I love you.”

His smile was slow, genuine—the kind only I got to see. “Come here.”

I stepped into his arms without hesitation, sinking into the warm, solid heat of him. His hands came around my waist, fingers splaying across the small of my back like he needed to feel every inch of me. My cheek pressed against his chest, and for a moment, we just breathed together.

Being here—wrapped in his arms, in this room he’d made for our child, knowing everything we’d survived to get here—God. It undid me.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” I whispered against his shirt.

“Like what?” His voice was rough, quiet, like he already knew.

“Like I finally have a home,” I said. “Safe. Wanted. Worshipped.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, something dark and reverent flickering in those storm-gray eyes. “You are all of those things. You’ll always be. This is your home. Forever. We’re building a family together, god damn it.”

Then he kissed me.

And Jesus. That kiss.

It started soft, reverent—his mouth brushing mine, our breaths mingling. But then I whimpered, and something in him snapped.

He groaned and fisted my hair, angling my head, and took the kiss deeper. Hotter. Tongue tangling with mine, teeth grazing my bottom lip, his other hand sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me tight against the hard length of him.

I moaned into his mouth, feeling dizzy from it. God, he tasted like everything I loved—danger, devotion, and that wild, possessive hunger.

“You’re turning me on,” I gasped when we finally broke apart, only for him to mouth down my jaw, biting lightly at my throat.

“I fucking hope so,” he growled. “Because that dress is coming off.”

“Seriously?” I asked, half-laughing, half-melting as he trailed his hand under my hem, fingers skimming the inside of my thigh. “We have guests downstairs!”

“They’re too drunk to notice us gone,” he murmured against my skin, voice so deep it thrummed through my chest.

And just like that, I was wet again.

Hungry again.

His.

Always his.

These pregnancy hormones were no joke. One touch from Federico and I was ready to combust.

I pulled back for just a second, “Lock the door.”

His eyes darkened. He reached back without looking and flipped the lock.

My fingers went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Everyone’s downstairs,” I murmured against his neck. “We need to be quick.”

“Always in a rush,” he teased, but his voice had dropped an octave, rough with want.

I finally got his belt open, then his zipper. My hand slipped inside, wrapping around him. Hard. Ready. Pulsing with need. Mine.

His breath hitched. His head fell back against the wall, jaw tight, throat working as he tried to hold it together. “Fuck.”

I sank to my knees, looking up at him through my lashes as I freed him from his boxers. His pupils dilated wide, his jaw clenched tight.

His eyes met mine. Hungry. Greedy. “Autumn—”

I didn’t wait. I pressed a kiss low on his abdomen, then lower, tracing a line with my mouth. He sucked in a breath, his hands sinking into my hair, not rough but grounding—like if he let go, he’d lose his mind.

I took my time, letting him feel every intention, every stroke of lips and tongue. He was barely breathing, a hand pressed flat to the wall.

His voice was hoarse now. “You’re going to kill me.”

I took him in my mouth without warning, watching as his eyes rolled back. His hands came to my hair, gentle but firm, gathering it away from my face so he could watch.

And watch he did—like he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

I worked him slowly at first, then with increasing pressure, taking him deeper with each stroke. His breathing grew ragged; his muscles were tense with restraint.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “Your mouth.”

I hummed around him, pleased with his reaction. I increased my pace, hollowing my cheeks. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as I kept going, slow and deep, until his body trembled and I felt the tension coil in him tight.

His thighs trembled. “Stop,” he said suddenly, voice strained. “I’m too close.”

And just when I felt him losing control, he pulled me up with a growl—lips crashing into mine like he needed to taste every inch of me.

His kiss was sick, filthy, perfect. All tongue and teeth and possession, and I felt myself melt against him. My thighs clenched involuntarily. My hands were in his hair, pulling, needing more. Needing him.

“You drive me insane,” he growled into my mouth.

“Good,” I panted, drunk on the way he felt, the way he kissed, the way he always managed to take my breath and give it back harder.

He spun me, pressing me back against the wall with his hands sliding under my dress. “Quick?” he rasped. “I’ll give you quick.”

I pressed my palms flat against the wall as he nudged my legs apart with his knee. His fingers found me through my underwear, already wet and ready.

“So fucking soaked for me,” he muttered, pushing the thin fabric aside. His fingers traced my entrance, teasing, before one slid inside. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.