Page 103 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

Then, slowly, I smirk.

“You’re jealous,” I murmur.

Her eyes widen, her brows pulling together. “I’m not—”

“You are,” I interrupt, amused now. “Of your own daughter.”

“I am not jealous of Liliana,” she says, but there’s color rising in her cheeks.

“You are,” I repeat, leaning closer. “It’s okay.”

She opens her mouth, probably to deny it again, but I reach for her before she can.

One hand in her hair. One at her waist.

Her body stiffens—only for a breath. Then she leans into me, mouth parting, breath caught somewhere between indignation and want.

I pull her into my lap, carefully, mindful of the way her body is still healing in quiet, invisible ways.

“I could never forget you,” I murmur against her ear. “Not for a second.”

She swallows hard.

“I’ve been trying to get it all right,” I continue. “The business. The house. Her. You. I didn’t realize what I was missing until I saw your face tonight.”

Her hands curl against my chest.

“I didn’t want to say it,” she whispers.

“Say it next time,” I reply. “Or I’ll make you jealous on purpose.”

She lets out a breath that turns into a laugh—half annoyed, half aroused—and before she can speak again, I kiss her.

It starts slow.

Controlled. Careful.

My lips move over hers with the same patience I used the first time I touched her, but underneath it now is something thicker. Heavier. Weeks of quiet restraint. Weeks of late nights, of passing touches, of wanting but not reaching.

She shifts again, sliding her arms around my neck, deepening the kiss.

It turns hungry.

Her mouth parts under mine and I taste the need in her—just like before, only different now. Weighted with something softer. Stronger.

Love.

I press her down gently into the mattress, never breaking contact, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her side.

She gasps softly, lifting into me.

I trail kisses along her jaw, down her throat, over the curve of her shoulder.

“I miss you too,” I whisper. “But I never stopped wanting you.”

She arches beneath me, fingers tugging at my shirt.

“Then show me,” she breathes. “Like you used to.”