Page 104 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“With pleasure.” I smirk, dragging her under me with a confidence that’s never left, even when everything else has changed. “You remember how this goes?”

“Remind me,” she breathes.

“Gladly.”

She’s breathless beneath me.

Her eyes meet mine in the dim light, wide and waiting, the flush on her cheeks blooming into something deeper. I kiss her again—slow, open-mouthed, coaxing. I feel her melt beneath the weight of it, her hands moving over my back with quiet urgency, like she needs this more than sleep, more than breath.

I trail kisses down her throat, pausing at the hollow just above her collarbone. Her pulse flutters there, quick and unsteady. I taste it, feel her fingers curl against the nape of my neck as I press lower, slowly undoing the buttons of her nightdress one by one.

She lifts her hips to help me ease the fabric down.

I grin against her neck. “Patience, sweetheart. I’m going to make you beg for it.”

There’s no hurry. Not tonight.

I want to see her. All of her. To remind her that nothing—not work, not fatherhood, not the passing of time—could ever dull this need. This fire that exists only for her.

Her skin is soft beneath my palms, warm from sleep, stretched with motherhood and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched. I kiss the curve of her breast, the line of her ribs, the soft swell of her stomach. She shivers under my mouth, sighing my name like it’s a confession.

“Kion…”

I look up.

She’s watching me, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in quick rhythm. She’s flushed, hair spread out on the pillow, eyes dark with want.

I slide back up, bracing myself on one arm while the other cups her face.

“I’ve missed you like this,” I murmur.

She nods once. “Then take your time.”

My fingers explore her slowly—every inch. I map her with mouth and hands, relearning what makes her arch, what makes her gasp, what soft, whispered curses she lets slip when she’s just on the edge.

She’s wet for me—eager, aching, every part of her humming with the kind of tension that’s been building for far too long.

When I slip my fingers between her thighs, she spreads wider, welcoming me with a soft moan that lands hot againstmy neck. I stroke her slowly, watching her eyes flutter shut, watching her hips rise off the bed.

“You feel the same,” I whisper. “So good for me, hmm?”

“Always yours,” she breathes.

I push two fingers into her, and she gasps, her legs tightening around my hips.

I take my time, working her open again with steady pressure, watching the way her lips part, the way her brows knit with pleasure. She clings to me, grounding herself in every touch, every breath.

When she starts to tremble, I slow.

She whines—quiet, frustrated.

I grin against her neck. “Not yet.”

Her laugh is a broken, breathy thing. “You’re cruel.”

“You wouldn’t love me if I weren’t.”

I withdraw my hand, lift her thighs gently, and settle between them. She pulls me closer, one leg hooking behind my back.