Page 27 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

“Back in the meeting. Watching you shut down a room full of grown men like they were rowdy schoolboys…” I shake my head. “You were precise. Calculated. Controlled.”

She flushes. “They didn’t expect it.”

“No. They didn’t.”

“I didn’t plan it. I just… heard them talking, and it was so obvious what they were doing wrong.”

“I know.”

Her gaze drops to the book. She closes it carefully and sets it aside.

“I wasn’t trying to step on your toes.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass anyone either.”

“You didn’t do that either.”

She’s quiet a moment longer. Then she says it, soft but sure. “I don’t want to just be a wife. Or a mother.”

My head tilts slightly.

“I want those things,” she adds quickly. “I do, but I also want to help. I want to be part of something. I want to contribute. To prove I’m capable.”

“You did.”

“That can’t be the only time.”

“It won’t be.”

She shifts in her seat, pulling the blanket over her knees a little higher. Her voice drops.

“I spent so much of my life trying to be invisible. Safe. Palatable. I didn’t want to make waves. Didn’t want to be seen as loud or bossy or difficult.”

“You’re none of those things.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Some would disagree.”

“I don’t care what some think.”

She looks at me again, brow furrowed. “What do you think?”

I don’t hesitate. “I think you’re smart. Dangerous when you want to be. Graceful in a way that makes people underestimate you—and brutal in a way that makes them regret it.”

Her eyes soften. “You think I’m brutal?”

“In the best way.”

She bites her lip, but the smile breaks through anyway. “I didn’t expect you to let me speak in there.”

“I didn’t let you. You took the floor. I would’ve stopped anyone who tried to interrupt you.”

“I noticed.”

“You belong in that room.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

She leans back in the chair, eyes half closed now. “It felt good. Having something to offer.”

“You’ve always had something to offer.”

“Not like that.”

She’s quiet again, but this time it’s content. Peaceful.

I rise and move to the armchair beside hers, not bothering to keep space between us. When I reach out, she shifts immediately, leaning into me, her head resting against my shoulder. My arm wraps around her without thought.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to prove yourself to me,” I say.

“I know, but it’s not just about you. It’s about me too.”

“I understand that.”

She exhales, fingers brushing the back of my hand where it rests on her side. “You’re not angry at the fire in me,” she whispers.

“I’d be afraid if it ever went out.”

She smiles against my shoulder. “Good answer.”

“I’m full of them.”

We stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other.

For once, I’m calm.

Soft light glows from the antique floor lamp beside us, throwing a warm haze across her face.

Her body’s warm beneath the robe, and I can feel the subtle weight of her stomach against my side.

Five months in now. Her shape is changing every day, and I notice all of it.

Every curve. Every shift. Every ache she tries to hide from me.

She still tastes like tea and quiet defiance. She still smells like skin and soft perfume. And right now, she’s so close it’s unbearable.

I don’t move at first. I just breathe her in.

Then she tilts her head up. I see it in her eyes—low heat, soft and certain. Her gaze falls to my mouth, then back to mine. She doesn’t need to say anything.

I answer her in silence.

I shift just enough to cup her face in my hand, thumb brushing along her cheekbone, and lean in. Our mouths meet in a slow, unhurried kiss, gentle at first. Testing. Then deeper. Warmer. The kind of kiss that coils low in the gut and spreads outward like fire.

She sighs against me, her fingers curling into the collar of my shirt.

I part her lips with my tongue and slip inside, and she lets me. Greedy now. Desperate. Her hand slips around my neck, pulling me closer, anchoring herself to me like she’s been waiting weeks to feel this way again.

I press her back gently into the cushions. She yields immediately, her body melting beneath mine.

My hand trails down the front of her robe, slow and deliberate. I undo the loose tie and let the sides part slightly, enough to feel the curve of her waist through the silk. She’s not wearing anything underneath.

Her skin is warm. Soft. I drag my palm up over her side to the swell of her breast, fingers brushing the peak just enough to make her gasp into my mouth.

“Kion…” she breathes.

I kiss her deeper, swallowing her sound, and slide my thigh between hers. She shifts, hips pressing up, chasing contact, needing friction. She’s already wet. I can feel it even through the thin fabric.

I groan softly against her mouth, unable to help it. “You have no idea how long I’ve had to watch you walk around this house, smug as you please, making me wait. Torture, Esme. Pure torture. You’re going to pay for every smug little smile.”

Her breath hitches.

“I dream about it,” I whisper, kissing lower. Her neck. Her collarbone. The hollow where her robe falls open. “The taste of you. The way you moan when I put my mouth on you.”

She whimpers. Her hands are frantic now, pulling at my shirt, trying to get closer.

“I’ll take my time,” I murmur. “Slow. Cruel. I’ll keep you trembling for hours.”

She arches beneath me, hips grinding against my thigh.

“Please,” she whispers.

My hand slips down between us. I palm her slowly over the silk, dragging my fingers against the damp heat between her thighs. She gasps again, louder this time, her body writhing against my hand.

“You miss it?” I ask, voice low, rough.

“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”

I press my mouth to hers again, kiss her until she forgets how to speak. Then I trail my lips lower—down her throat, over her chest. I don’t rush. I savor her. My tongue flicks over her nipple before I suck it into my mouth, and she cries out softly, arching into me.

I shift my hand under the robe and slide two fingers through her slick heat. I don’t enter her—just tease. Stroke. Circle. She’s soaked, hips grinding desperately, one leg hooking around my waist.

“Kion, please, I want—”

I pull back slightly, my fingers still moving just enough to keep her begging. “You’ll get everything,” I say softly. Then I pull back, delighting in how she squirms. “Just as soon as the doctor says it’s okay.”

She looks up at me, breathless, eyes wide. Dazed.

I lean in again, lips brushing her ear. “You’re still pregnant,” I murmur. “Still healing. Still mine to protect.”

Her body trembles beneath me. Her lips part in protest, but I silence it with another kiss—slow and deep, my hand cupping her jaw like she’s made of something rare.

“You’ll get all of me,” I say. “Every filthy thing you’ve begged for—every threat I ever whispered. You’re just going to have to survive the anticipation.”

Her eyes flutter closed.

I let my fingers trail one last time over her soaked heat, then draw them back and kiss her again. She clings to me, still trembling, still needy. My name leaves her lips like a promise.

I pull the robe closed again, slow and careful. Then I wrap my arms around her and hold her until her breathing slows.

“I’ll wait,” she whispers. “You better make good on everything you just said.”

I grin against her neck. “Oh, I will.”