“No.” He steps closer. “You make me obscene.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s not soft. There’s nothing polite in it. He kisses me like he’s been holding back all day, like the dinner, the fire, the quiet conversation, even the tenderness were all leading to this. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and I taste myself on him.
I whimper.
He hears it and smiles against my mouth.
Then he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist automatically, and he carries me from the window to the thick rug in front of the fire. Not the bed. Not even the couch. The floor, because apparently he has decided I’m not making it that far.
He lays me down carefully, but the care doesn’t last. His hands are under my dress again, pushing it up, exposing my thighs, my hips, my stomach. I tense for half a second when the fabric catches above my belly.
He notices. He always notices.
His expression changes, just enough. “Don’t,” he says.
I swallow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He lowers himself over me and kisses the soft skin below my ribs, then lower, over the faint marks pregnancy left behind, over the place where my body still feels unfamiliar to me some days.
“You think I don’t want this?” he asks.
His mouth moves lower.
“This body gave me my daughter.”
Another kiss.
“And it gives me you.”
His hands spread over my hips.
“I want every inch of it.”
The ache in my chest is almost as bad as the throbbing between my legs.
Then he yanks my panties down my thighs and throws them somewhere behind him, and the tenderness turns hot again so fast I can barely breathe.
He gets on his knees between my legs and looks down at me. “Open wider.”
I do.
His gaze drops, and something in his face goes almost savage. “Perfect.”
Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out before I can stop it. He eats me like he’s angry about how much he wants me. Flat tongue, hard suction, handsholding my thighs open when I try to close them around his head. I twist under him, fingers in his hair, pulling too hard, but he only groans and presses closer.
“Viktor.”
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, he gets worse. Slower where I need him faster. Rougher when I’m already too sensitive. His tongue pushes into me, then drags back up to my clit, and I almost sob because I’m still swollen from the first orgasm and he knows exactly how much I can take.
“Please,” I say.