“I was terrified the whole time,” she admits.
“You didn’t show it.”
“Good acting.”
“Good instincts,” I insist. “You knew exactly what they needed to hear, exactly how to present yourself. That’s not acting, that’s natural talent.”
I lift her onto the vanity, positioning myself between her thighs. The mirror behind her reflects our bodies pressed together, and I can see the want in her eyes.
“You know what I was thinking during your presentation?” I ask, hands spanning her waist.
“What?”
“That every man in that room was looking at you and thinking,Alaric Moretti’s a lucky bastard.”
“And?”
“And they were right. But not for the reasons they think.”
I claim her mouth in a kiss that’s possessive and proud and desperate all at once. She responds immediately, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer.
“Take me to bed,” she whispers against my lips.
“Not yet. I want to worship you right here, where you made yourself beautiful for them.”
“I made myself beautiful foryou.”
“I know. That makes it even better.”
My hands find the clasp of her bra, and I remove it slowly. The pregnancy has made her breasts exquisitely sensitive, and when I cup them in my palms, she arches into my touch with a soft moan.
“God, you’re perfect,” I breathe.
“The baby’s making me bigger everywhere.”
“The baby’s making you more beautiful everywhere.”
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently. Her reaction is immediate and intense, her back arching as her hands grip my shoulders.
“Too much?” I ask.
“More. Please.”
I lavish attention on both breasts, marveling at how responsive she’s become. Every touch draws sounds from her throat that make my blood burn hotter.
“Stand up,” I command softly.
She slides off the vanity, and I kneel before her, my hands stroking up her thighs. The lace panties she’s wearing are already damp, and I can smell her arousal.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, hooking my fingers in the waistband and sliding the fabric down her legs. “So beautiful when you’re pregnant with my child.”
I rise from my knees, my hands still on her thighs, feeling the warmth of her skin under my palms.
The sight of her—naked, her body glowing in the soft light of our bedroom, curves fuller from the pregnancy—makes my mouth dry and my blood burn.
She’s a vision, my fierce, brilliant wife, pregnant with my child. And the way she stood up to those bastards today, turning their skepticism into awe, has me so wound up I can barely think straight.
“Fuck, Kasi,” I growl, my voice rough as I step closer, caging her against the vanity. Her eyes meet mine, dark and molten, and I see my own hunger reflected there. “You have no idea what you did to me today. Commanding that room, making those men eat out of your hand.” I slide my hands up her hips, over the gentle swell of her belly, and cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “I’ve never been prouder. Or harder.”
