"And does it?"
He spins me around and presses his palm flat against my chest, right over my heart.
"You tell me."
It's pounding. Racing. Trying to break through my ribs and throw itself at him.
"Yes," I breathe. "It does."
He smiles—a real smile, rare and devastating—and then his mouth is on mine again.
We undress each other slowly, savoring each revelation.
His shirt falls away, revealing the canvas of ink and scars I've come to know so well. I trace the tattoos with my fingertips, following the dark lines across his shoulders, down his arms, over his ribs. He shivers under my touch, his muscles tensing, his breath catching.
"I love these," I whisper. "I love every mark on your body. Every story they tell."
"Even the violent ones?"
"Especially those." I press a kiss to the starburst scar on his shoulder—the bullet wound that nearly killed him, years ago. "They mean you survived. They mean you're here with me."
He makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half growl—and then he's unhooking my bra, sliding it down my arms, baring my breasts to his gaze.
"God, Bianca." He cups them in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, already tight and aching. "You're perfect. Every part of you."
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, and I cry out at the sensation—hot and wet and overwhelming. His tongue circles the sensitive peak, teasing, tasting, while his hand works the other breast, pinching and rolling until I'm trembling against him.
"Misha," I gasp. "Please—"
"Please what?"
"More. I need more."
He releases my nipple with a soft pop and looks up at me, his eyes black with desire.
"Then let's get rid of these."
His hands go to the button of my jeans, working it open with practiced efficiency. He slides the denim down my hips, taking my underwear with it, and then I'm completely naked before him—vulnerable, exposed, aching.
He steps back, just looking at me. His gaze travels from my face to my breasts to my rounded belly to the slick heat between my thighs. I should feel self-conscious, standing here bare while he's still half-dressed, but I don't. The way he looks at me makes me feel powerful. Desired. Worshipped.
"On the bed," he says. "Now."
I obey, climbing onto the mattress and settling against the pillows. He watches me the whole time, his hands workinghis belt, his zipper, pushing down his pants until he's as naked as I am.
He's magnificent. All hard muscle and golden skin, his body a weapon honed by years of violence. And his cock—thick and hard and straining toward me—makes my mouth water.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling over me, caging me with his arms. His body hovers above mine, close enough to feel his heat but not quite touching.
"I'm going to take my time with you," he says. "I'm going to make you fall apart. And then I'm going to do it all over again."
"Promises, promises."
He laughs—actually laughs—and then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts. He works his way down my body with devastating slowness, kissing and licking and nipping at every inch of skin. My belly, slightly rounded now with our child. My hips, my thighs, the sensitive crease where my leg meets my pelvis.
By the time he reaches the apex of my thighs, I'm writhing.
"Misha, please—"
