“I’m nothing without you, Gray MacGregor.”
Gray felt tears prick her eyes at his sincerity. She felt the same. She swallowed the heavy emotion, praying for the thousandth time that he didn’t make her regret it.
At the first breath over her core, she gasped, instantly lifting her hips, greedy for more. The first full swipe of his tongue up her seam practically made her levitate. “Ciar, yes.”
“Like that, do you?” he asked before working her body like only he could.
“You know I do,” she moaned as two fingers joined his tongue. Less than five minutes later, she was screaming his name and holding his head so tightly between her thighs, she chanced suffocating him.
He lapped at her sensitive flesh until her body calmed and then stretched over her body, careful of the bump, to kiss her tenderly. He sat up, kneeling between her legs.
She grinned, glancing between his legs where he was fully erect and bobbing up and down. “Looks like you recovered just fine.”
“I’ll show you recovered, woman,” he grinned back, positioning himself at her slick entrance.
He frowned and hesitated, which caused some alarm. Gray started to reach a hand between her legs, because in this position, she couldn’t see. “What?” she squeaked, as he caught her hand and placed it back on the bed.
“Is it safe? I mean, I’m not small, and you are, and the baby is,” he tapped the swell of her low baby bump, “right there.”
Gray chuckled. “I’m hardly small, Ciar. I’m bigger than all my friends.”
He gave her a hard look before rubbing his sex against her entrance. Her heart lurched when he said, “You’re perfect.”
“It’s safe to have sex. Mags asked the doctor. In fact, she asked enough explicit questions that the doctor was even blushing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very,” she urged, moving her hips enough that he barely pushed in, causing them both to groan.
He trailed his fingers down her chest and over her bump once more, only stopping when she gasped and caught his hand from moving lower.
“What is this?” she demanded, leaning forward to touch the side of his neck. He had a new tattoo that she’d only now noticed.
Gray almost died when the big, tough Irish-Russian brute blushed. He touched the side of his throat where two words were tattooed in swirly script, surrounded by miniature grayscale flowers.
Gray Imogen.
“Your name, but it’s really for both my girls,” he shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.
He’d named his daughter after Gray. How could she ever keep that man at arm’s length?
“Christ, Ciar. What if…what if we don’t work out, and you’re stuck with me on your neck?” she choked on the question.
“You’ll always be mine.” It was as simple as that.
Romantic. She traced his firm, soft lips. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” In appreciation, she put him out of his celibate misery and lifted her hips enough to take half his length.
“Fuck, baby.” His control snapped. “You’ll tell me to stop, if you need to?”
“Yes, damn it! Now, babe,” she demanded and thank the Lord, he complied.
He went slowly, giving her body time to adjust. “Tight,” he groaned, “strangling me.”
She felt faint tremors dancing across her skin from his touch. He was fully within her now, holding still, their bodies already warm, flushed, and slick with sweat.
“Good?”
“So good,” she moaned. And then he was moving, the push and pull of their flesh coming together, full then empty, a blessing and a loss with every thrust.
