His mouth crashes into mine again as his hands work my nightgown up and over my head. Cool air hits my skin, but his body is warm, solid, everywhere at once.
"So fucking beautiful," he mutters against my collarbone. "Every time I look at you, knowing you're carrying my son?—"
His hand splays across my stomach possessively.
"Mine," he growls. "Both of you. Mine."
The possessiveness should scare me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Say it," he demands, fingers hooking into my underwear, dragging them down my legs. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours." The words come easier than they should. "Tonight, I'm yours."
"Not just tonight." His fingers slide through my wetness, and I gasp. "Every night. Every day. You're mine, Seraphina. You just keep forgetting."
He works me with his fingers, watching my face as I fall apart. It's been weeks since anyone touched me like this. Weeks since that night at the penthouse. My body responds desperately, climbing fast.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let me see you. Let me watch you come on my fingers like the good girl you are."
The praise combined with the pressure sends me over the edge. I cry out, back arching off the desk, and he swallows the sound with another kiss.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "Fuck, you're beautiful when you let go."
He's still fully dressed. I tug at his shirt, frustrated.
"Off," I demand. "All of it. Off."
He steps back, and I nearly whine at the loss of contact. But then he's stripping—shirt, belt, pants—and I'm watching the reveal of skin and muscle and scars I've felt but never really seen in the light.
"You're staring," he observes.
"You're gorgeous." It slips out before I can stop it.
His smile is sharp. Pleased. "Your turn to stare is over."
He pulls me off the desk, spinning me around so my back is against his chest. One hand wraps around my waist, the other sliding up to cup my breast.
"Look," he orders, and I realize there's a large window across from his desk. The curtains are open, showing our reflection in the dark glass. "Look at us."
I can see everything. My body pressed against his. His hands on me. The way my skin is flushed, my hair wild.
"This is what you look like when you're mine," he says against my ear. "Remember it."
His hand slides down between my legs again, and I watch in the window as he touches me. It's obscene. Intimate. I should look away but I can't.
"Adrian—please?—"
"Please what?"
"I need—" I push back against him, feeling him hard against my lower back. "Please."
"Use your words, Seraphina. Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
He bends me over the desk, hands on my hips, positioning me. I feel him there, pressing against me, and then?—
"Fuck," I breathe as he enters me. It's intense, overwhelming, too much and not enough.
