Chapter One
Anthea
"No... Not so deep... Please, Silas!"
I arched my head back, fingers clutching the silk sheets so hard my knuckles turned white. The pleasure was overwhelming—brutal, almost enough to break me.
Silas Thorne didn't stop. His face was buried between my thighs like a top-tier predator finally allowed to feed. His tongue was rough, insistent, every drag across my most sensitive flesh lighting my nerve endings on fire. And those two long fingers that had driven deep inside me were merciless—calloused fingertips grinding, curling, digging against my inner walls like he was hunting for the exact spot that would shatter me.
"No..." I sobbed.
The intense, aching fullness made me instinctively try to squirm away, but the iron grip of his hands on my upper thighs pinned me in place. I couldn't move an inch.
I was his prisoner. On this bed. In this opulent estate.
Finally, he pulled back, not because of my begging, but because he'd decided to switch tactics.
He lifted his head. The dim, amber wall sconces caught the glossysheen on his lips and chin, making him look wicked and devastatingly hot at the same time. Those predator eyes raked over my body, slow and evaluating.
"You're saying no?" His voice came out rough, still thick with lust. "But the outfit you chose says something very different, Anthea."
I turned my face away in shame.
The pathetic black lace thong had been ripped apart and tossed God-knows-where long ago. Right now, my lower half was completely bare, thighs forced wide and shameless in front of him. Up top, I was still wearing the cheap lingerie set I'd ordered online.
Black lace hugged my ribcage but had obscene cutouts right at the nipples. My pregnancy-swollen, dark-red peaks stood stiff in the cool air, practically begging to be tasted. Worse, the open-front hem had been designed to frame and display my rounded belly.
It covered everything that didn't need covering and exposed everything that should have stayed hidden.
"You wore this on purpose to tease me," he concluded. His thumb brushed over one exposed nipple, sending a sharp, stinging jolt of electricity through me. "Is this your way of reminding me it's Valentine's Day? Or reminding me there's a Thorne heir in that belly, so I'm supposed to go easy on you?"
I moaned, unable to argue. Yes. I'd put it on deliberately. Because today was Valentine's Day.
Even if I was nothing more than collateral, a walking womb bought to settle a huge debt, I'd still hoped, pathetically, to get a scrap of attention from this cold-blooded Bratva heir on the one day of the year that sells romance.
"Take it off," he ordered.
But before my shaking fingers could reach the straps, his hands were already there. One sharp rip and the last scrap of fabric was gone.
His gaze dropped to my chest. Eight months pregnant, my body had changed dramatically. Breasts that used to fit perfectly in his palms were now heavy, full.
"Bigger," he murmured, tone unreadable, maybe appreciation, maybe judgment. "Heavier."
Then he dipped his head and took one into his mouth. Tongue swirling over the swollen areola, sucking hard. Wet, obscene sucking sounds filled the room.
"Mmm…" Electricity shot down my spine. I arched, shamelessly pushing more of my breast into his mouth.
This felt so surreal. Ten months ago, I was stressing over tomorrow's lesson plans, grading middle-school essays. Now I was sprawled on a mafia heir's bed, belly round and ripe, letting him use me however he wanted.
"You're mine," he growled against my skin as that massive, rock-hard length slowly, cruelly sank back inside me, stretching me to the limit. "Every inch. Including that womb."
I couldn't argue. I could only moan while my fingers blindly traced the jagged scars crisscrossing his back. The black ink on his bronze chest and abs shifted with every brutal thrust, the tattoos seeming to come alive as they devoured me.
"Look at me, Anthea."
I lifted my head and crashed into those eyes, storm-gray, bottomless.
God, he was gorgeous. The low light carved out the sharp angles of his face. Damp strands of dark brown hair clung to his forehead. Even in the middle of raw, animalistic sex, he radiated that suffocating, innate dominance.
