I capture her wrist, pressing a kiss to the delicate pulse point. “The doctor said—”
“The doctor said nothing about not having sex,” she interrupts, those blue eyes flashing with determination as she guides my hand to her breast, where I can feel her heart racing beneath my palm.
The invitation in her voice sends blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded. My hand tightens reflexively on her breast, careful not to press too hard on the sensitive flesh.
“Always so good to me,” she sighs, arching into my touch. “Even when I want you to be bad.”
Fuck, this woman. The things she does to me. The way she’s transformed from the frightened little baker I collected into this confident, sensual creature who knows exactly what she wants—and knows I’ll deny her nothing.
I bring my mouth to hers again, kissing her deeply, possessively. My hand slides from her breast to cup her jaw, holding her exactly where I want her. Six months pregnant, and she’s never been more beautiful—glowing with life, with my mark on her in the most primal way possible.
Mine.
The word echoes in my head with every beat of my heart. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep safe from everything that threatens the perfect world we’ve built.
As the kiss intensifies, I slide my oil-slicked hands up Alina’s thighs, leaving glistening trails across her pale skin. Her breath catches as my fingers dance along the edge of her white bikini bottoms, close but not quite touching where I know she wants me.
The sun beats down on us, but the heat in her eyes burns hotter. This is what I live for now—the way she responds to my touch, the silent communication between our bodies that speaks volumes more than words ever could.
“How long do we have?” she purrs.
Ah, shit, probably not as long as I’d want. “I don’t know,” I respond, my voice already rough with desire. “Why? What are you planning, Piccola?”
Instead of answering, she slides forward on her lounger until she’s perched at the edge, her legs bracketing mine where I kneelbefore her. Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain down my spine.
“I want to touch you,” she says, the words simple but loaded with intent.
I raise an eyebrow, amused and aroused by this bold version of my wife. “You’re touching me now.”
She shakes her head slightly, red hair cascading around her shoulders. “Not like this.” Her right hand trails down my chest, fingertips tracing each tattoo with reverent precision until she reaches the waistband of my shorts. “Like this.”
When her palm cups my hardening length through the fabric, I groan aloud. The pressure is perfect—firm enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. My hips twitch forward instinctively, seeking more.
“Alina,” I growl.
She leans forward, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. “This is forme,husband. Let me have it.”
Those words, combined with her hand now stroking me through my shorts, demolish any resistance I might have offered. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her soft moan as her fingers continue their maddening exploration.
With surprising dexterity, she tugs at the drawstring of my shorts, loosening them enough to snake her hand beneath the fabric. When her fingers wrap around my bare flesh, I break the kiss, hissing through clenched teeth at the exquisite sensation.
“Fuck,” I breathe against her neck, my hips pushing forward into her grip. “You’re getting too good at this.”
I feel her smile against my skin. “I had an excellent teacher.”
Her hand begins a steady rhythm, fisting my length with just the right pressure. My mind blanks for a moment, consumed by the feel of her soft palm against my hardened flesh, the slight twist of her wrist at the head that she knows drives me wild.
Desperate to touch her in return, I slide my hand between her thighs, seeking the wet heat I know I’ll find there. But she shifts away, denying me access.
“No,” she says, her voice firmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Let me do what I want on my birthday.”
The command—and itisa command—sends a fresh surge of blood to my already throbbing cock. This woman, who once trembled at my approach, now directs me with unwavering confidence. The contradiction is intoxicating.
“Look at me,” she demands softly.
I obey, meeting her pale blue gaze. What I see there nearly finishes me—desire, yes, but also something deeper. Possession. As if she’s claiming me the way I’ve always claimed her.
Her hand works faster now, her grip tightening just enough to make my breath stutter. My hips move in rhythm with her strokes, chasing the release building at the base of my spine.
