Page 23 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

“Luna.”

“Mm.” Not a question. Not an answer. Just acknowledgment that she heard me, that she’s not stopping.

I turn over.

She’s half-buried in my pillow, black hair across her face, and she looks up at me with those green eyes still soft from sleep, and something in the angle of her mouth says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Good morning.”

“Is it?”

She smiles at that, and her hand moves again, and I stop talking.

We take our time. There’s no reason not to—the morning is going nowhere. I pull her under me, and she goes easy, stretching out against my sheets like she’s been here a hundred times, like my bed is a place she belongs.

Her legs wrap around my hips, and she makes a low sound that does something permanent to my composure. I press my mouth to her throat and feel her pulse jump against my tongue. She arches into it.

“Ivan.” My name in her mouth, rough with sleep.

I work my way down—her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the soft skin below her ribs where she sucks in a breath when I bite gently. She buries her fingers in my hair and doesn’t pull me up.

I take my time there too, tasting the inside of her thigh while she twists against the sheets and says my name again, less steady this time. I feel the pull of satisfaction in my gut that I haven’t felt since I was much younger and cared more about things like this.

I pull her thigh over my shoulder and taste her, slow and thorough, until she’s twisting against the sheets and cursing at the ceiling in a voice that’s lost all its sleep-roughened calm.

Her taste. Fuck. I can’t get enough.

I feel the tension building in her as her thighs tremble against my ears, and I don’t let up, not until she says my name in that wrecked and breathless way and her whole body goes tight and then loose. I give her about four seconds to breathe.

Then I devour her, every inch, every fold. When my tongue dips low, she yips to the ceiling, her heels digging into my back. The moment I make contact with her clit this time, her breath freezes in her lungs, and she goes still.

Until she doesn’t. The woman rides my face, gripping my hair, writhing, and then, she breaks, gushing down my neck, gasping.

I’m done waiting. When I move back up her body, she’s flushed from throat to chest, her eyes half-closed, and she reaches between us to guide me home.

We move slowly at first. The kind of slow that’s almost unbearable, that gets her digging her fingers into my back and exhaling against my jaw in these short, broken increments that I feel in my spine. I keep the pace deliberate—unhurried, controlled—until she makes a sound that strips the control right out of me, and then neither of us is being slow about anything.

The moment she comes on my cock, I know one thing for certain. Luna Ambrose is making an addict out of me.

“Again,” I growl, arching myself deep as I pin her wrists to the pillows.

Her breath catches as her eyes roll back and she looses a ragged sigh that makes time stop. There’s only her. Only her moment. Only this climax.

When she returns to her body, her legs clasp my hips to force me deeper with each thrust. The green in her eyes shines withdetermination. Her voice is coated with command. “Come for me, Ivan.”

My body erupts, plunging deeper into heaven, and I lose the last of my self-control inside her body.

After, she lies with her head on my chest. I can feel her eyelashes against my skin when she blinks.

She yawns. “You have a very good mattress.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that weird to compliment?”

“Everything about this is weird.”

She laughs at that—a real laugh, short and surprised—and I feel it against my ribs. She doesn’t ask what I mean. Maybe she already knows.

Darya is in the kitchen when we come out. She looks at Luna like she’s already decided her opinion and is simply waiting to be proven right. Darya has told me to my face that I’m difficult, that I eat poorly, and that I should replace the runner in the front hall. She’s the only person in my organization who speaks to me that way and lives comfortably.