Page 85 of Wicked Ruin

“Don't,” I tell her.

“Don't what?” She's already stifling another one.

“Don't stifle yourself. Don’t hold yourself back.” I hold her gaze. “I want to hear every sound you make. I want to hear you when you come. Let yourself go, Bridget.”

“But if anyone hears⁠—”

“I'll fucking deal with it.”

I pull her camisole down and drag my tongue across her nipple, slow and deliberate, while my fingers find the other. She makes a sound that she tries very hard to swallow. I bring my teeth to the soft, sensitive skin there and nip just enough until her whole body arches. Her cheeks flush deep, and she turns her face away with a groan.

I catch her chin and bring her back. “Eyes on me.”

Her eyes find mine, and I feel something move through my chest that I don't have a word for.

“There she is,” I say softly. “Let yourself go, Bridget. I want to worship you. That's all I want to do tonight—just worship you. Will you let me do that?”

She nods, just barely, her chin still in my hand.

“Good girl.” I move back down. “That's it. Just like that. You're doing so well, baby.” I mean every word of it, just like always, and I watch the way she lights up at my praise, like sunlight on something that's been kept in the dark too long.

She makes a sound, half moan, half laugh, and shakes her head against the pillow. “You can't just say things like that.”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want.” I look up at her. “And you're going to lie there and let me.”

“God above,” she breathes out.

“Not quite.” I feel the smile pull at my mouth. “Close enough for tonight.”

She laughs and gasps as my mouth finds her again, and the laugh dissolves into something else. I work my way down her body with the patience of a man who has the whole night and intends to use every second of it. By the time we come up for air, she's flushed and trembling, looking at me with an expression like she's had too many drinks. She's drunk on this. Drunk on wanting it, on finally having it, on the fact that we're here and there's no performance required and nobody we have to pretend for.

She's soft and pliant beneath me. I’ve missed her. I’ll do everything I fucking can to keep us together.

I make quick work of undressing, and I love the way her gaze finds mine. So certain, so vulnerable and honest.

“I want you,” she whispers, reaching for my hard cock. I stifle a groan when her hands wrap around me, stroking. I find her wet heat and press into her. She makes a sound low in her throat that, this time, she doesn't try to stifle. I go still for just a second, feeling the sound she makes move straight through me.

“You okay?” I ask. I don't know what to expect from a pregnant woman. Is she sensitive, queasy, uncomfortable? Do I have to go slow? “I don't know anything about touching a pregnant woman,” I tell her honestly, and it's fucking killing me not to move inside her. She's so warm around me, so tight, and I'm trembling with the effort of holding still.

“I don't either,” she says with a smile. “But for now, you have to trust this pregnant woman to communicate with you. I'm okay.”

“Okay,” I whisper. Her fingers tighten in my hair, and I move deliberately, with my full attention on her, watching her face cast in the amber light, the way her lips part, her brow creases and smooths, the way her breath catches and then she breathes again. I keep the pace slow and teasing, all the way in, all the way out, until she grasps at me, yanks my hips, and pulls me to her.

“Impatient girl.”

“Declan,” she groans.

“There.” I press in deeper, watching her face. “That what you want, love?”

“Yes,” she breathes out. “Please. Just like that.”

“I've got you,” I whisper.

She looks up at me. I hold her gaze a moment longer than I mean to.

“I love you.”

She goes still beneath me. Her eyes fill. She doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at me like she's making sure I mean it.