Page 143 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

Somewhere she would finally understand that I was the one who’d been protecting her all along.

Chapter 15

TRUTH

Two weeks later…

He was still asleep when I opened my eyes.

I lay on my side, watching him the way I’d started doing every morning without meaning to—this man who moved through the world like a lit fuse but looked like peace itself when he wasn’t paying attention. His locs were spread across the pillow. One arm rested over his stomach, the other loose at his side. His chest rose and fell in slow, even pulls.

But his fingers were curled.

Not tight. Not braced for anything. Just—ready. Like his body refused to fully commit to stillness even while he slept. In two weeks, I’d figured out that Amai Landry did not fully switch off. He dimmed. He got quiet. He let me see something underneath the armor that I didn’t think many people got to see. But some part of him was always positioned toward the door.

I didn’t mind it anymore.

I pushed up onto my elbow and watched him another moment. Then, I dipped my head and pressed my lips to his neck—soft, slow, right below his jaw where I knew he was warm.

He didn’t stir.

I did it again. Lower. Dragged my mouth down to his collarbone, let my teeth graze just enough to feel the texture of his skin.

His breath shifted. Still asleep, but not for long.

I kept going. Slow and deliberate, down the center of his chest, my lips mapping each ridge of muscle, taking my time because I had it and because the noises he made when he was still half-asleep and didn’t have his guard up were mine. I got to the flat plane of his stomach and felt his abs contract involuntarily. His hand moved—found my shoulder, not gripping, just landing there like a question.

I answered by going lower.

I took him into my mouth slowly.

“Truth—”

His voice broke on my name. Low and wrecked and not fully awake. His hand moved from my shoulder to my hair, and he hissed through his teeth as I found a rhythm, sloppy, warm, and intentional, the way I knew he liked it. His hips lifted toward me—just once—then he caught himself, his stomach clenching, that control he wore like a second skin fighting its way back to the surface even now.

I looked up at him.

His head was back against the pillow, jaw tight, hair fanned out beneath him. He looked like something between agony and religion.

Good, I thought, and took him deeper.

“Fuck—” He exhaled hard, his grip tightening in my hair. Not forcing. Just holding on. His thighs tensed on either side of me. “Baby. Baby, I need you to⁠—”

I hummed against him.

“Jesus Christ.”

I worked him until his breathing was ragged, and his whole body had gone tight. Until he was muttering my name in pieces, and his hand in my hair had gone from gripping to trembling. Then, I pulled back, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked at him like I hadn’t just taken him apart at seven in the morning.

“Good morning,” I said.

He looked at me with dark eyes and zero patience. “Come here.”

“I’m right here.”

“Now, Truth.”

I moved up the length of him, and he flipped us in one motion, careful of my stomach the way he always was—instinctive, automatic, like protecting me was just built into his muscle memory now. He settled between my thighs and looked down at me, chest heaving, hair falling forward.