Page 176 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

His expression shifted—the mask coming down an inch. “You want to see what’s underneath the patience.”

“I want you to stop deciding what I can handle.” I held his gaze. “I know what I’m dealing with. I’ve always known. Stop protecting me from it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then his hands tightened on my hips, just slightly, and he said, low and even, “Lie back.”

I did.

The surface of the desk was cool against my bare back as he stood over me. For a moment, he just looked—that long, reading look—and then he lowered himself over me and kissed me in a way that made it clear the patience was gone. I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him deeper into it. Felt him groan against my mouth.

“Other side of the desk,” I said, pulling back.

He blinked. “What?”

“Move me to the other side. I want my back to the door.”

He didn’t question it. He just hooked his hands under my thighs and shifted me across the desk in one smooth motion, repositioning himself between my legs. I felt the shift in leverage immediately—better angle, more control on my end—and from the way his eyes changed, I could tell he felt it too.

“There,” I said.

“There,” he agreed.

He worked his way down my throat, my collarbone, his mouth moving with a focus that felt less like seduction and more like documentation—like he was learning something he planned to use later. He unclasped my bra, set it aside, and pressed his lips to the center of my chest, directly over my heartbeat.

“Yours is racing too,” he said against my skin.

“Shut up,” I said, and I felt him smile.

His hands were deliberate and sure—no fumbling, no overcorrection, just direct and unhurried attention to what I responded to, adjusting each time I shifted or went still. When he pressed his mouth to my stomach, I put my hand in his hair, and he paused.

“Not there,” I said. “Not tonight. Come back up.”

He came back up without argument, his forearms bracketing my head, his weight balanced so I wasn’t bearing it. I pulled him down by the back of his neck until his forehead was against mine, and we were just breathing the same air for a second.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That I don’t know what we’re doing.”

“We’re doing this,” he said. “Just this. Nothing else tonight.”

“The war’s still out there.”

“I know.” He pulled back just enough to see my face. “It’ll be there when we leave. But right now—” He pressed a single, unhurried kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Right now, it doesn’t get to be in here.”

I reached between us and finished what needed finishing with his belt, and he helped without making a production of it. Then, there was nothing between us. I hooked my ankles behind him and pulled.

The first moment was slow. He watched my face instead of closing his eyes—that intense, focused attention that I’d stopped trying to make him break—and I watched his. It was the most exposed I’d felt in months. Not because of the physical. Because of what was underneath it.

“Okay?” he said.

“More than okay,” I replied. “Keep going.”

He did. Steady and deep, finding a pace that had nothing urgent about it, nothing trying to prove anything. Just present. Every time I changed the angle, he read it instantly and followed—no ego, no negotiating, just response. When I pulled his shoulder to roll us, I felt his momentary surprise, and then he went with it. I sat up and looked down at him stretched out across his own desk and almost laughed.

“Something funny?” he said, his voice rough.

“You’re on your own desk,” I said.

“I’m aware.” His hands settled on my hips. “You going to do something about it or just look at me?”