Page 382 of Wicked Brutal

“Closer.”

I kiss her hard and get the last of it—her underwear, my boxers—gone in a messy pull that is not graceful and is extremely us. Bare skin on the nursery carpet. Her bump between us. My shirt still hanging off the crib like a flag.

“Hi,” I murmur, smiling against her mouth.

“Hi. Touch me before I die.”

“Dramatic.”

“Pregnant. Same thing.”

I slide my hand down her stomach—claiming, gentle over the bump, then lower. She’s already wet. The sound I make is embarrassing. She looks smug about it.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s your fault.”

“Good.” I kiss her while I stroke through the heat of her, slow enough to feel it, not slow enough to tease her mean. “Mine. Look at you. In our house. On our floor. Letting me have this like it’s normal.”

“It is normal.” Her breath catches when I circle her clit. “That’s the point.”

“I know.” I ease one finger into her, then a second when she rocks into my hand. “Fuck. You feel perfect.”

She moans into my mouth, hips chasing. I curl my fingers and find the spot that makes her thighs jump, thumb working that same easy rhythm. Not a performance. Just me learning her again because I can.

“Ryan—”

“I’ve got you.” I kiss her cheek, her jaw, her mouth. “That’s it. Let me feel you. Let me take care of my girl in the middle of all this baby shit.”

She laughs, wrecked, then gasps when I stroke deeper. “Don’t say baby shit while you’re—”

“While I’m what?” I grin against her lips. “Inside you? Making you squeeze my fingers like you missed me?”

“I saw you an hour ago.”

“Missed you anyway.” I pump my fingers a little faster, still sweet, still claiming. “This is mine. You’re mine. This room is ours. Say it.”

“Yours.” It comes out shaky. “Ours. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” I kiss her through the next curl of my fingers. “You sound so pretty. I love you like this. Happy. Messy. Home.”

She clutches my wrist and rides my hand, desperate and smiling at the same time, and I keep going—fingering her on the nursery floor like we have nowhere else to be, because we don’t.

She pushes me onto my back. I go easily. Carpet, boxes, the instruction manual somewhere under my shoulder. Ally climbs over my thighs, hair falling in her face, looking way too pleased with herself.

“My turn.”

“Ally—”

“You got to be smug. Now I do.”

Then her mouth is on me and I forget how to be a person. “Fuck—” My head hits the floor. One hand flies to her hair, not pushing, just holding on. “Baby. Jesus.”

She hums around me like that’s the review she wanted. Warm. Wet. Unhurried only in the sense that she’s enjoying herself, not because she’s being shy. I look down and immediately regret it because the picture of her—my girl, almost four months pregnant, on her knees in our kid’s unfinished room—nearly ends me.

“Ally. Pretty girl. That’s—god. Your mouth.”

She takes more of me, slow enough that I feel every inch, and my hips twitch before I lock them down. She pulls off just long enough to kiss the head and glance up.

“You can talk,” she says, a little breathless. “I like it.”