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I stand beside him, my hand resting on top of his, feeling our baby move and the heat of his body against my side. I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do at this moment, seven months pregnant and glowing, standing next to a man who will someday be the most powerful one in the city.

He’s terrifying. He’s ruthless. He’s completely obsessed with me. And I’m unapologetically in love with him.

By midnight, I’m tired. My feet ache, and my back hurts, but I’m high on the adrenaline of the night and the constant attention of my husband.

Roman notices my fatigue, and he leans down until his lips brush my ear. “You’re exhausted, angel. I’ve kept you on your feet far too long.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, but I lean into him, letting him take my weight.

“Don’t lie to Daddy,” he growls, the words sending a familiar heat through me. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

He doesn’t wait for my agreement. Not that he never does. He sweeps me into his arms—one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back, careful of my belly—and carries me through the crowd toward the elevator. People stare, but he ignores them.

“Roman, put me down.” I laugh, my arms around his neck. “I’m too heavy.”

“You’re perfect,” he corrects, his voice firm. “And you’re carrying my child. I’ll carry you both.”

In the elevator, he sets me down gently, but he doesn’t step back. He cages me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head, his body pressed into mine. I can feel his hardness digging into my hip, feel the heat radiating from him.

“Do you know what you did to me tonight?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Standing there, glowing, pregnant with my child, letting me show you off to everyone?”

I look up at him through my lashes, feeling bold and beautiful. “What did I do, Daddy?”

He growls, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You made me want to fuck you. Right there. Bend you over the podium and take you while everyone watched. Show them exactly how eager you are to be bred. Let them all see who owns your perfect little pussy.”

I gasp, my core clenching at his words. Pregnancy has made me insatiable, constantly wet, and needing him. And the way he’s looking at me now—like he wants to devour me—it’s too much.

“Please,” I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest. “Show me how much you want to fuck me.”

He slaps the buttons of the elevator, and the doors open to the raw, semi-unfinished office space. The air smells of sawdust and fresh paint as he leads me past framed walls and exposed wiring toward the massive conference room at the far end of the place. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city’s skyline. He lets go of my hand and takes a few steps back, his gaze raking over my swollen breasts, straining against the fabric of my dress, the prominent curve of my belly, and the way my thighs press together with need.

“Take off the dress,” he commands, with a gravelly rumble that echoes through the cavernous space, directly into my core.

My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the zipper behind me. The metallic hiss is loud in the quiet room. I shrug the delicate straps off my shoulders, and the silk slithers down, catching on my vast belly. I let it pool there, a dark puddle of fabric around my hips, exposing my breasts to his hungry gaze. They feel heavy, almost foreign, with how swollen they are. My nipples, dark and peaked from pregnancy and arousal, stand out, begging for his attention.

A low groan tears from his throat. “Look at you.” He takes a step closer, his eyes fixed on my chest. “Fucking perfect.”

He closes the distance, his large, warm hands coming up to cup the weight of my breasts. He tests their heft, and his thumbs brush over the sensitive nipples, making me gasp. Then he dips his head, his mouth closing over one tight bud. The wet heat of him is a shock, a jolt of pure pleasure that shoots straight to my clit. He suckles, gently at first, then with a firm, rhythmic pressure that has me arching my back and pushing myself deeper into his mouth. A soft, needy whimper escapes me as my fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

He nips at me roughly before switching to the other breast as his free hand slides down my body, palming the tight, round curve of my belly. His thumb strokes the stretched skin, a possessive, reverent caress. “So full and sweet,” he murmurs against my sensitive flesh. “So ready to feed our son. But these tits are mine, angel. Just as this belly is mine. Every fucking inch of you is all fucking mine.”

“Yes,” I muster, the words catching in my throat as emotion and pleasure overwhelm me. My hands tighten in his hair, holding him to me. “Yours, Daddy. Only yours.”

He stands upright, his eyes blazing with a dark, triumphant fire. With a sharp tug, he pulls the dress the rest of the way down. It slithers to the concrete floor, leaving me completely naked before him. The cool air kisses my damp skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze is a physical touch, possessive and hungry as it sweeps over every swollen curve of my pregnant body.

“Turn around,” he orders.

I obey instantly, my movements fluid with desire. He guides me, his hands on my hips, turning me to face the wall of windows. With his hand between my shoulder blades, he encourages me to bend forward as his other hand eases my belly over the edge of the boardroom table for support. My fingers splay across the hard, polished wood as I arch my back and present myself to him.

I keep my eyes on the city, knowing anyone out there could be watching the two of us as I listen to the distinct sound of his zipper, the rasp of a buckle, and then the rustle of fabric. The heat of him behind me burns across my skin a second before I feel the hard, thick heat of his cock nudging at my entrance. He’s still fully dressed in his immaculate tuxedo, the rough fabric of his trousers a stark contrast against the soft skin of my ass.

He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pushes into me in one long, slow, relentless stroke. I cry out, my hands palming at the table for purchase. The stretch is exquisite, a familiar, perfect fullness that never fails to undo me. He’s impossibly deep in this position, the head of his cock pressing against a spot deep inside me that makes my toes curl in my heels.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice raw. “You feel like heaven, angel. Always so wet and tight for me.”

He doesn’t wait for me to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against my ass, driving into me again and again. Each thrust pushes my hips harder into the unyielding table. The sound of our bodies meeting is loud in the quiet room, a lewd counterpoint to the distant hum of the city below.

I’m lost in a haze of sensation—the hard wood beneath my belly, the rough fabric of his trousers against my skin, and the thick, possessive length of him driving into me. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating. My pregnancy has made everything more intense; every touch is magnified as every nerve ending fires on high alert. My orgasm builds, a tight coil of heat low in my belly, winding tighter with every powerful thrust.