Page 241 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

I snort.

ANDREA: Little troublemaker. Hope you’re enjoying the view.

AMELIA: Andrea! Have some dignity.

HUGO: To be fair, those jeans do give him an incredible ass.

I burst out laughing.

A hand gently steals my phone away. Dante glances at the screen before shaking his head with weary amusement.

“You’re making fun of me, woman. That deserves punishment.”

Then he bends down and captures my mouth with his.

The kiss is tender and sensual, and in less than a minute, my pulse is already racing.

Without a word, Dante lifts me into his arms and carries me toward our bed.

He undresses me slowly, his eyes moving over my body—a body I barely recognize anymore—with quiet reverence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and heavy with want.

His hand traces my rounded belly, then brushes over my hypersensitive breasts.

Only he can make me feel beautiful like this.

He covers me in kisses, unhurried and deliberate. When his mouth finds my clit, I come alive. He hooks my legs around his head for better access, then slides his tongue inside me. I moan beneath him, my hips rising to meet him, chasing more friction. When I come against his mouth, he lifts his head with a deeply satisfied look before pushing himself upright.

His eyes never leave mine as he undresses, revealing his body.

God, I love this man.

He eases down behind me carefully, lifts my leg to make room, and enters me slowly from behind.

The feeling of him filling me is so intense I’m already close to coming again.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Perfect.”

He begins to move—one arm wrapped around me above my belly, the other tucked beneath my head. His hips rock slowly at first, then build, then ease back again, like he’s determined to make it last as long as possible.

And then the heat takes over. Skin against skin, breathless sounds tangled together. His hand slips between us, gathering some of our shared slickness before pressing his index finger lightly against my clit, just holding it there, letting his thrusts do the rest. It’s enough. More than enough. I clench around him, and he follows, his body pressing hard into mine as my name breaks from his lips.

Much later, we make our way back to the nursery. The half-painted wall has dried.

“You know there’s going to be a mark,” I point out as he picks the roller back up.

He grins—slow and unrepentant.

“Just the two of us will know exactly why.”

Impossible man.

67. Sabrina

Valeria