Page 224 of Mile High Ruin

My back arches, awkward with the weight of my belly, and he immediately shifts his arm behind me, supporting me before I even have to ask. That nearly breaks me. The fact that he knows. The fact that he’s so careful now, so attuned to the smallest change in my body, as if my discomfort is a language he has forced himself to learn.

“You’re too gentle,” I whisper.

His mouth pauses against my breast. “Do you want me less gentle?”

The question slides through me, dark and tempting, but the truth rises before pride can interfere.

“No,” I admit.

His eyes soften. Only a little.

Only enough to ruin me.

“Good.”

Then he closes his mouth over my nipple and sucks until my head tips back against the bed. Pleasure blooms hot and deep, so intense it feels almost unfair. His tongue works slowly, circling, flicking, soothing after every pull, and his hand kneads the fullness of my other breast with enough care to make my eyes sting. I’m not used to being treated like this. Not by him. Not by anyone. As if I’m desirable and fragile at once. As if wanting me doesn’t make him forget that I’m carrying his child.

My breathing turns uneven. His free hand slides from my stomach to my thigh, stopping there. Waiting.

I look down at him. “Vadim.”

“Tell me.”

The words come out quieter than I mean them to. “I need you to touch me.”

His jaw tightens. For a moment, he closes his eyes like he’s praying for restraint he doesn’t actually believe in.

Then his fingers move under the hem of my dress. He pushes the soft fabric up inch by inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of my knee, then higher, over skin that feels too warm, too sensitive, too ready. When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he stops.

“Here?” he asks.

I nod.

“No.” His voice is rough. “Words.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “There.”

His fingers slip beneath the fabric.

The first touch makes me jolt. I’m already wet, embarrassingly so, and Vadim’s breath leaves him in a hard, quiet sound when he feels it. His hand stills for a second against me, as if he needs to master himself before he can master me.

“Sloane,” he says, and my name sounds wrecked in his mouth.

“Don’t tease me.”

His eyes lift. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“You’re not.”

“I could.”

The words are quiet, but there’s something beneath them that makes my chest tighten. The old fear in him. The old belief that everything he wants is dangerous because his hands have done too much damage in the world.

I touch his face. “You won’t.”

That does something to him.

His fingers move. Slowly at first, stroking through the slick heat of me, parting me with a care that makes my thighs tremble. He finds the place that aches most and circles it with the pad of his finger, soft, steady, maddening. My breath catches. My hand drops from his face to his shoulder, gripping hard.