Page 69 of Tempting Tessa

She nods, clutching the photos to her chest like they’re precious jewels. I help her dress, my hands lingering on her skin longer than necessary, memorizing every curve and plane of her body that will soon change with our child growing inside her.

In the car, she’s quiet, staring out the window at the passing city. I reach across the console and take her hand.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

She turns to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “That I’m going to be a mother. And that baby is going to have your eyes.”

Something cracks open in my chest—something I’ve kept locked away since my brother died. Hope. Future. A reason to be better than I’ve been.

“They’ll have your stubbornness too,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughs, the sound watery but real. “God help us all if that’s true.”

I bring her hand to my lips again, kissing each knuckle. “I’ll protect both of you. Always.”

She studies me for a long moment, then leans across the console and presses her lips to mine. It’s not the hungry, desperate kisses we usually share. This one is tender, full of promise, and something that feels dangerously like love.

When she pulls away, I’m left wanting more.

“Take me home, Matteo,” she says softly.

I start the car, my heart pounding in a rhythm that matches the heartbeat we just heard. Our baby’s heartbeat. My heir. My future.

As we drive, I make a silent vow to protect what’s mine. Both the woman beside me and the child growing inside her. No matter what it takes.

Chapter 22

Matteo

I’ve been wearing her down for months, and the payoff is sweeter than I ever imagined.

It’s late afternoon, and Contessa’s sprawled across the leather couch in my living room, her hair fanned out against the cushions, her swollen belly rising and falling with each breath. She’s six months pregnant with my child now, round and gorgeous and finally—finally—mine in every way that matters.

I stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. Her bare feet are propped up on a stack of throw pillows I arranged myself, her toes painted a deep burgundy that she let me do last week. The memory of her squirming and giggling while I painted each nail makes my cock twitch behind my zipper.

Two months ago, she was still fighting me. Still trying to sneak out of the house, still insisting she could manage on her own, still pretending she didn’t need me. But I’m a relentless man when it comes to what I want, and what I want has been her.

I cross the room silently, not wanting to wake her. She’s been working too hard again. The Immortal collection launches next week, and she’s been pushing herself despite my warnings. But she’s finally learning to listen to me, to trust that I know what’s best for her and our baby.

I kneel beside the couch and gently lift her belly, cradling the weight in my palms. She makes a soft sound in her sleep, her body instinctively relaxing as I take the pressure off her lower back. The baby kicks against my hand—a strong, healthy movement that sends a surge of pride through my chest.

My child. My heir.

I shift to sit on the edge of the couch, keeping one hand under her belly while the other reaches for the bottle of massage oil I left on the side table. I pour a generous amount into my palm, warming it between my hands before sliding it under her shirt.

Her skin is stretched tight over her belly, silky and warm beneath my fingers. I work the oil in slow circles, feeling the baby move beneath my touch. She sighs in her sleep, her lips parting slightly.

“Good girl,” I murmur, though she can’t hear me. “Let me take care of you.”

I’ve become an expert at this. Rubbing her back, massaging her feet, lifting the weight of our baby when it becomes too much for her small frame. Every touch is calculated. Every gesture designed to show her how much better life is with me. How much she needs me.

And it’s working. The resistance is gone from her eyes when she looks at me now. The defiance has been replaced by something softer, something that looks suspiciously like trust and love.

I ease her onto her side, careful not to wake her, and work my thumbs into the muscles along her spine. She’s been complaining about back pain for weeks, and I’ve made it my mission to relieve every ache, every discomfort.

Her body belongs to me now—her pleasure, her pain, her comfort. All of it is mine to manage, mine to control.

I spend the next twenty minutes working the tension from her muscles, my hands moving in practiced patterns across her skin. When I reach her feet, I take my time, pressing my thumbs into her arches until she makes that little moaning sound that drives me fucking crazy.