Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I lick her slowly, teasingly, coaxing those low, desperate sounds I live for. In less than a minute her body begins to tense, but I’m determined to draw this out. I pull back and press a soft kiss to her mound.
“Why are you stopping?” she breathes.
I chuckle against her skin. “So impatient, my love,” I tease. “Trust me, it will all be worth it.”
When she eases back, I start again, still skirting her swollen clit. She needs me so badly she bucks against me, and every instinct screams to bury myself inside her. Not tonight. Tonight is all about her.
I devour her, savor every taste, letting my tongue flick in and out until she’s a shaking, writhing mess. Only then do I circle her clit with the tip of my tongue and slide two fingers inside her slick pussy.
Her release is instant. She shatters around me, cries of pleasure echoing through our bedroom. Her hands tangle in my hair, holding tight while she rides the wave. At some point she lets go, probably without even realizing it, then lifts her arms to rest above her head as her whole body melts into the mattress.
I stand and clean her gently, then scoop her up and ease her beneath the covers. She’s still naked, still dewy from the bath, yet so sated she’s half-asleep already.
I slip in next to her and wrap an arm around her waist. She turns to face me. Unable to stop myself, I press a kiss to her lips and rest my forehead against hers.
“I will protect you both with my life. You have my word.”
Her eyes flutter closed and she whispers, “I know.”
24
KATYA
Before I got pregnant, dinner with my father was nothing special. Most nights I scrambled for any excuse to bail. Tonight, though, with it being his first invitation in months, my stomach flutters with nerves. Maybe it’s because Isaac is working late and I’m going alone. He insists it’ll be good for me to spend time with Papa before the baby arrives. I’m not convinced.
I shift in the cushioned chair, hunting for an angle that won’t grind my belly against the table’s edge. At nearly thirty-seven weeks, comfort feels like a fairy tale, but tonight the discomfort is downright vicious.
I wish Isaac were here. He’d know exactly how to peel the tension from my shoulders, slide his hand under the table, and let me lean into him. Damn his late-night work.
Papa finally steps into the dining room in a crisp charcoal button-up and slacks. His hair is slicked back, jaw tight, yet his eyes soften when they land on me.
“Katya,” he says, nodding as he makes his way to his seat across from me.
“Papa,” I murmur, offering a small smile.
A maid sets two steaming plates in front of us. For a moment, silence is broken only by the soft clink of cutlery as we focus on eating.
After a few bites I look up. He seems thinner, more weathered, a new tightness bracketing his eyes. He must be busy as it’s the only explanation I have for why he’s vanished since I announced the baby. Still, the thought needles me.
He finally breaks the silence.
“How’s Isaac? I’m sorry he couldn’t be here tonight.”
I chew slowly, then swallow. “He’s good. He sends his regrets and promises to be here next time.”
If there is a next time, I can’t help thinking.
He watches me for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. “And the baby?”
I settle a hand over my belly. The baby shifts as if it knows we’re talking about it.
“He or she could arrive any day,” I say, beaming. “Technically, I’m not due for another three and a half weeks, but the doctor told us to be ready for our little miracle whenever it decides to show.”
“You still haven’t found out the sex?” he asks, sounding distracted.
“We chose to wait until delivery,” I say, bristling for reasons I can’t quite name.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips, visible only to someone who knows him as well as I do. “You look healthy.”
“Thanks,” I say, still unsure whether it’s meant as a compliment.
My ankles are swollen, my back aches nonstop, and I cry if I so much as spill juice. Maybe “healthy” is code for “fat,” but I refuse to dwell on it. One more tear trigger is the last thing I need.
Damn Isaac for not being here.
The next course arrives, and he slices into his chicken with slow, deliberate strokes.
“How’s everything at the Kozlov house?”
I hesitate.
It’s not the question that bothers me but the weight behind it. I’ve learned to hear the layers in his voice, the subtle probing. Maybe I’m just hormonal, maybe my mind is spinning scenarios where none exist, but it feels like more than idle curiosity.
“Everyone there is amazing,” I say. “The staff is so caring. And Isaac is such a wonderful husband. I couldn’t be happier.”