For a while there, she really believed I’d given up on her.
Shame fills me as I realize, that for a few grief-stricken months… I had.
“I thought it was what was best for you,” I admit.
“And now?” she asks.
“Now I’m thinking straight for the first time in months. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what’s best for you… is me.”
Her nostrils flare for a moment, whether from fear or anger, I can’t quite tell. Maybe it’s both.
“Are you still with the Bratva?” she asks.
“I’m standing here in front of you, aren’t I?” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I came for you.”
She stills for a moment, as a blind, desperate hope floods her face. I know how my words come across. I know how she’s interpreting them.
And miserable bastard that I am, I don’t correct her.
Because correcting her might be risking the opportunity I have in front of me right now.
The opportunity for her to hear me, listen to me, give me a chance to show her what life could be if we were together.
“You did?”
“Yes,” I rasp. “The Bratva means nothing if I don’t have you, Esme.”
Her eyes are filled with tears. The gold of her irises are like beacons and I can’t stop myself any longer.
I grab her neck, running my fingers over her jaw for a moment.
Her hand settles on my chest as her eyes lock onto mine.
I see the desire flare on her face just before I slam my mouth down on hers.
She releases a moan that reverberates inside me, setting off a long-suppressed urge that I’ve been fighting these many months.
Her lips part easily underneath mine and I feel her tongue wrestling back as I push her up against her shitty apartment wall.
She feels tiny against me. As lean and lithe as ever. Like she didn’t just give birth.
But I move carefully anyways. Her body gave us a son. As much as I want to ravage her, break her just to build her back together—I also want to respect the miracle.
It’s the same struggle as always for us.
Violent love can’t run unchecked.
But fires need sparks to come to life.
I pick her up and her legs wrap around my waist. I’m already hard, painfully hard, but I ignore the strain in my pants as I pull the white cotton dress off Esme’s shoulders.
The dress comes apart in my hands and I toss it to the side. She’s not wearing a bra, and only a pair of tiny black panties.
She gasps as my head dips down towards her breasts. They’re the only part of her that has gotten bigger. I cradle the beautiful round globes in my hands, exploring them greedily.
“Don’t squeeze too hard,” she warns me, mid-moan. “I’ll start lactating.”
Fuck.