The words hit harder than the kiss did. My pulse stutters, heat pooling low in my belly despite my better judgment. Jesus.
I narrow my eyes, trying to look unimpressed. “Liam Stone, are you trying to seduce me with blackmail talk?”
He tilts his head, somehow closer to me than before. “Is it working?”
I want to lie and resist. But who am I kidding?
“I won’t let you ruin this car. Take me to that workbench behind us.” I bite my lip.
“Fuck. I’ve never wanted you more,” he growls, and I squeal as he lifts me and eats the short distance.
Depositing me on the edge, he swipes everything from the wooden surface.
“I will respect the shit out of your car if that gets you this willing.” I laugh.
He squeezes the back of my neck and pulls me closer, resting his forehead on mine. “My willingness to own this pussy”—he cups me roughly between my legs—“has never been in question.”
Maybe the betrayal was needed, so we both understand the real value of this thing between us.
Or the baby rewrote part of our story despite ourselves. But right now, at this moment, I believe this man is the right man for me.
Believing it doesn’t mean I’m less scared to take the leap. I thought I was strong and independent. It turns out that, in this particular case, I would rather take the safe way out.
But safe doesn’t mean less painful.
“Own my pussy? I thought I was the worst possession ever.” I wrap my legs around his waist, clawing at his T-shirt, desperate to finally feel him under my fingertips.
Again, things between us are less than resolved, but our bodies communicate like they were born for each other.
“And yet…” He squeezes the back of my neck. “The only one worth having.”
He captures my lips, and thank God for that, because I don’t have time to analyze the depth of his declaration.
The kiss is searing. It’s the explosion I’m used to with him, but it also has a new level of worship.
Reverence.
Commitment.
And I succumb to it. I might fight it with all my might, but this man is my ruin. Any other scenario is a ridiculous delusion.
“Then fuck me, finally,” I challenge, ignoring the fact that this relationship has gone past the physical, and I don’t even know when.
“Take off my shirt,” Liam groans into my mouth, and yanks at my bra. My breasts spill out, and he immediately wraps his lips around one nipple.
I arch, and whimper, and giggle, and lose my mind. “I don’t think you know how undressing works. Lift your arms, for fuck’s sake.”
He obeys, but his mouth stays on my breast. “I think they are already bigger.” He weighs my left tit in his palm. “I love it.”
His actions and words are lewd, but the awe behind them is undeniable. This is the father of my child. And he seems to marvel at the fact.
I wish we could just be that couple. That things were that simple.
“I need to feel you,” I complain, and he finally steps back a little so I can tug his shirt off.
My hands immediately roam his chest, his abs, his shoulders. The man is a work of art. He undoes his jeans and lifts my skirt before he rips off my underwear.
I don’t even protest; the sooner I feel him inside me, the better. Who cares about a scrap of cotton?
