Page 178 of The Bratva King

“Yes?”

“I think I’d like to take some time off work,” I say. “If that’s okay. I want to help Luke get into a routine. He’ll be starting school soon. I want him settled, so he has the best chance to succeed."

“Stay home. You know you don’t have to work. I won’t tell you not to work, but for a while, it would help me if you didn’t.”

My heart squeezes. I understand. He is traumatized, and having to worry about me in the casino is more than he needs right now. I don’t want to add more stress to his life. We all need to heal. And only then can we truly move forward.

His lips find mine in the darkness. Slow. Like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it.

“Gabriella.” My name in his mouth wrecks me.

I reach up and touch his jaw, feeling the rough drag of stubble beneath my palm. He turns his face into my touch like he’s starving for it, pressing his lips to the center of my hand. I feel his heart pounding and his breath hitching.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You don’t have to hold yourself together with me.”

He exhales slowly. “I can’t lose you,” he says.

“You’re not going to. I’m here.”

“I won’t survive,” he murmurs.

I kiss his jaw, reassuring him with my body. He slides his hand beneath the hem of my shirt. Not urgent or demanding; just his warm palms skating up my sides like he’s touching me for the first time.

I pull back enough to lift my shirt over my head. He watches me in the low light, his dark eyes moving over my face, my throat, and my collarbone. Like he’s memorizing.

“This is what I want you to think about when the bad dreams come,” I say, reaching for his hand and putting it on my breast. “Think of me loving you.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he says.

His hands slide into my hair. I kiss him before sliding down to kiss his chest. I take my time, running my tongue over the lines of the tattoos. His hands slide up and down my sides. I pull his briefs down, the only thing he wears to bed. We would sleep naked, but a few nights ago, Luke had a nightmare and crawled into bed with us. Jammies are a must, at least for the foreseeable future.

I kiss my way down his chest, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint trace of his soap, lingering on the faint scars and the ink that maps his past. He exhales a shaky breath, expelling more of the stress he’s been holding onto. This isn’t about heat alone anymore. It’s about claiming each other after everything we’ve survived.

I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, slow, letting the weight of him settle in my palm. He’s hard. The low sound that escapes him vibrates through his ribs. I want him to know I see him—every quiet, damaged, unbreakable part—and I love him anyway.

He pulls me up, so our mouths meet again. The kiss deepens. His tongue slides against mine. When he rolls me onto my back, I go willingly, opening my thighs so he can settle between them. His weight is familiar now. Safe. I hook one ankle around his hip and feel his hardness press against my center.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“You,” I whisper. “All of you. Slow. I want to feel every inch of you loving me.”

He doesn’t rush. He slides a hand between us and finds me already wet. I’m aching with need for him. Two fingers glide inside me. He circles my clit with devastating patience. I arch into the touch, his fingers inside me, crooking just right. My walls clench around him. He groans like the sound is pulled from his soul.

“I love how you feel,” he says, voice rough. “Mine.”

I reach down and guide him inside. He pushes in inch by careful inch, eyes locked on mine the entire time. I love the feel of him moving inside me. When he bottoms out, I can’t breathe for a second. We stay like that, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. His thumb strokes my cheekbone.

“You’re home,” I tell him. “Inside me. With me. I love you so much, it hurts.”

He starts to move with deep, deliberate strokes that drag every nerve to life. Each thrust presses me deeper into the mattress. I meet him, rolling my hips to take him even deeper. Sweat slicks our skin. I taste it when I kiss his throat. His hand finds mine, and he threads our fingers together, pinning it beside my head. The other hand slides under my ass, lifting me so the angle changes.

“Oh, God,” I groan. “Right there.”

He grunts. “You like that?”

“Yes. So much.”

“I love watching you while I fuck you,” he says.