Page 55 of Wicked Brutal

He reaches the top of my bra and pauses, looking up at me for half a second. I nod. He unhooks it, draws the straps down my arms, and tosses it aside without looking where it lands. Then his mouth is on me—warm, deliberate—kissing the soft underside of one breast, then the other, like he’s learning them all over again.

“I love these,” he says quietly, almost reverent. “The way they’re changing for our baby. The way you feel under my mouth. You’re so soft here, Ally. So fucking perfect.”

My fingers slide into his hair as he takes his time, licking and kissing and murmuring praise between every touch until my breathing turns unsteady.

He moves lower. Kisses the space between my ribs. The slight dip of my waist. The place where my body has started to soften and round. He spreads one big hand over the small curve of my stomach and holds it there while he presses slow, open-mouthed kisses all across it.

“I love this,” he breathes against my skin. “I love watching it happen. I love knowing what’s growing in here is half you and half me. I love that your body is doing this incredible thing and still letting me touch it like this.”

He looks up the length of me, eyes dark and soft at the same time. “I love every version of you. The girl who used to sit on my dock with a book and pretend she wasn’t watching me. The one who tried to push me away to keep me safe. The one who climbed out a window tonight because she wanted me. All of them. All of you.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my skirt and underwear together. I lift my hips for him, and he draws them down my legs in one slow motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then I’m completely bare underneath him and he’s still fully dressed, and the imbalance makes my stomach flip.

Ryan sits back on his heels for a second just looking at me. Not rushing. Not performing. Just taking me in like he’s trying to memorize the exact way the late-afternoon light hits my skin.

“God, Ally.” His voice is rough. “Look at you. Spread out on my bed like this. Carrying my baby. Trusting me with all of it.” He shakes his head once, almost in disbelief. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Mind. Body. Soul. Every single part.”

He leans down and starts kissing me again—my hip bone, the soft inside of my thigh, the sensitive skin just above where I need him most—talking the entire time in that low, steady voice that always undoes me.

“I love how you taste. I love the sounds you make when you stop thinking so hard. I love that you let me take care of you like this. That you don’t hide from me anymore.”

His hands stroke up the outsides of my thighs, over my hips, back to the small swell of my stomach, always returning there like he can’t stay away from it for long.

“I love you,” he says against my skin. Simple. Absolute. “I love you so much it scares the shit out of me sometimes. And I’m going to keep telling you until you believe it the same way I do.”

He doesn’t make me wait.

Ryan settles between my thighs like he has all the time in the world, one hand spreading me open while the other stays splayed protectively over the small curve of my stomach. The first brush of his mouth is soft—just the heat of his breath and the lightest kiss right against my clit—and I jolt anyway.

“Easy,” he murmurs against me. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”

Then his tongue flattens and he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up my center. The sound he makes is quiet and hungry, like he’s been thinking about this exact taste all day. My head drops back against the pillow and a shaky breath leaves me.

“Ryan—”

“I know, baby.” He does it again, slower this time, the tip of his tongue circling where I’m already aching. “You taste so fucking good.”

He settles in properly—mouth open, tongue working in long, lazy strokes that never quite give me enough pressure. One of his hands slides under my thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, opening me wider. The other stays on my stomach, thumb stroking absent circles like he needs the contact.

I can feel everything. The wet heat of his mouth. The slight scrape of stubble against the inside of my thigh. The way his breathing has gone uneven. The quiet, filthy little sounds he makes every time he finds a spot that makes my hips twitch.

My fingers find his hair and tighten.

“That’s it,” he says against me, voice rough. “Pull my hair if you need to. I want to feel how much you like it.”

He sucks my clit between his lips and flicks his tongue against it at the same time, and a broken sound tears out of my throat before I can stop it. My back arches. His hand presses gently down on my stomach, grounding me.

“Fuck—Ryan—”

“I’ve got you.” He slides two fingers inside me without warning, curling them slowly, searching. When he finds the spot that makes my vision go white at the edges he stays there, rubbing in steady, deliberate strokes while his mouth keeps working my clit. “You’re so wet for me already. Feel how easy you take my fingers?”

I can’t answer. My thighs are starting to shake. Every stroke of his tongue and curl of his fingers builds on the last until the pleasure is a thick, heavy pressure low in my belly that keeps tightening.

“You’re close,” he says. His voice is wrecked. “I can feel you fluttering around my fingers. Come on, Ally. Let go for me. I want to taste it.”

He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks harder, fingers curling deep and steady, and the pressure finally breaks.

I come with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, one hand fisted in his hair and the other twisted in the sheets. The orgasm rolls through me in long, deep waves—nothing loud or dramatic, just overwhelming and endless while he works me through every single pulse with his tongue and fingers, murmuring soft praise against my skin the whole time.