Page 60 of Property of the Bikers

“You’ve been observing,” he says. His voice is lower than usual, the operational register stripped away to something underneath it that sounds like the actual person rather than the person running the protocol. “You’re intelligent under pressure. Strategic. You don’t panic. You don’t spiral. You assess, and you act.” He holds my eyes. “I choose you. Permanently. That’s the offer. The baby’s already Ruthless. You become Ruthless. All the way.”

“You choose me,” I say.

“Every commitment I’ve ever made has been a decision,” he says. “Not a feeling. A decision made after observation, after certainty, after deciding this was the line I would hold regardless of the cost.” He pauses. “I’m making one now.”

I look at him for a long moment.

Then I reach up and pull him back down to me.

Reeve’s mouth is certain against mine, not rushed, not hesitant. He kisses like he has already weighed every possible outcome and decided this is the one he’ll commit to.

His hand rests at the small of my back, steady, guiding me backward toward the bed without ever pulling or pushing. When the backs of my knees touch the mattress, he slows the kiss, tasting me one last time before he draws away just enough to look at my face.

He reaches for the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms. He peels the fabric off slowly, folds it once, and sets it on the chair beside the bed. His gray eyes move over my bare skin with the same focused attention he gives to security feeds and wire transfers. No hunger that overrides everything else. Just complete presence.

My breasts feel heavy and full, the skin tight, nipples already drawn tight from the cool air and the weight of his gaze. Pregnancy has changed them dramatically in the last few weeks. They ache more often now, sensitive in a way that makes even soft fabric feel like too much some days.

Reeve notices.

He steps closer and cups both breasts from underneath, lifting their weight gently in his palms like he understands exactly how much they pull. The relief is immediate. I exhale slowly. His thumbs brush lightly across my nipples, and my breath catches. He does it again, slower, watching my face the entire time, adjusting the pressure the moment he sees my reaction.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of one breast, then the other. His lips are warm. Then he opens his mouth and takes one swollen nipple between his lips. The wet heat closes around me, and I let out a soft sound I didn’t plan to make.

He sucks gently at first, testing, learning the exact pressure that makes my back arch. When he finds it, he stays there, sucking with slow, deliberate pulls while his tongue circles the sensitive peak.

He switches to the other breast and gives it the same careful attention. One hand continues to support the first, thumb stroking the wet skin in time with his mouth. Every movement feels considered. He notices when my breathing changes, when my fingers tighten on his shoulders, when my thighs press together. He adjusts without me saying a word.

Reeve lifts his head for a moment. His lips are wet. He looks at my breasts like they are important data, then meets my eyes. “These are heavier now,” he says quietly. “They ache more?”

I nod.

He lowers his mouth again, but this time he’s even more deliberate. He supports the full weight of one breast in both hands while he sucks deeper, pulling more of me into his mouth.

The pull is strong, and pleasure blooms low in my belly, thick and warm. He groans softly when a faint taste hits his tongue. My body is already preparing, leaking just a little under the attention.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he takes more.

He spends a long time there, moving between both breasts with focused patience. Licking slow stripes across the sensitive undersides, then latching on again to suck with that same precise rhythm. One of his hands stays low on my side, thumb stroking the curve where my belly starts to swell. He never rushes. He reads every small shift in my body and answers it instantly.

My nipples are flushed when he finally kisses down the slope of one breast. His breath is warm against my skin.

He presses several slow kisses along the upper curve of my belly, mapping the tight roundness with his mouth while his hands continue to gently hold and support my heavy chest.

I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there as afternoon light falls across us from the south window. Every touch feels like a decision he has already made and will not unmake. His hands never leave me. One stays supporting the heavy weight of my breast while the other traces the side of my stomach with careful fingers, learning the exact shape of the swell.

Reeve lowers himself to his knees in front of the bed. He looks at my body for a long moment, gray eyes moving slowly over every changed inch. Then he leans in and kisses the center of my belly with surprising gentleness.

He doesn’t rush. He kisses lower, then to the left, then to the right, open-mouthed and deliberate, as if every part of this new landscape matters.

“You’ve been carrying this for months under constant pressure,” he says against my skin, voice low and even. “Your body has adapted. Your mind has adapted. I’ve watched it happen.”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my pants and underwear and slides them down my legs. I step out. He folds the clothes neatly and sets them aside. Then he guides me to sit on the edge of the bed before spreading my thighs wide. He settles between them like he has all the time in the world.

The first touch of his tongue is slow and exploratory. He licks a long stripe up my center and pauses at my clit, testing.

When my hips twitch, he locks onto the rhythm I need, sucking gently while two fingers slide inside me. He curls them with perfect precision, searching until he finds the spot that makes my breath hitch. Then he stays there, consistent and unrelenting.

He reads me like code. Every time my thighs tense, every time my breathing changes, every small sound I make, he adjusts. He adds a third finger when I start rocking against his mouth.