Page 156 of Born for Silk

I moan in my half-conscious state, opening my lips to accept his long, thick tongue.

He tastes good.

So good.

My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my gown, arousal building between my legs as he massages my lips with his.

Wait.

“Rome!” I sit up, cupping my abdomen as the large baby inside me moves like a solid stone pendulum. It is dark in his room, but the maroon-coloured fire casts a glowing light around us, an aura of lusty red.

I blink at him—at Rome—registering the scar on his lower lip, the fragmented blue eyes, and his bare chest carved to angry perfection. It’s him. His mouth curves against my startled awe.

My tongue flaps with words; millions of them have been stalking my mind for the past two weeks.

“I thought you died,” I manage to say. Happiness floods with old emotions, and tears spit from my eyes. “I thought you died!” My voice pitches higher. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that again.”

“Don’t die again?” he asks, amused.

“Don’t you laugh at me, Rome of The Strait! I have been all alone! You…” I grab his thick forearm, needing the unyielding pillar to hold myself up. I am so heavy. “You will never do that again. I forbid it. Swear it to me.”

He sighs, eyes reverently roaming my face for each detail. “I swear I will never die again, little creature.” He humours me.

I beam at him. Hot sweat slides down my forehead. I breathe deep. Dizzy. My body wants to drop backward, tired; my heart wants to leap into his chest, to be with his; my eyes want to take in every new scar, memorise them; my nipples and core want pressure, so much pressure.

Pregnancy.

It’s strange.

Demanding.

A potent condition.

Rome’s brows pinch, his eyes darting to my swollen stomach. His hands come up, cup either side, covering the entire surface, and cradle the weight. Lift it. Fingers pan out, touching and caressing my tight skin. The baby rolls around, kneading into their father’s giant hands.

“Incredible.” He grins. “Need me to make amends, sweet creature? Make it all better with my tongue?”

I nod, my lower lip trembling with emotion. “Yes, please, my king.”

His eyes darken, menacing intent creeping into the depth of them. “Oh, it’s ‘my king,’ now?”

He leans forward, reaches behind me, forcing me back with his encroaching wall of muscles. The weight of his heir pulls me to my spine, but not before he grabs a pillow and slides it to support my back.

My belly protrudes.

I feel like a blob of custard.

Horrible and vulnerable.

But then his lips meet mine quick, and I forget… “What did you just call me?” The heated words rush along my trembling mouth.

I hesitate. “Rome of The Strait…?”

“You want attention. What happens to your sweet body when you demand attention?”

I swallow as his hot mouth slides down to my chin, sucking and mouthing a trail to my breasts. His tongue flicks my nipple, then treats each sensitive bud through the silk of my gown, wetting the fabric and heating the fibres.

His kiss moves to my stomach.

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