Page 97 of His to Destroy

"And if it’s a girl?" I challenge.

His expression softens instantly, the playfulness giving way to something raw and breathtaking.

"Then I’ll spend the rest of my life scaring off every man who dares look at her," he murmurs. "She'll know she's a princess from the moment she opens her eyes."

My heart stumbles at that.

I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer, needing to feel him against me.

"You’re unbelievable," I whisper against his mouth.

"And you," he says, brushing his lips over mine, "are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

His kiss starts slow—sweet, savoring.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

Within seconds, the heat flares between us, desperate and magnetic.

Gaspare’s hands slide under the hem of my maternity dress, caressing my thighs with a touch that sends shivers racing through my entire body.

I moan softly, clutching his shirt tighter, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.

"You're dangerous," I breathe against his mouth.

"And you," he growls softly, lifting me effortlessly onto the counter, "are worth every risk."

He presses himself between my legs, his body hot and hard against mine, his mouth devouring me like he’s starving.

Years of scars, of battles fought and survived, dissolve between us.

All that remains is the fire.

The love.

The unstoppable gravity that’s always pulled us together.

His hands roam up my sides, his kisses growing rougher, more desperate.

When his teeth scrape lightly against my throat, I shudder, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and holding on for dear life.

And just as I tilt my head back to give him more access, just as Gaspare’s mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along my throat, a small voice cuts sharply through the haze.

"Ewwww. Seriously?"

We freeze mid-kiss, like two kids caught red-handed sneaking cookies before dinner.

Slowly, reluctantly, we turn our heads toward the doorway.

There stands Luca—wide awake, fully dressed for the day in his fencing uniform, his little practice bag slung over one shoulder.

His hair is neatly combed, but his expression is all attitude, one eyebrow lifted almost to his hairline in pure judgment.

He taps his foot against the floor, looking between us like he can't decide if he’s annoyed or just traumatized.

Gaspare groans quietly and buries his face in my shoulder for a second.

I stifle a laugh, smoothing my hands down the front of my maternity dress and clearing my throat.

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