Page 218 of Filthy Promises

“You continue to amaze me, little doe.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset that my wife defended our family?” He shakes his head, something like wonder in his eyes. “Do you realize what you did? You identified a threat, assessed it, and neutralized it without violence or exposure.”

“I threatened him,” I admit. “I implied you would?—”

“You protected what’s yours,” he interrupts. “I’ve never been prouder.”

“I surprised myself,” I say. “It was like someone else took over—someone who knew exactly what to say, how to stand, where to push.”

“Not someone else,” Vince counters. “You. The real you. The one who’s always been there, beneath the nice girl façade.”

My exhale whistles past my parted lips. “I’m not pretending anymore, am I?”

“No.” His smile is slow, appreciative. “You’re not. And I, for one, have never been more turned-on by it.”

The car pulls into the circular driveway of our estate, but neither of us moves to exit. Instead, Vince leans across the seat to capture my lips in a kiss that steals my breath—tender and possessive and grateful all at once.

“Vasily,” he growls up toward the partition, “leave the keys in the ignition and go inside.”

With a single grunt, Vasily does exactly as he’s told. The door slams, and we’re alone.

“Shouldn’t we go inside?” I ask, feeling suddenly flushed despite the car’s air conditioning. “I’m pretty sure pregnant women aren’t supposed to have sex in the backseat of cars.”

Vince’s eyes darken as he shifts to face me more fully. “Pretty sure there’s no rule book for this particular situation.”

“There’s definitely a rule book for pregnancy,” I counter. “And I’m pretty sure ‘don’t get railed in a Bentley’ is in there somewhere.”

His laugh is low and appreciative. “Who said anything about you getting railed?” His hand slides up my thigh, pushing the red fabric higher. “After that display back there, I think it’s time you took what you want.”

“WhatIwant?” I echo.

“Show me,” he challenges softly. “Show me what the real Rowan St. Clair wants.”

I glance around the spacious backseat of the car. The privacy partition is up. The windows are tinted. We’re parked in our own driveway, safe from prying eyes.

The world is my oyster.

“I want you,” I say, my voice firmer than I expected. “But not like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

In answer, I shift forward and begin working at his belt. “I want you laid out for me. I want to sit on your face until your beard is soaked. And then I want to ride you until I can’t remember my own name.”

The words come out in a rush, shocking even me with their boldness.

But God, do I mean them.

Vince’s breath catches. His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black. But the grin that spreads across his face a moment later is positively indecent.

“Well then… Who am I to deny my wife what she wants?”

With surprising agility for a woman in her third trimester, I maneuver myself until I’m straddling his lap, my belly huge between us.

“Help me with this,” I command, tugging at the fabric of my dress.

Vince’s hands immediately find the hidden zipper. With a few deft movements, he has the top portion loosened enough that I can pull it down, freeing my swollen breasts.

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