Page 220 of Filthy Promises

“I’m close,” I pant, my rhythm faltering as the pressure builds. “Vince, I’m so close?—”

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice tight with his own restraint. “Let me see you fall apart.”

His thumb finds my clit, circling it in time with my movements, and that’s all it takes. My second orgasm crashes over me, more intense than the first, my inner walls clamping down on him as I drool and twitch and spasm.

I watch his face contort with that beautiful agony only pleasure can bring. His jaw clenched tight, veins standing out along his neck. He’s close—so fucking close—but fighting it, because Vincent Akopov never surrenders control easily.

Not even to me.

Not even now.

“Stop!” I cry out.

I wrench myself off him, even though every cell in my body screams in protest.

His eyes snap open, feral and confused. “What—? Are you?—”

“I want to see you come,” I pant, my voice guttural and unrecognizable even to my own ears. “Not in me.Onme.”

Understanding darkens his expression to something primal. Something that makes my already-sensitive pussy clench around nothing.

“Where?” he growls, one hand already wrapping around his cock, slick and shining with my arousal.

I sink back on my heels and arch my spine to thrust my swollen breasts forward. “Here.”

“Fuck, Rowan,” he hisses. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I slide my fingers between my legs, circling my clit with deliberate pressure, putting on a show for him. “Is that what you like? Watching your pregnant wife touch herself while you jerk off?”

His pupils blow wide, devouring the blue of his irises. “You know it is.”

“Tell me,” I demand, my free hand massaging my breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make myself moan. “Tell me exactly what you like.”

“I like watching you discover how fucking filthy you really are,” he snarls, his fist pumping faster as he strokes himself. “I like that you’ve stopped pretending to be good. That you’ve embraced what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“Mine,” he grunts. “A queen. A warrior.” His breathing grows ragged, his rhythm faltering. “The mother of my child. The only woman who’s ever made me feel like I’m not alone in this fucking wasteland.”

Something shifts in my chest—a tectonic rupture that splits me open. This isn’t just lust. This is something deeper, darker, more dangerous.

This is love in its rawest, most elemental form.

I lean forward, gripping his wrist to slow his movements. “Let me.”

He releases his cock, surrendering to my touch. I wrap my fingers around him. It’s perfect—the velvet hardness, the desperate pulse of his need. The power I have over him in this moment is intoxicating.

“You’re mine, too,” I whisper, pumping him with slow, deliberate strokes. “Every inch. Every scar. Every sin.”

His hips buck into my grip. “Rowan?—”

“I want it,” I tell him, my voice dropping to a feral purr. “I want you to mark me. Show me who I belong to.”

I pick up speed, twisting my wrist at the upstroke just how he likes it, watching his breathing grow shallow, his muscles tense. His hands ball up at his sides, knuckles white with restraint.

“Look at me,” I command, echoing his earlier words.

His eyes lock with mine, blue flame burning into my green, and I see the exact moment he surrenders. His back bends, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as hot spurts paint my breasts in long, pearlescent stripes.

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