Page 227 of Filthy Promises

Still, he doesn’t move. “The baby?—”

“—will be fine.” I take his hand and guide it to my face. “I want this, Vince. I want you.”

His expression softens. “I want you, too. Always. But?—”

“Nuh-uh. No buts.” I press a kiss to his palm. “I’m initiating this. Me. Your very pregnant wife who is tired of being treated like she might break if you so much as look at me the wrong way.”

His breath quickens, but still, he holds back. “Tell me what you need.”

What I need is simple. But I’m feeling devious, and when I glance to the bedside table, I see something that sparks inspiration.

In our relationship, Vince has always taken the lead in the bedroom. I’ve got a new idea.

“I want to blindfold you,” I whisper.

His eyes widen. “Blindfold me?”

“Yes.” I trail my fingers up his arm. “I want you to surrender control to me. You don’t have to,” I add quickly when he doesn’t respond. “It was just an idea.”

His eyes search mine for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat. I’m kinda stunned that he agreed so readily.

“I trust you.” Three simple words that mean everything coming from him.

My heart swells as I reach for the silk scarf draped over my bedside lamp—a decorative accessory that’s about to serve a very different purpose.

“Lie back,” I instruct, and he complies, stretching out beside me on the bed.

I wiggle around awkwardly, being the blimp that I am, until I’m positioned above him. “Close your eyes,” I murmur.

He does, and I gently wrap the scarf around his head, covering his eyes completely. I secure it with a loose knot, then pause to admire my work.

Vincent Akopov—feared businessman, Bratva heir, my husband—lying vulnerable beneath me. The sight is addictive.

“Can you see anything?” I ask.

“No.”

“Good.” I lean down to brush my lips against his. “Remember, you can tell me to stop anytime.”

“I think that’s usually my line.”

“Not tonight.” I kiss him again, deeper this time. “Tonight, I’m in charge.”

I take my time undressing him, savoring each newly revealed inch of skin. His breathing grows ragged as I run my hands over his chest, his arms, the taut muscles of his abdomen.

When I reach for his belt, his hips lift in silent encouragement. I smile, though he can’t see it.

“Patience,” I tease, deliberately slowing my movements.

A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Rowan…”

“Yes?” I ask innocently, fingers hovering just above the bulge straining against his pants.

“You’re fucking torturing me.”

“That’s the idea.” I finally unbuckle his belt and ease down his zipper. “Trust the process.”

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