Page 39 of The Final Faceoff
Leif exhales against my skin, his voice a low murmur. “You’re gonna be okay.”
I swallow, nodding against him because if I speak, I might break whatever this is.
His fingers tighten for just a second—like he’s making a silent promise neither of us fully understands—before he slowly pulls back, his hands lingering on my waist for a moment longer than necessary.
When I finally meet his gaze, my stomach flips.
Because he looks at me like I’m his.
Like I’ve always been.
ChapterThirteen
Leif
The Ultimate Game-Changer
I should be court-martialed.
No, fuck that—I should be locked away in a deep, dark hole where no one will ever have to witness the absolute filth my brain is generating right now.
Hailey’s on that table, legs spread, feet strapped into stirrups, and I am seconds away from losing my fucking mind.
I should not be thinking about her like this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
But the second that wand slides inside her, I feel it. A low, deep pull in my gut. A possessive, primal sort of hunger that makes my pulse hammer so hard it drowns out the doctor’s words.
Because I see it. I see her stretched around it. I see how her body takes it, how she clenches, how her muscles flex in response.
And I?—
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how much I want to be the one doing it. I shouldn’t be wondering how she’d react if it were my fingers instead, if I pushed them in slow, teasing, just to feel her flutter around me.
Or worse—if I replaced the wand with my cock, pressing inside, watching her gasp, her lips parting, her body arching as I stretched her open.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I struggle to keep my breathing steady.
I should be paying attention to anything but her. She’s going to be a mother. That thought should cool me down. It should snap me out of this. But it doesn’t.
Because all I can think about is how much I fucking wish it were mine. How I would want to knock her up—which is something I never thought I would want. How I would’ve taken care of her. My plans to take care of her.
How I plan to . . . anything. However, all I can think of is me holding her, me fucking her, me making her body remember exactly who she belongs to.
I want to ruin her.
God help me, I want to slide that fucking wand out and replace it with my tongue.
I want to taste her, spread her open wider, press my mouth against her and lick her until she forgets every man before me. Until she cries out my name and only my name.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my lap, hating myself. Hating how fucking desperate I am for her, how it’s not just physical—it’s worse. It’s deep. It’s in my bones. It’s in the way I ache for her without even touching her.
