Page 64 of Unleashed
My gaze returns to Anthony. Now I’m the one with the bitter fucking taste in my mouth, but I would gladly swallow gall if it means keeping Everly safe and being able to be with her again.
“Fine. Call my brothers,” I say to Maximo without breaking eye contact with Paladino. “Seems like there’s a discussion to be had.”
Maximo whistles low, stepping back with a smirk. “Well, holy shit. Hate turned into partnership.”
“This is not a partnership,” both of us blurt.
“Yeah, yeah. When I get back, you girls better be done braiding each other’s hair.”
Chapter 22
EVERLY
Iwake slowly, surfacing from some dream I can’t remember. The first thing I register is weight. Heavy, steady, spread over the curve of my stomach.
My lashes flutter open, and my breath catches. His scent. The smell of leather and bourbon and something uniquely him. My husband.
“Isaia.”
“Baby girl.” His hand’s on my stomach, fingers splayed wide across the swell, possessive, protective, trembling like he’s both worshipping and breaking. I shift instinctively, but my wrist jerks against resistance. Isaia’s other hand pins me flat to the mattress, keeping me right where he wants me.
“Don’t,” he rasps, voice low and raw against my ear. “Don’t move.”
My heart pounds, throat tightening as I feel his heat, hear his breathing.
“Isaia,” I whisper, part plea, part curse.
His grip on my belly tightens, reverent and desperate all at once. “I needed to feel this,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to me. His nose drags along my hairline, his breath hot on my skin. “I needed to feel our baby. Needed to know you’re both real.”
Those words sink into me, molten and jagged all at once, and I can’t breathe for how much I’ve missed him—his touch, his weight, his voice unraveling in my ear.
“Am I dreaming?” I whisper, arching into his palm, craving more of the pressure he’s holding over me. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming. That you’re really here.”
“I’m here, baby girl.” His thumb strokes a slow, shaking arc across the swell of my belly, and the sound that leaves him—half-groan, half-prayer—splits me wide open.
“Do you know what it’s done to me?” Down the line of my jaw, he drags his lips, words vibrating against my throat. “Seeing you rub circles over this bump with those sweet little hands, like you’re touching a secret I’m not allowed to share. Watching you in shop windows, looking at yourself like you don’t believe what’s happening. Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like to crave you, yet I can’t fucking touch you?”
My pulse races, every nerve alive under his confession.
“Is…” My voice cracks, trembles. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Every second.” His hand at my wrist tightens just enough to remind me who’s in control, who always has been. “And every second I couldn’t touch you felt like I was bleeding out.” Soft lips brush down my throat.
I should ask questions. Should scream at him. But my body betrays me, trembling, wet, begging. All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for him to kiss me.
When I turn my mouth toward him, he shifts, slipping downward, dragging heat and shadow with him until he’s at my hips. His palm drags the hem of my oversized shirt up, slow, deliberate, exposing bare skin inch by inch until the fabric pools above my stomach.
Cool air ghosts over my thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the sear of his breath where my panties cling, thin white cotton soaked already.
“Fuck,” he curses and lowers, pressing his face there, nose pushing against the damp spot, inhaling deep like he’s drowning in me. A ragged groan shudders through him. “God, I’ve missed this scent. Missed it so bad I thought I’d lose my fucking mind.”
My hips buck, desperate, and his arm lashes to my hips, pinning me down. “Don’t you fucking move.”
“Please,” I whimper, writhing under him, the ache unbearable.
“You think I don’t know what you want?” He inhales again, tongue darting against the cotton, then he takes it between his teeth, nipping my sensitive flesh underneath. Sparks explode through me, and I moan helplessly.
“Christ. I dreamt about this every night. Waking up hard, fists useless, because nothing—nothing—feels like your pussy.”
