A Gorgeous Villain (St. Mary's Rebels 2)

His fierce eyes make me ask, “What?”

“That I’ll protect you now. I will. I will do anything and everything in my power, beyond my power even, to protect you and her. No one will touch you. Or her. Not now. Not ever. I promise, and I’ll die before I break this promise to you. Tell me you believe me.”

My heart is spinning and spinning in my chest and my toes, which are carrying all my weight, tremble.

At the gravity of his tone and words.

“Yes, I do,” I whisper because I do.

I do believe him.

He studies me for a second with those fierce eyes and when he realizes the truth in my words, a small breath escapes him. Before he does what he told me he would.

He apologizes.

With his lips.

He captures my mouth in a hot kiss, bending down over me. So that I don’t have to stretch up to get to him. So my legs don’t have to shake to carry my weight.

He’ll do it all for me, make it easier to breathe, to kiss and be kissed.

And I’m dying and aching. In pain once again.

But this is a different kind of pain.

A restless kind.

And it only grows with every suck of his mouth and every flick of his thumb on my nipple. Every time I rub myself against him, his hard body, I hurt.

It’s as if someone has made a fist and is pressing down on my stomach, pressing down on my pussy.

In my tits.

All swollen and creamy because he got me pregnant.

And then he breaks our kiss, making it even worse, taking away my lifeline, and my hands on his shoulders grow insistent. They want to pull him back but he doesn’t come to me.

Instead, he brings me to him.

He picks me up and puts my thighs around his hips. I’m so gone over his lips, with the need for his lips, that all I remember to do is hold on when he starts walking.

All I remember to do is press my mouth to his when he cradles the back of my head and pulls me to him.

I bury my fingers in his thick rich hair as he takes me places. I don’t even care where, really. As long as he keeps kissing me like that.

Although again, he breaks the kiss, and this time I’m all ready to claw at his skin and bring him back.

But he turns my world upside down when he puts me on the bed.

The bed that I sleep in.

The bed he used to put me down on back when I used to be so sick. But he’s never gotten into it. He looms over me now. His shirt made even more wrinkled by my fisting fingers, his lips appearing wet and swollen due to my kisses and his eyes all burned with lust for me.

Burned with all the things that he thinks about.

Because I’m pregnant and my body’s changing.

And so when he kneels at the foot of the bed and goes for the waistband of my pajama pants, I don’t stop him. I don’t feel shy when he strips them off my legs and goes for the zipper in his hoodie.

He lowers it, all hastily now, without any finesse, and I know it’s because he’s excited.

He’s excited and eager to see me in my new body.

But when he reaches to the bottom of the zipper and his fingers grab the hoodie to part it so he can see my naked skin, his jaw clenches. And I know it’s because he hates it at the same time.

He hates this eagerness because he’s making my body change.

He’s responsible for my swollen belly and my aching tits.

So I grab hold of his hands that are fisted in the fabric and make him do it. Make him part the hoodie that’s covering me from his eyes. So he can see.

So he can revel in what he did to me.

And he does, I think.

He does when his body moves with his breaths and when his lips part and his eyes grow hooded. He revels in my slightly bigger belly and wider hips. My swollen, rounded breasts and darker nipples, as I lie there on my back with his hoodie parted and spread, my braid almost undone and fanning over my head.

But then I realize that he’s never even seen them before.

My naked body, let alone my naked tits.

So I tell him, “I… I used to be smaller.” I swallow when his eyes lift up. “My breasts. Even smaller than this, and my nipples were… were a lighter shade of pink. My hips were smaller too. I’m not… I’m not your tight little ballerina anymore.”

The bones of his wrists that I’m still holding flex. “No, you’re not. You’re my gorgeous, glorious, pregnant Fae. And you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect that it hurts. Here.” And he puts his fist on his chest to show me like I showed him.