I run my hands over my tutu, cradling my belly. “But —”
His eyes follow the gesture as usual before he murmurs, cutting me off, “Besides, you should tell your Miss Petrova that this isn’t the first time I’ve stalked you in a ballet class. So she should really stop gasping every time she sees me watching you.”
“What?”
His wolf eyes that I know are going to be the death of me sparkle then. They glow like his beautiful vampire skin as his lips tip up in a smirk. “Long before I made you spin for me in the woods, I used to watch you spin on your toes at Blue Madonna. I used to watch you leap and jump across the dance floor while your fucking Miss Petrova smiled at you proudly.”
My skin wakes up in goosebumps but I know it’s not the winter breeze that’s making it happen. It’s him.
“You used to watch me?” I whisper, looking up at him. “Before the woods.”
“Why do you think I blackmailed you into dancing for me that night?”
“B-because that’s what you do. That’s your thing.”
His smirks changes into a lazy, languid smile as he confesses, “Yeah, that. But also because you were my tight little ballerina long before you knew it.”
My heart goes up on its tiptoes and I do too. “But you never said anything.”
“If I’d wanted you to know, Fae, I would’ve told you. Now get in the car.”
This is crazy and incredible and exactly like the pregnancy book, isn’t it? That he was trying to hide that day.
And I can’t help but ask, “Why do you hide it, the things that… that might make someone like you?”
I don’t know where the question came from but now that I’ve asked it, it feels like the most important thing I could ask him. The most important thing that he could tell me.
“If you think watching a girl dance through the window like a creepy stalker is something worth liking, then you need to reevaluate your whole thinking, Fae,” he says with a tight jaw. “And I don’t want people to like me. I’m pretty happy being hated. Now, for the last time: get in the car.”
And I do.
With a spinning heart and heaving breaths.
With something moving and melting inside of me. With my stomach fluttering, and I know she’s melting inside of me too.
At him.
At her daddy.
Melting and melting like thick raindrops on the windows, on the roof for which he cleaned those gutters last week.
Melting like the honey when he makes me come.
Because he does.
He does make me come every night.
And God, when he does, stars explode in my veins. I feel it in my stomach, my womb, my trembling thighs and my ballerina toes.
Ever since I forgave him and he apologized to me and my body on his knees three weeks ago, he does it every night. He apologizes with his hands and his mouth. With his warm and wet and sucking kisses.
His kisses that taste like cupcakes, my favorite dessert in the world, the most addicting dessert in the world. So is it any wonder that I’ve become addicted to his kisses? To his mouth.
To him.
Some of it could be my hormones again because God, I’m horny all the time. But I know that majority of the credit goes to him and his sexiness.
In fact, I can’t even go to sleep without him.
Before when I was really sick, I’d pass out in the bed and the only way I knew that he stayed with me in the same house, not in the same room or bed, was because he’d always be there if and when I woke up during the night to throw up again.
These days though, I remember everything.
I remember how he puts me to sleep. How after making me come, he kisses my pregnant belly and my forehead before cuddling with me.
Gosh, his cuddles.
My gorgeous villain gives the best cuddles ever.
Maybe because he’s so much larger in comparison to me. So when he spoons me, he covers my entire body. When he settles his muscular arm on my waist and presses his splayed palm on my belly where our baby sleeps, he spans my entire torso.
And when I close my eyes at night, I feel safe.
I feel replete and satisfied.
But I know he doesn’t.
I know that.
Because that’s all he ever does.
He makes me come but he never takes his own pleasure.
He doesn’t ever ask anything from me. He doesn’t ever fuck me, and yes, I know it’s a bad word. But I don’t care. I’m bad for him. I always have been.
And yes, I know that fucking will make everything complicated. But I feel so restless without him. I feel so achy. My belly is filled with his baby but I’m so empty.
So what’s a little dirty talk if it means he’ll do it? He’ll do me and put himself out of this misery. And me too.