Page 185 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

We sat like that for a while—silent, breathing in sync, the weight of our shared grief settling between us like a third presence in the room.

I could feel the heat of his body through my silk camisole, the solid strength of his shoulder pressed against mine. His breathing had finally evened out, but I could still feel the tremor in his muscles, the aftershocks of the terror that had gripped him.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

I turned my head to look at him and found him already watching me. His eyes were still red-rimmed, still haunted, but there was something else there now.

Something raw and vulnerable and achingly human.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I said softly.

“I do.” His hand found mine where it rested on the mattress between us. His fingers were warm, calloused, strong. “You didn’t have to come. You didn’t have to stay.”

“I wanted to.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavier than they should’ve been.

His thumb brushed across my knuckles—once, twice—and I felt the touch all the way down to my bones.

“Yaya,” he said, and my name on his lips sounded sweet as honey.

I don’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us at the same time, drawn together by some invisible force we couldn’t name and didn’t want to fight.

His mouth found mine in the darkness, and I gasped against his lips.

The kiss was soft at first—tentative, questioning, like he was asking permission I’d already given. His hand came up tocup my face, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

I kissed him back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, and I felt the shift—the moment when comfort shifted to lust. When grief and vulnerability twisted into need and desperation and a hunger that had been building between us for longer than either of us wanted to admit.

His tongue swept into my mouth, and I moaned softly, my body arching toward his.

“Yaya,” he breathed against my lips, and I heard the question in his voice.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His hands moved to my waist, sliding beneath the hem of my camisole, his palms hot against my bare skin. I shivered at the contact, my body coming alive under his touch.

I pulled back just enough to yank the camisole over my head and toss it aside. The cool air hit my skin, but I didn’t care. I needed this. Needed him. Needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of loneliness and loss.

Syx’s eyes darkened as he took me in—my bare breasts, my silk shorts, the way my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’re so beautiful.”

I reached for him, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. His body was all lean muscle and dark skin, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as mine.

I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him, his solidness of him. He was real. He was here. And for this moment, he was mine.

He kissed me again, harder this time, his hands moving to my breasts. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, and I gasped into his mouth, my back arching.

“Syx—”

“I got you,” he murmured against my lips. “I got you.”