Page 76 of Claimed Through Deception

Alessio lounges in the corner vinyl chair, taking a loud, obnoxious bite out of an apple he stole from my breakfast tray. He wears his usual scuffed leather jacket, his boots propped carelessly on a stainless steel medical cart. "Define strenuous, Doc. Because if he doesn't get laid soon, I think he might actually murder one of your nurses. The sexual frustration in this room is a literal hazard to my health."

I feel a furious flush creep up my neck, shooting Alessio a lethal glare that does nothing to wipe the arrogant smirk off his face. "Get out of my room, Alessio, before I throw a scalpel at your head."

Niccolò chuckles from the bed, though the sound is a bit raspy. He grabs a plastic water cup from the bedside table and hurls it at his brother. The cup bounces harmlessly off Alessio’s shoulder. "Shut your fucking mouth and go patrol the southern docks, you useless prick. And take Enzo with you. I want the estate locked down tightly tonight."

Alessio catches the discarded cup, tossing it effortlessly into a nearby trash bin before pushing himself up from the chair. "I am going, I am going. Just try not to rip your stitches open while you try to keep your boner at bay, brother. The paperwork for a mafia funeral is a bureaucratic nightmare."

Dr. Evans sighs, shaking his head as he follows the laughing enforcer out of the medical wing. The solid steel door swings shut behind them, cutting off the chaotic noise of the syndicate and sealing us in. The fluorescent overheads are switched off, replaced by the soft, warm amber glow of a single reading lamp situated on the nightstand.

I walk over to the small sink in the corner, running my hands under the warm water to wash away the lingering chill of the medical equipment. When I turn around, drying my fingers on a plush towel, I catch Niccolò watching me. He is propped up against a mountain of white pillows, his bare chest wrapped in clean gauze, the white fabric contrasting sharply against the intricate black ink sprawling across his uninjured arms. His midnight eyes track my every movement, burning with a ferocious, starving hunger that sends a familiar jolt of liquid heat straight to my core.

"Come here," he commands.

I toss the towel onto the counter, crossing my arms defensively over the oversized cotton sweater I am wearing. "You need to rest. Dr. Evans just said you require another week of recovery before you can resume your normal routine."

Niccolò ignores the medical advice completely. He shifts his weight, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his healing flesh, and pats the narrow sliver of empty mattress beside his hip. "I am recovering from a catastrophic injury, Livia, but I am currently dying from severe neglect. I have watched you sponge-bathe me for three weeks, dragging those soft hands over my skin while I am trapped in this bed. I am losing my fucking mind. Take your clothes off and get up here."

"I am not risking a torn suture just because you are horny and impatient," I argue, though my resolve is already crumbling into fine dust. I miss his touch. I miss the blinding, consuming fire that erupts whenever our bodies collide, and the physical ache between my thighs is becoming impossible to ignore.

"I won't tear a suture," he promises, his tone shifting from a harsh command to a smooth, seductive hum that wraps around my senses like velvet. "You are going to do all the work tonight, mia regina. I am just going to lie here and let you ride me until we both forget this miserable hospital wing exists."

The explicit, filthy image his words paint in my mind obliterates my remaining hesitation. I walk toward the bed, my feet making no sound on the sterile floor tiles. I reach the edge of the mattress and grab the hem of the oversized sweater, pulling it over my head and tossing it onto the discarded vinyl chair. I push my sweatpants down my legs, stepping out of them until I am standing in front of him wearing nothing but a pair of simple cotton panties and my bra.

Niccolò inhales a sharp, jagged breath. His gaze drops from my face, tracking the subtle, beautiful changes occurring in my body. At two and a half months pregnant, the flat plane of my stomach has shifted into a tender, barely noticeable swell. It is a tiny, fragile rounding that only someone who worships my anatomy would ever recognize, and he looks at it with an awe that borders on religious devotion.

I climb carefully onto the mattress, straddling his hips while ensuring my weight rests firmly on my knees to avoid putting any pressure on his injured chest. He reaches up with his uninjured left arm, his large hand cupping the side of my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.

"You are incredibly beautiful," he murmurs. "Every time I look at you, I realize I would catch a hundred bullets just to ensure you keep breathing my air."

"Do not ever do that again," I whisper fiercely, leaning down to press my mouth against his. "You are not allowed to leave me alone in this world, Niccolò. You promised me a lifetime."

"I intend to deliver," he vows against my lips.

He kisses me, slow and purposeful, his tongue parting my lips to taste the inside of my mouth. I melt against him, my hands finding the uninjured skin of his shoulders, chasing the intoxicating warmth radiating from his massive frame. He slides his hand down the curve of my spine, his calloused fingers finding the clasp of my bra. He undoes it with practiced ease, pushing the straps off my shoulders and tossing the garment onto the floor.

His hand moves to my stomach, his palm flattening over the tiny swell housing our child. The gesture is so fiercely protective, so overwhelmingly tender, it brings a fresh wave of tears to my eyes.

"Il mio sangue," he whispers in Italian, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below my navel. My blood. "Nostro figlio. You carry my entire world right here, Livia."

"Our baby," I confirm, covering his hand with my own.

His hand slides lower, slipping past the waistband of my cotton panties, his fingers brushing against the slick, swollen folds of my core. I gasp, my spine arching backward as a bolt of electricity shoots through my nervous system. My body is already weeping for him, slick and flushed, desperate for the friction we have been denying ourselves for weeks.

Niccolò smirks, a wicked, triumphant expression curving his mouth. "You are dripping for me, sweetheart. Take these off."

I obey instantly, pushing the cotton fabric down my thighs and kicking it away. I am completely bare, kneeling over the Underboss of the Severato syndicate in a subterranean medical wing, and I have never felt more powerful in my entire life.

He guides me forward, positioning my wet center directly over the thick, rigid length of his erection straining against his sweatpants. He pulls the waistband down, freeing himself, and the sight of his thick arousal sends my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm.

"Slowly," he instructs, his hand gripping my hip to steady my descent. "Take your time."

I sink down, letting him stretch me open. The fit is agonizingly tight, a delicious, searing stretch that draws a high-pitched whimper from my throat. He fills me completely, burying himself so profoundly inside my body that I feel him scraping against my womb. I rest my hands on the mattress on either side of his hips, throwing my head back as I take the full, magnificent measure of his size.

"Fuck," Niccolò groans, his jaw clenching as he battles to keep his hips stationary on the sheets. "You feel like heaven. Move for me, Livia. Ride my cock."

I lift my hips and drive back down, establishing a steady, grinding pace that relies entirely on my own leverage. The friction is incredible, sending blinding shockwaves of pleasure radiating through my stomach. I watch his face, watching the way his eyes glaze over, the way his chest heaves beneath the thick layers of surgical gauze.

His uninjured hand snakes up, his fingers tangling in the messy lengths of my raven hair. He tugs my head down, forcing me to lean forward until my breasts brush against his uninjured shoulder.