The moment Hank agreed, Sinclair scooped me into his arms and strode toward the clinic door. Our exit drew quite a few stares—a gigantic man carrying a small, pregnant woman out of the doctor's office, her laughter echoing all the way. But I didn't care. I clung to Sinclair, reveling in his warmth, comfort, and love.
The drive home was silent. I stared out the windshield, my breath short and shallow, Sinclair's hand clasped in mine. My thoughts flitted between my child, my pregnancy, and my mate—his hard-muscled body, desired for weeks but untouched outside of my dreams for fear of losing control; his mouth, hot on mine; his cock, pressing, slipping inside me…
"You have to stop," Sinclair growled, glancing at me as he expertly navigated the traffic. "I can feel—and smell—what you're thinking, and if you don't stop, I'm pulling over."
"Do it," I dared, smirking and squeezing his hand. "Pull over, Dominic." Then, releasing his hand, I moved my hand to the soft wool of his suit pants, slowly sliding it upward.
"God damn it, Ella," Sinclair snarled, snatching my hand away. "We didn't come this far to die in a car crash."
I smirked, leaned back, closed my eyes, and pressed my legs together against the growing ache. My mind wandered to all the things I would do to him once we were in bed. Sinclair's snarl filled the car.
The house door burst open, and a housemaid gasped as Sinclair stormed through, carrying me. I managed a hurried apology before Sinclair, taking the stairs two at a time, moved with agile grace, faltering only when I kissed his neck. He glared—a look that thrilled me—then kicked open our bedroom door and headed for the bed.
There, things slowed. Sinclair held me close, lifting my face to his and kissing me deeply. I wrapped my arms around his neck, returning the kiss, savoring the feeling of being held, of being close to him, of letting him feel my hunger and desire. He then closed the door and gently laid me on the bed.
He stripped off his shirt, and I drank in the sight of what I’d been missing: the rippling muscles of his chest and abs, his broad shoulders, his tight waist. I ached to run my tongue over every inch of him.
"So, Alpha boss," I teased, leaning back on my elbows, legs primly together. "What do you want to do now?"
Sinclair became a predator assessing its prey. He ripped his belt loose, dropped his pants and shorts, standing naked before me, his erection hard and eager. He moved onto the bed, crawling over me as before, his body a cage I had no desire to escape. As he leaned over me, my pulse quickened. This was his game, I realized, smirking. I'd tormented him in the car, and now he was returning the favor. The wolf within me rose, snarling as I pulled his face to mine, claiming him. Mine.
He melted, surrendering, his body yearning for closeness. I shifted to avoid being crushed, and he settled beside me as I opened my mouth to him, moaning as he explored me with his tongue.
His hands moved quickly, stripping off my leggings, then my shirt and bra. I laughed at his eagerness to shed the fabric, to feel my skin.
He growled, tossing the clothes aside. I pressed against him as closely as my pregnant belly allowed. To my surprise, I felt no shame or hesitation. I'd always assumed pregnancy would diminish my sex appeal, but with Sinclair's hand on me—cupping my breast, tracing the curve of my body, gripping my ass—I felt incredibly alive, womanly, and desired. The hard throb of his cock against my leg intensified the feeling. He turned me onto my side, my back to him.
"I can't wait any longer, Ella," he murmured, kissing my shoulder and neck, his teeth grazing my skin, sending shivers through me. "I need to be inside you. Right. Fucking. Now."
I pressed my backside against him, signaling my readiness. He slipped a hand between my legs; my wetness confirmed my assent as he stroked me, preparing me for him. "Good girl," he murmured, moving his hand to his cock, spreading my wetness there. "I've been starving for you for weeks."