The Banished Shy Luna Chapter 169

My stomach had finally settled, but everything else in me felt… restless.

Overheated.

Too full of energy.

Something brewing beneath my skin like molten metal.

I excused myself quietly from the booth, muttering, “Bathroom,” before anyone could question it.

The fluorescent lights flickered slightly as I stepped inside the empty hallway, the diner's background chatter fading behind me. The mirror over the sink showed flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and a pulse hammering too fast.

“Great,” I whispered. “Now I look possessed.”

I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face—trying to steady myself.

It didn’t help.

Every nerve in my body tightened instead.

A soft knock sounded.

“Firefly?”

Talon’s voice.

My heart lurched.

“Yeah?” My voice came out too breathy.

The door opened just enough for his head to peek in. “You okay? You left the table a little fast.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

He stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him. “Firefly… talk to me.”

He walked closer, eyes scanning me with worry. That typical Talon intensity—focused, protective, warm—wrapped around me like a physical touch.

“I’m really fine,” I repeated.

But my voice cracked.

He frowned. “Kira? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t…” I swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Because the truth hit me right then like a freight train:

I wanted him.

Suddenly.

Powerfully.

Unreasonably.

And not in the tender, soft way.

In the mate-attraction-overload-evolution-hormone-chaos way.

“Talon—” I whispered.

But then instinct replaced thought.

I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and crashed my mouth against his.

He froze for half a second—just half—before he kissed me back with a low growl vibrating through his chest.

“Firefly…” he murmured against my lips, “what’s gotten into you?”

I couldn’t answer.

I didn’t want to.

All I could think about was him—his warmth, his scent, his power wrapping around me.

I dragged him closer, hands fisting in his shirt, and he stumbled forward with a sharp breath.

“Kira,” he whispered again, voice strained. “Baby… slow down.”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I pressed myself against him, unable to stop the way my body sought his—needing closeness, needing grounding, needing him. My fingers trembled as I reached for him, not even thinking, just reacting.

Talon’s breath hitched.

In one swift motion, he spun us around, locking the bathroom door with a decisive click. His hands gripped my hips, steadying me.

“Okay,” he exhaled, forehead pressed to mine. “Okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But breathing wasn’t helping.

I pushed up on my toes, lips brushing his again, desperate.

“Firefly,” he said, voice low, raw, almost reverent. “If you keep kissing me like that, I won’t be able to walk you back out there.”

“Good,” I whispered. “I don’t want to go back out there.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

That was all it took.

He lifted me—effortlessly, instinctively—and set me on the counter. His hands framed my face as he kissed me again, deeper this time, matching my urgency but grounding it, shaping it, holding me steady even as the world tilted.

“Kira…” he murmured against my mouth, “tell me what you need.”

“You,” I breathed. “I just—need you.”

His fingers went to the single button of my maternity sweats. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t ask. He popped it, the sound obscenely loud in the small room, and yanked the soft fabric down my thighs, past my knees, his knuckles grazing my sensitive skin. The cool air hit my damp core, and a shudder wracked my frame.

He stepped between my spread legs, crowding me, his own arousal a hard, promising ridge against my inner thigh. One hand anchored my hip, the other slid up, his thumb finding the soaked, aching center of me through the thin cotton of my panties.

A ragged groan tore from his chest. “Fuck, you’re drenched.” His thumb pressed down, a slow, circular torture that made my back arch off the counter. “All this for me? While you were just sitting out there, pretending to eat a fucking pancake?”

I could only nod, my head falling back against the mirror with a soft thump. Words were beyond me. There was only this need, a primal, all-consuming urge that had eclipsed everything else the moment he’d followed me in here.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulled them down, his eyes never leaving mine. He let them fall to the floor, a discarded pledge of what was to come. Then his hands were on my thighs, spreading me wider, opening me to his hungry gaze.

He leaned in, his breath hot on my neck. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “Seeing you like this… all round and beautiful and mine… it takes every bit of my control not to just take you wherever we are.”

His fingers trailed back, tracing my slick folds, and I cried out, a sharp, desperate sound. He found my entrance, one thick finger sliding into me with an ease that made us both gasp. I was so ready, so impossibly wet and open for him. He pumped his finger once, twice, a mere hint of the fullness to come, and my hips bucked, seeking more.

“Please, Talon,” I begged, the words a broken whisper. “Now.”

He withdrew his finger, bringing it to his mouth and sucking it clean, his eyes rolling back in pure pleasure at the taste of me. The sight was so intensely erotic I nearly came right there.

With a final, searing kiss, he fumbled with his own jeans, the rasp of his zipper the most exciting sound I’d ever heard. He freed himself, and I looked down. He was thick and hard, the tip already glistening. My mouth watered.

He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head pressing against my sensitive flesh. He didn’t thrust. He pressed. A slow, inexorable invasion that made my eyes flutter shut. I felt every millimeter as he stretched me, filled me, the delicious friction a perfect counterpoint to the deep, dull ache of my pregnancy.

He bottomed out, our bodies flush, my rounded stomach pressed against the hard plane of his abdomen. We both stilled, panting, consumed by the sensation of complete connection.

“So deep,” I whimpered, my nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

He began to move. Not with the frantic, driven pace of our earlier days, but with a deep, rolling rhythm meant to savor.