Jasmine leans against the doorway, hair still tousled from sleep, wrapped in a soft robe that barely hides the shape of her body beneath it. Motherhood has only made her more beautiful. More radiant. More mine.
Her eyes meet mine, and the smile she gives me is small but devastating.
“Good morning,” she whispers.
That ancient and hungry thing inside me sharpens at the sight of her. Three months postpartum, and she still looks at me like I hung the sun in the sky just to warm her skin.
What she doesn’t realise is that she did the same for me.
“You should be sleeping,” I murmur, adjusting the baby as she lifts tiny fists toward her mother’s voice.
“I smelled coffee.” She steps closer, slipping her hand over my waist, pressing her cheek to my free shoulder. “I missed you.”
I kiss the top of her head. “We didn’t go far.”
She tilts her face down to kiss her daughter’s forehead, then up to kiss my jaw.
That simple touch destroys me. Every time.
“I can take her for a while,” she murmurs. “You’ve been up since five.”
“And miss this?” I brush my thumb along the soft roll of the baby’s cheek. “Never.”
Her eyes soften in a way that hits me harder than any bullet ever has. Then she bites her lip unconsciously, and my entire body reacts like I’ve been wired to her since the beginning of time.
Three months postpartum, and I haven’t touched her in all the ways we both crave. I’ve held her. Kissed her. Worshipped her. But I’ve been careful. Gentle. Controlled.
Too controlled.
She leans in closer, lowers her voice to a whisper that slides down my spine like silk.
“I’m fully healed, Adrik.”
Heat flares low in my gut.
“I had a check-up yesterday,” she adds, glancing up through her lashes. “I didn’t tell you because… I wanted to see your face.”
My grip tightens on the baby, and she lets out a small, offended squeak. I adjust quickly, murmuring soft apologies in Russian, but my gaze never leaves her mother.
Jasmine smiles, slow and knowing, and touches my chest with a fingertip.
“You can stop being careful,” she whispers. “I’m ready for you.”
I inhale sharply, every muscle in my body going tense with hunger.
“And before you ask,” she adds, voice trembling just slightly, “yes. Still five kids. Or more. Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want.
She has no idea what those words do to me.
I step closer, lowering my voice until it’s a growl only she can hear.
“Give me five minutes,” I murmur, pressing our daughter gently into her arms. “Then go upstairs.”
Her breath catches.
“Why?” she whispers.
