Then he's kissing me. Deep and desperate and happy. All of it mixes until I can't separate the emotions.
I kiss him back hard. The easel digs into my spine—sharppressure that somehow makes everything more real. More present. My hands fist in his still-damp hair.
His body presses me harder against the wood. The painting is probably getting destroyed behind me. The canvas shifts. Brushes clatter to the floor.
I don't care. This is better. This is everything.
His mouth moves to my neck. I arch into him. The easel creaks. My breath comes faster.
Then—a knock at the door.
"Mr. and Mrs. Petrov?" The butler's voice cuts through. Overly formal. Overly careful. "My apologies for the interruption. Just wondering about breakfast preferences for this morning? Chef has prepared several options?—"
Ivan doesn't even break contact with my skin. He lifts his head slightly and calls out, "Fuck off. I have all the breakfast I need right here."
A pause. "Ah. Of course, sir. My apologies. I'll inform the chef."
"You do that."
Ivan lifts me in one smooth motion. The suddenness makes me laugh against his mouth. Makes joy bubble up unstoppable and uncontrollable.
Footsteps retreat quickly down the corridor. Professional. Probably already mentally cataloging this as another story about the crazy Russians on the yacht.
Stories.
The word sticks as Ivan carries me to the bed. As my robe hits the floor. As he looks at me like he can't quite believe I’m real.
"The mother of my children." His voice cracks on the words. Reverent. Awed. Like he's seeing me for the first time all over again. His hands frame my face, trembling slightly. "Fuck, Lila. I want to see all of you. Every last bit."
His mouth starts at my lips. Slow. Worshipful. Then down my neck. My collarbone. Lower still.
"Just relax," he murmurs against my skin. "Let me take care of you."
His mouth moves down, trailing heat. He pauses at my breasts and takes his time there. His tongue does things that make my back arch off the bed.
"Perfect," he murmurs between licks. "Every fucking inch."
Lower. His hands spread my thighs. Gentle but insistent.
"Want to taste where our baby started."
Then his mouth is there, and thinking becomes impossible.
Heat floods through me. Not just physical—a surge that rewires my entire nervous system. Makes me forget my own name.
His tongue works with precision. Six months of practice. Of learning exactly where to press. How much pressure. When to be gentle and when to be merciless.
My hands fist in his hair. He groans against me. The vibration makes my hips buck.
This man destroyed half a harbor for me. Killed without hesitation. Chose me over everything. Now he's on his knees worshipping me like I'm sacred.
"Ivan—" His name comes out wrecked. "I'm gonna?—"
"I know." His fingers join his mouth, curling inside and finding that spot. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm hits like lightning. Makes me scream his name. Makes the world go white completely.
He doesn't stop. He draws it out until I'm shaking. Until I have to pull him up by his hair because I can't take any more.
