My body responds before my mind can catch up—goosebumps rising on bare skin, liquid heat gathering between my thighs. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hyperaware of my nakedness.
His blue eyes travel down to my trembling knees, then climb back up my body with such deliberate slowness that I almost feel them branding me. Even after all this time, one look from him leaves me defenceless.
“You’re blushing on your thighs, sweet girl.”
Ignoring the way his stare licks my skin, I try to remain collected and mature—a mother first, his needy little deer second. I swallow as butterflies swoop through my belly.
“The boys are still asleep. They usually wake up at least twice. Who fed them last night?” I ask breathily. Did I sleep through their cries? Did someone else come in here while I was lost in dreamland?
It’smyjob.
“Last night you were restless.” He steps out of the doorway and nods at the entrance, silently ordering me back to the bedroom so we can talk. “You needed your sleep, little deer. I fed my boys with a bottle.”
But it’s my job.
Strolling from the room, I twirl my hair around my finger. Being the mother of Clay Butcher’s children is my greatest accomplishment. It’s all I can do for him. It’s my part in this… in his life. In his empire. Without it, he won’t see value in me. I’m nothing like the cruel but sophisticated woman who raised him or the powerful Mafia princess who is now his ex-wife. Icanbe a mother—I can stitch my concept of that together, pieces from my real mother, crumbs from my foster mother, dos-don’ts,perhapsesand perhaps nots, and be a mother. A good one, if I can.
I look down at the engagement ring on my finger, at the huge blue diamond that matches my right eye. His promise for forever. Our wedding is in four months, and I wonder what theCosa Nostrawill think of his silly little bride.
Doubt and insecurity gnaw at me.
If I can show them I’m an amazing mother, that I find my accomplishments in keeping his house and raising perfect children, I can make myself worthy in their eyes.
“I should’ve woken up—” I whisper to myself, but Sir’s hearing is predatory, just like him, and he catches the words before they can flee back into a swallow.
“Little deer,”he purrs.
I spin to face him. He has followed me into the bedroom, closed the nursery door, and is standing, arms folded, the picture of relaxed dominance.
Ugh, he’s gorgeous.
“This is an enormous responsibility for my sweet girl, and you are taking it so seriously. I’m not taking that from you, but—” He walks to me and wraps his hand around my throat, using his thumb to lift my chin. “Youare stillmyresponsibility, always. Mine. You belong to me. And I need you to sleep.”
My lower lip wobbles. “It’s my job, Sir. They need me. They need… their mother. I am their mother.”
“Oh,sweet girl.”
I bury my face in his warm chest and rub my nose against his flesh, inhaling that whiskey, sweet cigar musk that is exclusively Clay Butcher. He knows. He knows everything. He knowsme.I’m being dramatic, but I can’t help it.
No oneneedsme. No one has everneededme. I made them. I feed them from my body. I’ve existed in the world of state-assigned beds, siblings that hurt you, mothers who take a cheque to care for you. Of course, Ihaveto take this seriously.
I just have to.
I can feel the pressure of Clay’s affection everywhere as he scoops me into his arms and walks me to the bed. “You have your period, sweet girl. You’re extra emotional.”
Clinging to him like a koala, I realise Iamfeeling overly emotional, and silly and eccentric.Ugh.My period.
He crawls onto the bed, placing me—in a single, beautifully possessive movement—beneath him on the mattress. Grabbing my wrists, he pins them above my head with one hand. Then his mouth crashes down on my throat before I can even gasp.
God, he’s dominant.
Not slow and steady, but dark and ravenous. He tastes me, tongue warm and strong and his weight… His weight pulls a memory loose within me, a vivid but lost at the edges recall finding its way through my foggy mind of insecurities.
“Wait…” I moan as his tongue drags along my neck, kissing and licking—demanding. “You fucked me in my sleep last night, Sir.”
He chuckles, low and dark, the sound rumbling against my throat. He squeezes my wrists, mounting me further, covering me with the full, relentless span of his body.
“Clever girl,” he rumbles. “Would you like another pretty orgasm? One to remember?”
