The door opens behind me, and I do not need to turn around to know who has entered. Rafael's scent reaches me first—cedar and smoke and the expensive cologne that clings to his skin like a second signature—and my body responds the way it always does, awareness spreading through my veins like warm honey.
"Wife."
His voice wraps around me in the dimmed light of his office, low and amused and carrying the particular roughness that emerges when he has been drinking whiskey with his brothers. I hear the soft click of the door closing, the rustle of his jacket being removed, the measured footsteps that bring him closer until I can feel the heat of his body against my back.
"Husband." I keep my eyes on the contract spread across his desk, on the terms and conditions that bound me to this man for one year with the promise of renegotiation at the end.
I round the desk and settle into the chair behind the desk.
“You’re in my chair,” he rumbles in a slow growl that has my insides clenching with the dark promise I hear.
"It is a comfortable chair. I can see why you spend so much time in it."
He steps behind me and places his hands lovingly on my shoulders. His thumbs press into the tension gathered there with the expertise of a man who has spent twelve months learning every inch of my body. "Something on your mind, little dove?"
I reach for the contract and hold it up so he can see it over my shoulder. "One year. That was the agreement. I sign your contract, give you my body, and in exchange you protect me from Magnus and my father. At the end of the year, we renegotiate. Today marks that one year."
Rafael's hands still against my shoulders, and I feel the subtle shift in his breathing that tells me I have surprised him.
"I have not forgotten, little dove. But I didn’t think–"
"Neither had I," I cut in. I turn in the chair to face him, my heart hammering against my ribs despite the confidence I am projecting. He stands above me in his rolled shirtsleeves with his tattoos on full display, the viper on his hand catching the ambient light from the city that never sleeps beyond our windows and the light of nearby lamps. His gray eyes search my face with an intensity that still makes my breath catch after all these months, and I wonder if I will ever stop being affected by the way this man looks at me. "The terms need adjustment."
Something cautious moves across his features. "What kind of adjustment?"
I take a breath and reach for the pen sitting in its holder beside his laptop, the same pen I used to scratch my new signature across our marriage certificate six months ago in a courthouse ceremony witnessed by his brothers and followed by a reception at the Gilded Key Society that Magnolia helped me plan. We celebrated until dawn, and Rafael made love to me in the same chapel where he proposed while candles burned low and white roses perfumed the air with possibility.
"The original contract stipulated one heir." I uncap the pen and draw a line through the relevant clause with deliberate precision. "I want to amend that."
Rafael's eyebrows rise, and I watch him process the implications of my words with the sharp intelligence that has built empires and destroyed enemies. "You want to reduce the number?"
I hold back my laughter, but just barely. "No." I write the new term beside the crossed-out clause, my handwriting steady despite the nerves sparking beneath my skin. "I want to increase it. Two heirs minimum, with an option for more depending on how the negotiations proceed."
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the distant sound of Konstantin's laughter from down the hall. Hell, I can hear the soft hum of the baby monitor on Rafael's desk, and my own pulse thundering in my ears while I wait for my husband to respond to my outrageous demand.
And then he laughs.
The sound is rich and warm and so unexpected that it startles a grin out of me before I can stop it, and then he is pulling me out of his chair and into his arms and his mouth is on mine with a hunger that has not dimmed in the slightest over the course of our marriage. I taste whiskey on his tongue and feel the vibration of his continued laughter against my lips, and when he pulls back to look at me there are tears glittering in his gray eyes that he does not bother to hide.
"You want more children." The words come out rough, scraped raw with emotion. "With me. You want to build a bigger family with me."
"I want everything with you." I frame his face in my hands, feeling the familiar rasp of stubble against my palms. "I want a house in the suburbs with a yard big enough for Sofia to run around in. I want Sunday dinners with your brothers and holiday traditions and the kind of life I never dared to dream about when I was the governor's daughter wearing shawls to hide my scars. I want you, Rafael Milano. All of you, for as long as you will have me. Just in case you didn’t know, that is."
He kisses me again, and this time there is nothing playful about it. His hands find my hips and lift me onto his desk, scattering papers and pens and the contract that started everything between us, and when he settles between my thighs with his forehead pressed against mine I feel the tremor in his hands that tells me how deeply my words have affected him.
"I love you." The confession falls from his lips like a prayer, the same three words he has spoken every morning since the night I walked back into his life in a chapel filled with candlelight and impossible hope. "I love you, Persia Milano, and I will spend the rest of my days making sure you never regret choosing me."
I reach for his belt with fingers that know their way by heart, unfastening the buckle with practiced ease while his mouth traces a path down my throat. "Then show me, husband. Show me how much you want to give me everything I asked for."
His groan vibrates against my collarbone as my hand closes around the thick heat of him, and the next few minutes are a blur of discarded clothing and desperate kisses and the particular frenzy that overtakes us whenever we find ourselves alone with a flat surface and mutual need. He enters me with a single thrust that punches the air from my lungs, and I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper, deeper, until I cannot tell where I end and he begins.
We move together with the rhythm we have perfected over countless nights in this very office, in our bedroom, in the shower and the kitchen and once memorably in the back of his SUV while his driver pretended not to notice. His thumb finds the bundle of nerves that makes me see stars, circling with devastating precision while his hips maintain their relentless pace, and when I shatter around him I cry out his name loud enough that his brothers will definitely hear.
He follows me over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt as warmth floods my center, and we collapse together across his desk in a tangle of limbs and sweat and the satisfied exhaustion of two people who have found their way home to each other against impossible odds.
"The terms are acceptable," he murmurs against my throat once we have both remembered how to breathe. "But I have a counter-proposal."
"Oh?" I trace lazy patterns across his shoulder blade, feeling the raised edges of ink beneath my fingertips.
