His grin turns wicked. “Challenge accepted.”
We make it to our bedroom with the kind of urgency that would be embarrassing if we weren’t already married and having our second child. Dimitri kicks the door shut behind us and I’m already pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helps me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside before his hands find the hem of my dress.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down my neck as he helps me out of my clothes. “So fucking beautiful, even more now that you’re carrying our baby again.”
"You have to say that,” I tell him. God, he’s such a corny bastard. “I’m pregnant.”
“I say it because it’s true.” He guides me backward until my knees hit the bed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."
We fall into bed together in tangled limbs and desperate kisses. His mouth finds mine as his hand slides between my thighs, and I gasp at the sensation.
“We don’t have much time,” I remind him breathlessly.
“Then I’ll have to work fast.”
And he does. His fingers work me expertly, knowing exactly where to touch with the perfect amount of pressure, knowing it’ll make me fall apart in record time. When I come, I cry out his name and his mouth swallows the sound.
Then he’s sheathed inside me, and we’re moving together with the practiced ease of two people who’ve learned every sound and sigh, every preference and pleasure point.
“I love you,” he breathes against my neck. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Always.”
We finish at the same time, both trembling and clinging to each other. Afterward, we lie tangled together, both breathing hard and grinning like teenagers who just snuck away from their parents.
“Your father is going to know exactly what we were doing,” Dimitri points out, his hand buried in my hair.
“Probably.” I run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t. That’s what good fathers do.”
He grimaces, looking like he’s in pain. “Is that what I should do when Mila’s older? Pretend I don’t know?”
I laugh. “Dimitri, you’re going to be the most overprotective father in history. You’ll probably lock her in a tower for forever.”
His arm tightens around me. “Not forever,” he says indignantly before he looks thoughtful. “Maybe just until she’s thirty.”
I laugh harder. “Oh, yeah, because that’s reasonable.”
We’re both smiling, and I still can’t believe this is my life now. This man. This family. This love that started in darkness and somehow became the brightest thing I’ve ever known.
“We should get dressed,” I say eventually. “Before your daughter wakes up and your in-laws arrive.”
His arms become iron bands around me. “Five more minutes,” he says.
I groan and half-heartedly push away from him. “Dimitri, come on.”
“Please.” He pulls me closer, nuzzling his face into my shoulder. “Just five more minutes of this before the chaos starts again.”
I settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s strong and steady and my favorite sound in the world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Five more minutes.”
And lying there in his arms, pregnant with our second child while our daughter sleeps peacefully down the hall, I realize something.
I’m not just surviving anymore.
I’m living. I’m happy.
I’m home.
