He leans down and kisses me, slow and deep. “I love you.”
I pull him closer, suddenly needing more than just his words. “Show me.”
His eyes darken with desire, but he hesitates. “The doctor said?—”
“The doctor said no stress and no strenuous activity. This doesn’t have to be strenuous.” I guide his hand under my nightgown, to the place where I’m already wet for him. “Please, Mikhail. I need to feel you.”
He groans, his control slipping. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Then die happy.”
He strips off his clothes with practiced efficiency then carefully removes my nightgown.
His hands are gentle as they explore my changing body, reverent as they cup my swollen breasts and trace my belly.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck. “Carrying my child. Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, arching into his touch. “Always yours.”
He positions himself carefully, entering me slowly, mindful of the baby between us. The angle is different, the sensation deeper, and I gasp at the fullness.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
“Perfect.” I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Don’t stop.”
He moves with exquisite control, each thrust measured and deliberate. His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and I cry out at the dual sensation.
“I’m close,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Mikhail, I’m?—”
“Let go,” he commands, his thumb circling faster. “Come for me, my love.”
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, and I feel him follow moments later, his body shuddering against mine as he fills me. We stay locked together, breathing hard, our hearts beating in sync.
“That was worth the risk,” I murmur against his neck.
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Everything with you is worth the risk.”
Over the following weeks, our strategy continues to work. Mikhail’s organization stabilizes.
His legitimate businesses flourish.
We find a balance between his world and the life I want for our child.
He’s still the pakhan, still commands respect and fear, but now he wields power with precision rather than brute force.
I’m seven months pregnant when we finally feel like we can breathe.
The nursery is ready, painted in soft yellows and greens.
Tony has proven himself as Mikhail’s enforcer, earning the respect of the men through competence rather than fear.
Even Melinda has found her place, using her journalism skills to manage Mikhail’s public image and his legitimate business press releases.
She had instantly accepted the job when he’d offered to her.
“We did it,” I tell Mikhail one evening as we lie in bed, his hand on my belly feeling the baby’s movements. “We actually found a way to make this work.”
“You did it,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You showed me there was another way.”
