“You’re staring again,” she says without looking up, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I didn’t agree to come here on our birthday so I can look at the water,” I grin, taking a slow sip of my whiskey.
Her pale blue eyes meet mine, that familiar blush spreading across her freckled cheeks. “Good to know.” She slurps more of her drink. “I still wish you would have let me fly though,” she pouts.
Even though every doctor said it would be fine, the fucking internet statistics had me veto that idea. Especially since we’ve already made the long journey once. Luckily,The Artimiswas ready when I called.
Alina stretches like a contented cat, the movement drawing my attention to how the structured white fabric of her bikini dress frames her fuller breasts. The draped panels at the side part around her rounded belly, displaying it like the treasure it is.
My gaze traces the curve, the visible proof of our growing family.
“You’re doing it again,” she teases, setting her drink on the small table beside her. “Cataloging every inch of me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you blink.”
“Not disappear,” I correct her, leaning forward. “I just like what’s mine.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile remains. “The baby and I are perfectly safe, Raffaele. No one knows we’re here except your family.” Her hand smooths over her belly. “And you’ve got enough security around this island to protect a small country.”
“Not enough,” I mutter, thinking of the additional measures I’ve implemented with the help of Enzo, Remus, and Matteo that she doesn’t know about.
After everything that happened with Andrea and Sabrina, I won’t risk her safety again. Not ever.
The slight breeze carries the scent of salt and tropical flowers, rustling the palms that provide dappled shade across the terrace. Alina’s hair lifts gently, dancing around her face like a living flame.
“It’s our birthday,” she reminds me softly. “Can you try to relax? Just for today?”
I reach for the bottle of sun oil on the table between us. “I am relaxed.”
Her laugh is bright and disbelieving. “Right. That’s why you’ve checked your phone seventeen times in the last hour and keep staring at the treeline like assassins might rappel down at any moment.”
“Fifteen times,” I correct her, squeezing a generous amount of oil onto my palm. “And they wouldn’t use the trees. It’s way too exposed.”
Standing, I move to kneel beside her lounger. She watches me with those impossibly blue eyes as I warm the oil between my hands. When I place them on her belly, she sighs, her head falling back against the cushion.
“You’re like a hawk with SPF,” she teases as my hands work the oil into her skin with practiced movements. My fingers trace the new silvery marks stretching across her lower abdomen—proof of how our child grows within her.
I respond with a playful growl, leaning down to press my lips against her navel. “Our son has delicate skin. I’m being thorough.”
“Our daughter,” she corrects, running her fingers through my hair. This is an ongoing debate between us—one I’m happy to lose, as long as the baby is healthy and Alina remains safe.
“Either way,” I murmur against her skin, “they’ll have your freckles.”
Twenty-five years old today. My wife is turning twenty-five while carrying our first child.
The significance of it hits me like a physical blow—how much has changed since I collected her from that bakery. How close I came to losing her. How dangerously, obsessively in love with her I am.
My own thirty-fourth birthday feels inconsequential in comparison. What matters is that we share this day, just as we’ll share every day that follows.
“Happy birthday, husband,” she whispers, as if reading my thoughts. Her hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my stubbled jawline with a tenderness that still surprises me.
I turn my face to press a kiss into her palm. “Happy birthday, Cara Mia.”
Rising, I capture her lips with mine. The kiss starts out gentle—a soft press of mouth against mouth—but quickly deepens as she opens for me. The taste of tropical fruit and Alina floods my senses, making my cock strain painfully against my shorts.
Her hands slide down my bare chest, nails scraping lightly against my skin in that way she knows drives me wild. I growl against her mouth, nipping at her lower lip.
“Careful,” I warn, my voice rough with desire. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
Her smile turns wicked, a far cry from the shy woman I first brought to my home. “Who says I can’t finish it?” Her fingers trail lower, teasing the waistband of my shorts.
