“I love you,” I whisper.
He kisses me again, the words dissolving against his lips. I let myself melt into the slow, devastating rhythm that we always find together, that unhurried, tender way of lovemaking that isn’t about rushing to the climax but enjoying the ride.
He knows my body so well. He knows just how to move inside me, just how to kiss me, just how to bring me to the edge and pull me back only to do it all over again. I open my eyes, watching the sculpted muscles of his upper body tense and flex—a hypnotic sight that I’ll never tire of seeing.
“Gabriel,” I say, closing my eyes again and focusing on the feeling of him inside of me, the way he stretches me out, the grind of his length against my walls. “I’m so close.”
“Come with me,bella.”
He thrusts deeper, leaning down to kiss my breasts and the moment his lips touch my nipples, and I feel that gentle suck, I explode. The orgasm rushes through me, and I pull him against me as hard as my legs will allow.
His body stiffens, a groan escaping as his warmth fills me, as he drains every last drop. He holds me through the orgasm, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged, his arms shaking.
“Teodora.”
Gabriel doesn’t call me by my full name very often. But when he does, I always love it.
We stay tangled together for a long time afterward. It’s a rainy evening and neither of us have any place to be. His head rests on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns across his shoulders. His breathing slows and I think he might be falling asleep until his hand drifts to my stomach—still the body he’s worshiped since our first night together.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, flashing me a wry smile.
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’realwaysthinking.” He lifts his head and kisses my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m just happy.”
“Good,” he says, settling back against me. “Good.”
I pull him closer and kiss him again, closing my eyes and smiling in only the way my family can make me.
The nursery is dark except for the nightlight—a little moon that casts soft amber light across the ceiling. We stand in the doorway in our robes, shoulder to shoulder, looking in.
Lev is in his toddler bed, sprawled on his back in one of those silly poses that toddlers are so fond of. One arm is flung above his head, the other wrapped around his stuffed elephant—the gift from Sissy that’s still his favorite. His dark hair, now curly, is wild against the pillow.
He looks just like Gabriel, except for his eyes. Those are mine, wide and blue.
In the crib beside him, two months old and impossibly small, is Masha.
Masha Ana Moretti. Named for my mother and my sister, two women whom I never got to know, but whose names my daughter will carry. If we ever have another boy, he will have my brother’s name—it’s already been decided.
She’s sleeping on her back; tiny fists curled beside her head. She has Gabriel’s hair, as well, but my nose.
“She looks like you,” Gabriel says.
I smile. “She does. But she also kind of looks like a potato.”
He chuckles. “All newborns kind of look like a potato.”
“But a cute potato,” I add, raising a finger. “A beautiful potato.”
“The most beautiful potato,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.
“Do you think he’ll be good with her?” I ask. “You know. When he’s older.”
“He’ll be protective.”
“And probably a little terrifying.”
