Then his hand leaves my throat and goes between us. The pad of his thumb finds my clit on the first try. He works it in tight circles, never slowing the pace of his hips, and I can feel everything coiling, gathering, climbing.
“You’re going to cum on my cock,” he tells me. “And then you’re going to do it again. And then maybe, if you’re very fucking sweet to me, I’ll let you sleep.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.”
“Mat, I can’t, it’s too?—”
“Youcan.” His teeth find my earlobe. “Because I told you to. You belong to me, darling. That’sourbaby in there and I want her to know what her mother sounds like when she’s happy.Cum for me.”
It’s theherthat does it.Her.He saidher.He has a guess, a hope, a daughter in his head already, and the shock of it cracks me wide open. I shatter around him with a sound I’ll be ashamed of in the morning, full-throated andhis, and he fucks me through it with his forehead pressed to mine.
True to his word, I cum once more before we finally finish. Mat erupts inside me and it’s like a homecoming of sorts. A feeling ofrightnessas he marks me as his again.
When he pulls out, I whimper at the loss. He shushes me, kisses my forehead, and slides off the bed.
I hear water running in the bathroom. A minute later, he’s back with a warm washcloth. He nudges my knees apart and cleans me up, slow and careful, the way he did that first night in the ER.
Once that’s finished, he slips back into bed and pulls the duvet up over both of us. Then he arranges me against his chest, my cheek on his shoulder, one of his legs slotted between mine. His hand finds my belly and rests there.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Mhmm.”
“Anything hurt?”
“No.”
He kisses the top of my head. His fingers spread wide over my stomach.
“‘Her,’ huh?” I say.
“What?”
“You saidher.”
He’s quiet for a second. “Did I?”
“You did.”
His thumb brushes back and forth across my skin. “Hm. I guess I did.”
We lie there for a while. The light in the room has changed as the sun dies early. The fire in the grate has burned down to coals. Matvei’s hand hasn’t stopped stroking across my womb. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Mat? Will you tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something I don’t know about you.”
At first, I think he’s not going to answer. Then he says, “My father’s name was Gervasii.”
“Gervasii,” I repeat softly. Like if I say it too loud, the name will spook Matvei away. “Gervasii Satyrin.”
“That’s the one.”
I tilt my chin up so I can see his jaw from below. His Adam’s apple bobs.
