Page 117 of Cruel Submission

The bed frame creaks beneath us. Around the house, security works tirelessly. But here it’s just us. Skin and sweat and the intimacy of two people who’ve seen each other at their worst and chosen to stay.

I drop my head to the curve of her neck, tasting the pulse there. My hand finds her breast again as I drive into her. She’s making those sounds—half-gasps, half-moans—that tell me she’s close.

“Touch yourself,” I tell her, lifting enough to watch. “Show me what you need.”

Her hand slides between us, fingers finding her clit. I watch her work herself, the concentration on her face, the way her breathing shifts as she builds. There’s something profoundly erotic about watching her take her own pleasure while I’m inside her.

“That’s it, zaychik. Take what you need from me.”

Her free hand grips my shoulder, nails biting into muscle hard enough to leave marks. I welcome it. Use the sting to anchor myself when the pressure at the base of my spine threatens to tip too soon.

“Arkady… I’m—” She doesn’t finish. Her body clenches around me in rhythmic pulses as she comes. The sensation is exquisite. Nearly unbearable. I grit my teeth and ride it out, prolonging her pleasure with shallow thrusts until she’s shaking and pushing at my chest, oversensitive.

Only then do I chase my own. I pull out long enough to turn her onto her side, then fit myself behind her, lifting her leg for access. This angle is safer for the baby and lets me go deeper. I slide back inside, and she whimpers, still tender.

“One more,” I murmur against her ear, my hand spreading across her stomach. “Give me one more.”

I know her body now. Know exactly how to move to build her back up even when she thinks she’s done. Slow, deep rolls of my hips while my fingers find her clit again, swollen and sensitive. She tries to squirm away, but I hold her in place, relentless.

“Can’t! Arkady, I can’t—”

“You can.” I bite down on her shoulder. Not hard enough to bruise. Enough to ground her. “You will.”

And she does. Her second orgasm is quieter than the first but no less intense, rippling through her in waves that I feel around my cock. That’s what breaks me. I bury myself deep and let go, spilling inside her with a groan I don’t bother muffling. The release is physical but also something more—a purging of the tension I’ve carried since I watched my father’s convoy disappear down the driveway.

We stay locked together as the aftershocks fade, both breathing hard, slick with sweat. Eventually, I withdraw, and she makes a small noise, reaching back to grip my hip.

I pull her back against me, arranging us so her head rests on my bicep and my arm drapes across her stomach. Under my palm, something moves. A flutter, then a definite push.

I go still.

“Did you feel that?” Mirabel’s voice is soft.

“Da.” I press my palm firmer against her belly, and the baby kicks again. Stronger. A tiny foot or elbow announcing itself. “She’s awake.”

“She likes it when you touch me. Always gets active after we’re together.”

This is my daughter. This impossible, fragile life I helped create. Soon, she’ll be here. In my arms. Completely dependent on me to keep her alive.

Baby Aleks is asleep in the nursery two doors down, watched over by Fanny and the security detail stationed in that wing. Before long, Aleks will have a big sister. Two children who will grow up knowing their father chose them. Chose to build instead of destroy.

And they’ll all be safe. Every single one of them. Mirabel, Debra, Aleks, this daughter pressing against my palm.

I’ll make sure of it.

“What are you thinking?” Mirabel asks, her thumb stroking my knuckles.

She already knows. The woman in my arms is many things, but naive isn’t one of them. She knows what I am. What I’m capable of. What I’ll do to protect this family.

“I’m thinking that you and our children are the best thing I never knew I needed. And that I’d raze Moscow itself before I let anything happen to any of you.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “That’s very romantic in a terrifying, slightly unhinged way.”

“It’s the only way I know how to be.”

“I know.” She turns her head to catch my mouth in a soft kiss. “And I love you anyway. Maybe because of it.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” I murmur against her lips. In Russian, because some things feel more real in my native language. More binding.