Page 117 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I realize then that Nick and Russ aren't participating. They're watching me and Alex have sex, and cheering us on. Heat climbs up my throat, but knowing they're watching drives me crazy and my core tightens.

Alex sets a steady rhythm, his thrusts deep and controlled. I turn my head and place my mouth on his neck, kissing and biting gently while his hand slides down and finds my clit, circling with just the right amount of pressure.

"Come for him," Nick commands. "Show him how much you appreciate what he did for you."

My orgasm crashes through me, my body clenching around Alex as pleasure explodes behind my eyelids.

"Fuck, Marla," Alex groans, his rhythm faltering. He thrusts deep one final time and comes with a low growl, his body shuddering against mine.

We collapse together on the couch, tangled and breathless. When I can catch my breath again I look over at Nick and Russ, still seated on the couch.

Russ has his head tilted back, his eyes squeezed closed as his hand pumps his cock. Nick is pleasuring himself too, but he's looking straight at me, and then comes with a growl.

Hours later, I lie wrapped between all three of them in the massive bed. The fireplaces have burned down to embers, casting flickering shadows across the room. Nick is behind me, his arm draped protectively over my waist. Russ is in front of me, his hand resting on my belly, where our baby resides. Alex is beside Russ, close enough that I can feel his warmth.

The estate is quiet around us. Safe. Protected. Home.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, I realize something that should terrify me but doesn't.

These men don't feel temporary anymore. They don't feel like a mistake or a complication or something I'll eventually walk away from.

They feel like family.

Shit, I'm in love with all three of them.

49

RUSS

The kitchen in the central mansion is massive, all gleaming marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that look like they belong in a restaurant rather than a home. Morning sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods, making everything feel warm despite the cold air outside. My mother stands at the stove wearing an apron over her usual conservative dress, muttering under her breath in Russian about how modern stoves are "too complicated to trust."

"Ma, it's just a touch screen," I say from where I'm sitting at the island counter, nursing my second cup of coffee. "You press the temperature you want."

"In my day, you turned a knob and the stove heated," she says without looking at me. "Now I need a degree in engineering just to boil water."

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. She's been complaining about the appliances since she arrived an hour ago, but I can tell she's secretly pleased by how modern everything is. The kitchen alone is bigger than her entire house was, with custom cabinets, a walk-in pantry, and enough counter space to feed an army.

Which, considering how many people live on this estate now, isn't far from the truth.

"You'll get used to it," I tell her.

"I'm too old to get used to things," she replies, but there's no real bite in her tone. She's making blini, the thin Russian pancakes she's been making for me since I was a kid. The familiar smell fills the kitchen, making the massive space feel more like home.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn to see Marla descending slowly, one hand on the railing and the other resting on her rounded belly. Her red hair is messy from sleep, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she's barefoot despite the cold floors. When I suggested putting socks and shoes on one day, she'd told me her feet were swelling too much and socks made her feet too hot.

My mother notices her immediately and abandons the stove, crossing the kitchen with surprising speed for a woman her age. "Marla, dorogaya, you should be resting. Why are you walking around without slippers? Your feet will freeze."

"I'm fine, Ekaterina," Marla says, smiling as my mother fusses over her. "I just wanted some water."

"Water? You need more than water. Have you eaten this morning? You're eating for two now, you need proper nutrition." My mother guides her toward the island, pulling out the stool beside me. "Sit. I'll make you a plate."

Marla catches my eye and gives me a look that's half amused, half exasperated. I grin back at her, enjoying watching my mother in full protective mode. It's been like this for weeks now, ever since Ma found out about the pregnancy. She treats Marla like fragile glass one moment and scolds her like a stubborn child the next. But it's all done in the name of love, and I know Marla feels it too.

"I had toast earlier," Marla says as she settles onto the stool. Her hand finds mine on the counter, her fingers threading through mine naturally. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my chest go tight, thick with emotion.

"Toast is not breakfast," my mother declares, already piling blini onto a plate. "Toast is what you eat when you're too lazy to cook properly."

"I like toast," Marla says defensively.