Page 80 of 10 Days to Surrender

Though I have to admit, as Jasmine pulls various flowing dresses from her suitcase… It might be nice to have some photos that don’t involve me looking like a sweaty gardener in borrowed overalls.

What’s the harm, right?

“Beautiful,bellissima! Now, Signore Ozerov—hands lower on her belly. Yes, cradle the life you created together. Perfect.”

Sasha’s palms burn through the thin cotton of my dress. I count his breaths against my neck—five, six, seven—each one tighter and hotter than the last.

I’m starting to think that this was maybe unwise. Yes, I’m sure that one day, I’ll treasure these photos more than life itself, as proof that motherhood has its beautiful moments. Right now, though, I’m mostly concerned by the fact that Sasha’s palms on my waist are getting more and more possessive and he’s starting to breathe like an angry bull.

My best guess is that it has something to do with how Giovanni is… shall we say,touchy-feely. He has combed my hair countless times, smushed my boobs together twice to emphasize mycleavage, and in one particularly shocking move, reached up my dress to adjust my panty line.

It’s not that he’s a sexual threat to Sasha—after all, Giovanni’s husband is the one who dropped him off at the villa. Nice guy. Very thick mustache.

But Sasha’s eyes are narrowing into the thin slits that I know precede violence.

“Relax your jaw,signore,” Giovanni calls from behind his lens. “You look like you’re posing for a mugshot, not your first family portrait. Yes, yes, there! Beautiful! Now, look at each other like you cannot wait to make more babies!”

“Jesus Christ,” Sasha growls under his breath, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. But when I turn my head to meet his gaze, the humor dies in my throat. His eyes are storm-dark, pupils blown wide, and I’m suddenly, vividly reminded of how those hands felt pinning my wrists to the mattress at 3 A.M. last night.

Lately, it’s started to get out of hand. We’re fucking like absolute rabbits, multiple rounds, with Sasha spending hours going down on me in between. I didn’t know it was possible to come a dozen times in a row. You learn something new every day, I suppose. Even now, I’m still wet and wobbly, though it’s been hours since Sasha pulled out of me and slunk mournfully back to his side of the villa.

The fact that he has his hands plastered to my hips and that I can feel his dick hardening against the curve of my ass is not helping matters whatsoever.

This is just pretend,I tell myself.Like playing dress-up.

Except the heat pooling low in my belly feels pretty fucking real.

Giovanni lowers his camera and grins at us. “Perfect! But the light, she changes too fast.” Giovanni squints at the treeline. “We must move to the forest. The rays through the leaves will make Mama here glow like an angel.”

Sasha goes still. “The forest.”

“Si, si!Most romantic!” Giovanni’s already shoving equipment into his bag, because apparently, he’s incapable of doing anything at less than a hundred miles per hour. “The trees, they frame the love story!”

I glance up at Sasha. His jaw is clenched so tight I’m worried he’ll crack a tooth. “We can just?—”

“It’s fine. The sooner we get this over, the better.”

We follow Giovanni into the forest, leaving Mama, Kosti, and Jasmine behind, the three of them tittering like schoolgirls from the front steps of the villa.

The air under the trees hums with golden hour magic—or maybe that’s just the adrenaline buzzing in my ears as Giovanni flutters around me, adjusting the diaphanous silk draped over my shoulders until he reveals a bit more skin than I’m entirely comfortable with.

“No, no—ah,yesss,” he croons, fingers lingering on my hip. “Now, let the fabric fall just so… yes, yes, the curve of the belly, the shadow of the breast—perfection!”

Sasha’s boot crunches a twig behind the photographer. I don’t have to look to know he’s coiled tighter than a spring, that muscle in his jaw doing its angry little dance.

“Sway for me, Ariel. Like water, like air.”

I’m not sure how to move like either of those things while seven months pregnant with twins, but I give it my best shot. The resulting shimmy makes the fabric slip dangerously low across my breasts.

From his position against an oak tree, Sasha’s entire body goes rigid. He’s been getting progressively more murderous-looking with each of Giovanni’s “adjustments” to my poses. The last time Giovanni’s fingers grazed my hip to angle me toward the light, I swear I heard Sasha growl like a bear.

“Now, perhaps we lose a layer, yes?” Giovanni’s hand drifts toward the knot securing the silk cups of the gown behind my neck. “Naturale.Just a hint of the maternal form. Very tasteful. We must capture the rawness, the vulnerability of motherhood?—”

“Touch that,” Sasha growls, “and I remove your hand.”

I roll my eyes. “Relax, Rambo. It’s called art.”

“Art.” The word drips venom.

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