Page 123 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Lie back,” I instruct, and for once, he obeys without question.

I straddle him, careful to keep my weight on my knees. This position gives me control and keeps pressure off my belly. Iguide his shaft inside my slick heat, sinking down slowly until he fills me completely.

He grips my hips as he watches me move above him. “You’re magnificent,” he says, his voice strained.

I set a rhythm that builds for both of us, rolling my hips in a way that hits just the right spots. Damir’s thumb finds my clit, circling in time with my movements.

“Come for me again,” he demands. “One more time.”

The third orgasm takes me by surprise, crashing over me with such intensity that I cry out his name. Damir follows immediately, his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure that leave me collapsed against his chest.

We stay connected, our breathing gradually slowing. He strokes my back in long, soothing motions.

“I love you,” I whisper against his neck.

His arms tighten around me. “I love you too.”

Eventually, we separate, and he helps me clean up. He draws a bath in the enormous tub, adding oils that smell of lavender and vanilla.

“Join me?” I ask as I sink into the warm water.

He slides in behind me, his chest against my back, his legs cradling mine. The water rises higher with our combined bodies, nearly spilling over the edge.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against my shoulder.

We soak in comfortable silence while he occasionally caresses my belly, where our son moves restlessly.

“What shall we name him?” I ask, a conversation we’ve had many times but never resolved.

“Something strong,” says Damir. “Something that honors where we came from but looks toward the future.”

“Miran?” I suggest. “I’ve been looking at Russian names.”

“Miran Damir Antonov,” he tests the name. “It has weight.”

“It does,” I agree, leaning back against him. “A name for a boy who will grow up loved and protected.”

“And free to choose his own path.”

After our bath, he wraps me in a plush robe and leads me back to bed. The sheets have been changed—hotel staff must have slipped in while we bathed—and rose petals now cover the fresh linens.

“More sparkling cider?” he asks, gesturing to the bottle chilling beside the bed.

“Yes, though I won’t mind if you drink champagne.”

“Cider is fine for now.” He pours glasses and brings me one, then joins me on the bed. We sit side by side, leaning against the headboard.

“To us,” he says, raising his glass. “To the family we’ve created.”

I clink my flute against his. “To us.”

We talk late into the night, about Tuscany, about the birth of our son, and about the life we’ll build together away from the violence of Damir’s past. I truly believe we can have it all—safety, happiness, and a future untainted by blood.

“No regrets?” he asks when we finally settle down to sleep, his arm draped protectively over me.

I turn to face him, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertip. “Not one.”

He captures my hand and kisses my palm. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, our new life begins.”

---