Chapter 52
Anton
Ican’t stop kissing her.
Two weeks. Thirteen days. Three hundred and twelve hours since I’ve tasted her mouth. Since I’ve felt her body against mine. Since I’ve heard her say my name like I’m the only thing that matters.
I’m not letting go. Not yet. Not until I’ve memorized every sound she makes. Every breath. Every gasp.
Her fingers are in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and Christ—I’ve missed this. Missed her. Missed the way she kisses me like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.
I pull back. Force myself to stop before I take her right here in the fucking car.
She’s breathing hard. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy. Pupils blown wide.
Beautiful. She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her.
“Inside,” I say gruffly. “Now.”
Before she can respond, I’m reaching for her. Sliding one arm under her knees. One behind her back.
Lifting her out of the seat.
“Anton—” she starts.
“I’ve got you.” I adjust my grip, pulling her closer against my chest. “Always.”
She buries her face in my neck. Her breath warm against my skin. “You’re really here.”
“I’m really here.”
I close the car door with my hip. Start walking toward the private elevator. The underground garage is empty. Good. I don’t want an audience for this.
Her body molds against mine perfectly. Soft everywhere a woman should be soft. Curves that fit my hands like they were made for me.
“You’re heavier,” I say quietly.
She tenses immediately. “I—”
“I love it.” I tighten my arms around her. Need her to understand. “You feel real. Solid. Like you’re supposed to be here.”
“How much heavier?” Her voice is small. Uncertain.
“Eight pounds. Maybe nine.”
She pulls back to stare at me. Those hazel eyes wide. Shocked. “You can tell that just by—?”
“I know your body.” I hold her gaze. Let her see the truth in my eyes. The possession. The certainty. “I know every inch of you. How you felt that first night when I carried you drunk to bed. How you felt after. How you feel now. How you’ll feel when you’re full with our baby.”
Her breath hitches. “Anton—”
“Every night in Moscow, malyshka. Every fucking night.” I keep walking, pulling her higher against my chest. “This is all I thought about. Coming home to you. To this.”
The elevator arrives. Doors sliding open. I step inside, hit the button for our floor with my elbow.
She’s watching me. Studying my face like she’s trying to memorize it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The elevator rises. Smooth. Silent. And all I can focus on is the weight of her in my arms. The way she fits. The way she’s looking at me like I’m something worth keeping.
I carried bodies in Moscow. Three of them. Igor’s men. Dead weight. Cold. Stiff.
This is the opposite of that.
This is warm. Alive. Everything I fought to get back to.
The doors open. I carry her down the hall. Our hall. To our door.
She reaches out. Unlocks it for me.
I kick it open. Step inside. Kick it closed behind us.
Home.
I’m home.
The penthouse is dark except for the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Vegas glowing beneath us. But I don’t look at the view. Only at her.
“Anton,” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Just keep walking. Through the living room. Past the kitchen. Straight to our bedroom.
I push the door open with my shoulder. The room is dim. Soft. The bed exactly where I left it two weeks ago.
I move to the edge of the mattress. Lower her slowly. Carefully. Like she’s something precious that might break.
Because she is.
Her back meets the bed. I lean over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other still cradling her hip.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
She smiles through tears. “Hi.”
I brush my thumb across her cheek. Catch a tear before it falls. “No more crying.”
“I can’t help it. You’re here.”
“I’m here.” I lean down. Kiss her forehead. Soft. Gentle. “And I’m not leaving.”
My lips trail down to her temple. Her cheekbone. The corner of her mouth.
She turns her head, catches my lips with hers. Kisses me like she’s been starving for it.
I kiss her back. Slow this time. Thorough. Tasting every inch of her mouth. Memorizing the way she sighs against me.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
“Da, malyshka.” I trace her jawline with my finger. “I missed you too. Every second.”
My hand slides down. Over her collarbone. Between her breasts. To her stomach.
I stop there. Spread my fingers wide. Feel the small curve beneath the fabric of her dress.
“Our baby,” I say.
“Our baby girl.”
I look up at her. “You’re sure it’s a girl?”
“I don’t know how. But yes.” She covers my hand with hers. “What do you think?”
“I think—” I pause. Consider. “I think you’re right. It feels right. A girl.”
“You’re not disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” I almost laugh. “Malyshka, I’m terrified. A daughter means I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure no man ever looks at her the way I look at you. But disappointed? Never.”
She laughs. Actually laughs. The sound breaks something open in my chest.
“I love you,” she says.
“Ya lyublyu tebya.” I lean down. Press my lips to her stomach. Right where our baby is growing. “Both of you.”
Her fingers thread through my hair. Gentle. Reverent.
I kiss her stomach again. Then move up. Kissing my way along her body. Over her dress. Up to her breasts. Her collarbone. Her neck.
She tilts her head back. Gives me access. Sighs when my mouth finds that spot beneath her ear.
“Anton—”
“Tell me what you need.”
She pulls me up. Makes me look at her. Those hazel eyes dark. Certain.
“You,” she says. “I need you.”
“You have me.”
“No.” She cups my face. Thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “I mean I need you. All of you. I’ve been waiting two weeks, and I can’t… I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Understanding hits me. Heat floods through my veins.
“Mary—”
“Dr. Vera said the baby’s stable. That everything’s fine. That we can—” She stops. Blushes. “That it’s safe.”
Suka.
She’s asking me to fuck her.
After two weeks of hell. Two weeks of thinking I might never make it back. She’s lying in our bed, flushed and beautiful and carrying my child, asking me to take her.
“Are you sure?” My voice comes out rough. Barely controlled.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
I lean down. Kiss her hard. Possessive. Claiming.
She moans into my mouth. Her hands move to my shirt. Fumbling with buttons.
I pull back. Help her. Shrugging out of the leather jacket. Yanking my shirt over my head.
Her eyes go wide. Hands immediately reaching for me. Touching my chest. My shoulders. Sliding down to my abs.
“I forgot,” she breathes.
“Forgot what?”
“How beautiful you are.”
I almost laugh. “I’m not beautiful, malyshka. I’m a killer.”
Her hands stop moving. Slide up to cup my face. Holding me like I’m something precious. Something worth protecting.
Her eyes are glassy. Searching. Looking into me in a way that makes me want to turn away.
But I don’t. Can’t.
“That’s who you had to be,” she says softly. “Before you knew you could be something else.”
My chest tightens. “Mary—”
“You read poetry.” Her thumbs brush my cheekbones.
“You cook. You carried me to bed that first night when you could have just left me on the couch. You protect people who can’t protect themselves.
You’re going to be a father.” Her voice breaks.
“You think you’re just a killer because that’s what they needed you to be.
But I see who you are when no one’s asking you to be a weapon. ”
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak.
“You’re not beautiful because of what you look like, Anton. You’re beautiful because of what you are when you’re with me. When you let yourself just… be.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” I admit. Raw. Honest. “This is all I know.”
“Then I’ll teach you.” She pulls me closer. Presses her forehead to mine. “We’ll figure it out together. You, me, and our baby girl. We’ll build something new. Something that’s ours.”
Something breaks open in my chest. Something I’ve kept locked away for decades.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.
“Maybe not.” She smiles through tears. “But you have me anyway. All of me. And I’m not letting go.”
She pulls me down. Kisses me like she’s trying to prove it. “And you’re beautiful. And I want you. Now.”
My control snaps.
I reach for her dress. Find the zipper. Drag it down slowly. Watching her face the entire time.
The fabric parts. Slides off her shoulders. I help her out of it. Toss it aside.
And then she’s there. In just black lace. Bra and panties that make my mouth go dry.
“Christ,” I breathe.
“Too much?” She sounds uncertain.
“Not enough.” I run my hand down her side. Over her hip. “Never enough.”
I lean down. Kiss the swell of her breast above the lace. She arches into me.
“Anton—”
“I know.” I move lower. Kissing down her stomach. Over the small curve. “I know, my love.”
My hands find her thighs. Spread them. Settle myself between them.
She’s breathing hard. Watching me with those eyes.
“Two weeks,” I say against her skin. “Two weeks of dreaming about this. About you. About making you forget every second I wasn’t here.”
“Then stop talking,” she says. Voice breathless. Desperate. “And remind me.”
I look up at her. Meet those hazel eyes.
And smile.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then I lean down and show her exactly how much I missed her.