Chapter 53
Mary
A few days later…
He’s standing at the window. Naked. Completely, gloriously naked.
And I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been staring at his ass for the past three minutes.
Morning light cuts across his back—all those muscles, that perfect V-shape tapering down to narrow hips and the kind of ass that should be illegal. Hard. Round. The kind you see on Olympic swimmers or men who’ve spent their entire lives doing physical labor that doesn’t involve sitting down.
He stretches. Arms above his head. Back arching slightly.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
Two days. We’ve been locked in this penthouse for two days.
Sleeping. Eating. And… well. A lot of the other thing.
The other thing that apparently no one warned me about when they handed me all those pregnancy pamphlets at the clinic.
“First trimester fatigue.” Check.
“Morning sickness.” Check.
“Increased appetite.” Check.
“Hormones that turn you into an insatiable, constantly horny woman who can’t keep her hands off her criminally attractive boyfriend”?
Nowhere. Not a single mention.
But here we are.
My body feels different. Everything feels different. I’m glowing—actually glowing. My skin is flushed. My cheeks are rosy. My hair looks better than it has in months.
And I’m sore. Deliciously, thoroughly sore in ways that make me blush just thinking about it.
Anton turns slightly. Gives me a view of his profile. That sharp jaw. Those dark green eyes. The cut on his cheekbone that’s almost healed.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at me.
“You’re naked in front of a window.”
“No one can see in. Tinted glass.”
“Still.”
He turns fully now. And oh God, that’s even worse. Because now I can see all of him. Every inch. Every scar. Every tattoo. Every—
“Stop,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Stop what?”
“Looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
His mouth curves. Dangerous. Satisfied. “I always know what I’m doing to you, malyshka.”
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it. One-handed. Still smirking.
“Come back to bed,” I say.
“We’ve been in bed for two days.”
“So? Make it three.”
“You need food.”
“I need you.”
His eyes darken.
“Please?” I stretch. Deliberately. The sheet slides down. Bare skin. Curves he’s spent the last forty-eight hours worshipping.
He’s across the room in three strides.
I barely have time to laugh before he’s on me. Exploring. Mouth hot against my neck.
“You’re insatiable,” he growls.
“You’re complaining?”
“Never.”
I drag him on top of me, legs wrapped around his waist. He’s solid, heavy, and that’s what I want—need—right now. A cage made of him. All the safety and threat knotted into the line of his shoulders.
His hands are everywhere. My thigh, my breast, the line of my jaw. He strokes my belly, reverent, like I’m all gold and glass. It makes my skin hum.
“Careful,” he says, thumb smoothing over my stomach as if he could shield the baby from what we’re about to do. I want to laugh, but my throat’s dry.
“I’m pregnant, not breakable,” I say, and guide his hand between us, showing him exactly what I mean—how ready I already am for him.
His breath catches. That quiet, controlled sound that always gives him away.
“You’re beautiful, malyshka,” he murmurs, voice roughened by it.
I let go of his hand, then ease my legs down from around his waist just long enough to shift beneath him. He watches every move, eyes dark, worshipping. When I wrap my legs around him again, it’s slower this time—an invitation and a challenge both.
He presses forward, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging me in without crushing me.
“Slow,” he breathes against my lips. “I want to remember this.”
I want to laugh, but his mouth steals the sound, devouring mine until nothing else exists.
I feel the firm press of his chest, the heat of his skin, the sharp ridge of his hipbones digging into my thighs.
He releases my wrists; his hands glide over me—across my shoulders, over my breasts, along my stomach and hips—like he’s memorizing every curve.
Impatient, I guide him lower. His tongue trails a slow line down my body until his warm breath blooms between my legs. He meets my eyes, dark with need.
“Tell me what you need.”
My breath catches. “Make me come,” I whisper, as if that’s all that matters.
He obliges with his mouth first, each movement slow, deliberate, a delicious tease.
I writhe, clutching the sheets as pleasure coils tighter.
At the brink, he shifts to fingers—two slipping inside me while his thumb circles my clit.
My back arches, every nerve alight, and he watches, unwavering, drinking in my every gasp and tremor.
He moves slowly, fingers dragging in and out, coating themselves in my wetness, the slick sounds filling the room. I’m soaking, thighs trembling, but he’s careful—always careful—angling his hand away from my belly, protecting the tiny life there even as he wrecks me.
“More,” I beg, hips bucking.
He adds a third finger, stretching me gently, pumping faster now but still measured, thumb pressing harder on my clit in tight, relentless circles.
The heat builds, coiling low and fierce.
I’m dripping onto his hand, the wet slide obscene and perfect, my body clenching around him as he crooks his fingers deeper, finding that place that makes my brain short-circuit.
“Anton! Fuck!”
He stills, his breath warm against my skin. “Language,” he murmurs.
I blink, half-dazed. “What?”
His mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smile. “No swearing in front of the baby.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “The baby can’t hear us.”
“Still,” he says, voice a low rumble. “We start good habits early.”
It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And somehow it makes my chest ache. Because he means it. He’s serious in the way only Anton can be—commanding one second, gentle the next.
I reach to him and brush my fingers along his jaw. “You’re already planning bedtime rules, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” he admits, his fingers—still buried inside me from before—resuming their slow, punishing rhythm, curling deep and deliberate, making my breath hitch. “Maybe I’m planning how to keep you in line. Be a good girl from now on, malyshka.”
His voice drops low, that commanding edge sharpening as he thrusts his fingers lazily, gathering more of my slick heat, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room. Punishing? It’s a tease wrapped in control, each stroke building pressure without mercy, his thumb grazing my clit just enough to torment.
I arch into him, defiance sparking in my chest.
“I’ve always been a… good… girl,” I whisper, voice breaking on a moan as he adds pressure, fingers pumping steadier, stretching me with care. “But now… I’d like to be a little… badass. Push your limits. See how far I can… take you.”
His eyes darken, heat flaring… God, that turns him on.
I see it in the way his jaw tightens, his free hand gripping my thigh possessively.
“You want to play dangerous?” he rasps, fingers speeding up now, thrusting firmer but still so damn mindful of the baby, angling away from my belly.
He crooks them just right, hitting that spot over and over, thumb circling my clit with relentless precision until I’m soaking his hand, trembling on the edge.
“Ohhh… Ohhh yes, Anton.”
He pulls his fingers free with a slick sound, leaving me empty and aching.
I gasp at the loss, but he’s already there, pressing the thick length of his cock between my folds, sliding it back and forth, slow and deliberate.
The blunt head drags over my clit, then lower, parting my lips, coating himself in my wetness.
Left to right, right to left, a torturous glide that has my hips chasing him, desperate.
“Ahh, Anton, yes, right there,” I moan, voice breaking, biting back the curse that wants to spill. “Don’t stop, please, I need—”
I feel him everywhere, hard and hot between my thighs, pulsing against my entrance, teasing without entering.
My hand finds his cock, fingers barely closing around the girth, veins throbbing under my palm, the slick head nudging my clit with every pass.
He’s steel and velvet, and I’m dripping for him.
“Not yet,” he growls, voice gravel and smoke. “You come first.” He shifts, sliding two fingers back into me—thick, sure, curling deep while his thumb keeps that maddening rhythm on my clit.
The command shatters me—the build too intense, his fingers relentless, curling and pumping until the orgasm rips through me, my walls clenching hard around him, wetness spilling as I cry out, body shaking in waves.
He doesn’t pull away, easing me down with gentler strokes before withdrawing, only to shift above me, his cock pressing at my entrance.
He slides in slow—not too deep, holding back like he’s afraid to hurt the baby, just enough to fill me with that exquisite stretch, his thickness dragging against my sensitive walls.
“Uhmm…” I gasp, nails scraping his back, urging him.
He shakes his head, sweat glistening on his skin, eyes fierce on mine.
“Easy. For you both.” But need cracks his control—thrusts shallow at first, rocking in measured rolls that tease every nerve, building heat anew.
I clench around him, legs hooking his waist, and he groans, pace quickening, cock pulsing as he grinds deeper than intended but still restrained, the slick slide of us intoxicating.
His hand slips between us, thumb finding my clit again, rubbing firm circles that have me unraveling fast.
“Again,” he demands, hips snapping with careful power, filling me perfectly each time.
I shatter once more, clenching tight, pulling him over the edge with me—he buries himself as far as he dares, body tensing, a guttural growl escaping as he comes, hot pulses flooding me, his tremors matching mine.
We collapse together, breaths ragged, his weight a protective shield.
He’s still inside me, softening slowly, that intimate warmth lingering as our bodies pulse in aftershocks.
I feel every inch of him—thick even now, veins faint echoes under sensitive skin, a slick reminder of what we just shared.
My mind’s foggy, high on the rush, limbs heavy and tingling like I’m floating.
He pulls out gently, a soft groan escaping him, and I whimper at the sudden emptiness. His lips brush my forehead, tender, lingering there.
“Breathe, malyshka,” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, his hand stroking my hair as if to ground me. I’m still buzzing, skin electric, heart pounding wild.
God, he undoes me every time.
“You make me want to be better,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s why I’m planning so many things.
I open my eyes, blinking through the haze to meet his gaze—those stormy depths pulling me in, always.
“Tell me one,” I breathe.
He meets my eyes, that rare softness breaking through the steel.
“Making sure our daughter has a father who shows up. Every day. Every moment that matters.” His hand slides to my stomach, protective. Awed. “Making sure she never wonders if she’s loved. Making sure she never feels alone, the way—”
His voice catches.
“The way we did,” I finish for him.
“Yes.” The word comes out broken. “I can’t give her back the parents we lost. But I can give her everything I never had. Everything you never had. A father who stays. Who protects. Who loves her mother so much she never doubts what love looks like.”
Tears spill over. I can’t stop them.
Because he gets it. He understands that this isn’t just about making a baby. It’s about breaking cycles. About building something neither of us knew how to build because no one showed us.
“Anton—”
“I’m going to mess up,” he continues. Voice thick. “I’m going to be too protective. Too intense. I’m probably going to threaten every boy who looks at her and make you tell me I’m overreacting.”
I laugh through tears. “Probably.”
“But I will show up. Every recital. Every birthday. Every scraped knee and bad dream and first heartbreak.” His forehead presses against mine. “She will never wonder if her father loves her. And neither will you.”
I’m sobbing now. Full, ugly, happy crying.
“I really like this side of you,” I manage between gasps.
“What side?”
“The daddy side.” I cup his face, make him look at me. “The side that’s already planning dance recitals and threatening teenage boys. The side that wants to give our daughter everything you didn’t have.”
“Is it too much?”
“It’s perfect.” I kiss him. Soft. Salt from my tears mixing with the kiss. “You’re going to be an amazing father. Not because you know how. But because you want to learn. Because you care enough to try.”
He brushes away my tears with his thumbs. “I care because of you. Because you make me believe I can be more than what I was made to be.”
“You were always more. You just didn’t have anyone to show you.”
His arms tighten around me. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
We stay like that. Tangled together. Hearts beating in sync. No space between us.
“I love you,” he whispers against my hair. “You and the little one. More than I thought I could love anything.”
“We love you too.” My hand joins his on my stomach. “Both of us.”
He kisses my temple. My cheek. My lips. Then he shifts. Slides his arms under me. Lifts me effortlessly.
“What are you doing?”
“Shower. You need to eat.” He carries me toward the bathroom. “And we have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Loud. Embarrassingly loud.
Anton stops walking. Looks down at me.
I flush. “Don’t—”
“Was that you or the baby?”
“Both. Definitely both.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound rumbles through his chest, warm and real.
“Shower first,” he says, still grinning. “Then I’m making you the biggest breakfast you’ve ever seen.”
“And then?”
“Then we go see your grandma.”
My heart stops. “Why?”
His eyes meet mine. Serious now. Intent.
“Because there’s something I need to ask her.”