Chapter 26
26
Kirill
F iona's greens widen. Her mouth forms an O, and her body trembles.
"This is what you want?" I grunt, sliding forcefully in and out of her, triple-checking she's serious about me fathering her children while conflicting fears and desires run through my mind.
Her face reddens. She grips the counter so tight her knuckles turn white. She squeaks, "Yes."
"You want my babies?" I bark, shocked I'm having this conversation, on the verge of pumping everything I have into her.
Why is this turning me on?
What am I doing?
She wants kids. I'm not going to spoil her dream.
But I'd be their father.
"Yes! Yours! Only yours!" she cries out, keeping her gaze on mine in the mirror's reflection.
Why the fuck is she saying this ?
She must be drunk.
She's not.
She wants my babies.
Jesus fucking Christ!
I slow down my thrusts, knowing I'm worked up to the point that if I don't, I'm going to come faster than a teenager who just discovered how to jack himself off.
"Oh God!" she breathes, her eyelids fluttering.
I massage my hand on the back of her neck, but there's no chance of me cutting her air supply off in this position. But I also don't want to. Sometimes, I prefer to watch her come when she's not blacking out, even though she seems to crave it.
"Yes," she calls out, then licks her lips.
I lean over her, kneading her neck, murmuring in Russian, "I hope our babies look like you."
She whimpers and turns her head.
"Fuck this. Your lips are mine, little bird," I declare, then spin her, pick her up, and pin her against the wall.
"Kirill," she mumbles against my mouth, sliding her hand through my hair and gripping her arms around my shoulders.
"Hmm," I reply, sliding my tongue deep against hers, falling into the warm haze that overpowers me every time she shows me any sign of affection.
"Don't fight me, just love me," she says.
"I do love you," I mumble, returning to kissing her, then freeze.
What did I just say?
She arches her brows, full of hope, breathing hard .
I don't move, still inside her, no longer sure who I am or what I'm saying. My heart pounds so hard, I think I might be having an attack.
Is it possible?
We've only been married a few weeks.
I must be losing it.
The longer I stay still, the more fear paralyzes me.
"I love you too," she softly claims.
More shock fills me, and I press closer to her, letting the wall take our weight. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
She slides her hand over my cheek, caressing my scar.
I close my eyes, fighting too many years of self-loathing and shame.
She can't love me.
I'm hearing things.
"Look at me," she orders.
I obey, blinking hard.
She tilts her head, studying me, and asserts, "I'm your wife, but I don't love you because of our vows. I love you because you wrote letters to me. And you always stand up for me. Not once have you lied or hidden things from me. And no matter what you've believed your entire life, I think my husband is the sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on."
I have no words. Emotions attack me, and I bury my face in the curve of her neck, feeling like I might break down.
She tightens her arms around me and kisses my head, whispering, "Have I said too much?"
Has she ?
I get control of my emotions and slowly lift my head to meet her eyes, answering, "No, my queen. I'm just a little overwhelmed by your statement."
She swallows hard, fretting, "In a good way or a bad way?" She bites on her lip.
I run my thumb over her chin, replying, "A good way."
She softly smiles.
I kiss her, and she returns my affection, pulling me back into a haze of happiness I never thought I deserved or could feel.
Another wave of emotions pounds into my heart. I slowly thrust inside her and mumble, "I do love you, Fiona. I don't know how it happened so quickly, but I do."
Her eyes glisten, and a tear escapes, slipping down her cheek. The salty wetness hits my tongue, and her body throbs against mine. She whimpers, clinging to me, adding, "I knew when I met you, I wanted you."
"I wanted you too," I admit through gritted teeth, my cock swelling bigger, but I'm not ready for this moment to end.
"Oh God," she breathes, her lips forming an O, and violent convulsions attack her. She trembles against me. Her eyes roll, and a loud moan flies out of her throat.
"That's it, my sexy little bird," I praise, studying every reaction.
She clutches me as if I'm her life raft, reiterating that she's mine.
Fiona O'Malley is my wife.
Fiona Petrov .
Mrs. Kirill Petrov.
"Kirill," she whispers in a raspy tone, shaking harder .
I continue to thrust, barely getting out, "You're mine, my queen."
"Y-yes," she agrees.
Every atom in my body buzzes. I kiss her harder, thrust faster, and all hell breaks loose.
An incoherent, muffled sound fills the air. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
I groan into her mouth, my erection swells, and I pump every drop of my seed deep inside her.
She kisses me through our orgasms, not letting me go, her tongue flicking into my mouth with desperation.
I reach a high I've never known. Sweat beads on my skin. I don't stop thrusting until I have nothing left to give.
Our labored breathing is the only sound in the room.
I retreat from her mouth and try to calm my lungs as I study her.
She does the same, and we don't move for several minutes.
Someone bangs on the door, tearing us out of our trance.
Her green eyes widen, and she giggles.
I move my hand over her mouth, not wanting to cause a scene in Morocco and disrespect their modest culture.
There's another bang.
"Shh," I tell Fiona, slowly removing my hand and setting her on her feet. Once convinced she has her balance, I pull up and fasten my pants.
She adjusts her panties and dress. Then she frets, whispering, "Do I look okay?"
I glance at her flushed cheeks, plant a kiss on one, and reply, "You're gorgeous like always. Follow my lead. "
She nods.
I check myself in the mirror, determine we look presentable, and open the door. "Excuse us. My wife wasn't feeling very well."
A woman steps back and shoots me a disapproving look.
I quickly lead Fiona past her and back to our table. We take our seats in the booth, and I slide my arm around her.
She curls into me, sliding her hand on my thigh.
Salambek appears with a tray, beaming. "You're back. The chef has prepared zaalouk, otherwise known as Moroccan aubergine salad." He smiles at Fiona and sets two plates down.
My bride's face lights with excitement. She gazes at the dish and breathes in deeply, stating, "Smells amazing! And I'm starving all of a sudden."
"Me too," I admit.
Salambek points to the meat and continues, "Slow braised lamb shanks with the chef's secret tomato-based sauce over couscous."
"Yummy," Fiona chirps.
"Can I get you anything else? Another drink?" Salambek asks.
"Yes. Another round, please," I answer.
"Great," he says, then shuts the curtains just as the woman from the bathroom passes and tosses us another dirty look.
Fiona wrinkles her nose. "I think she knows what we did in the bathroom." She tries to contain her smile but can't.
I chuckle. "She's just jealous."
Fiona's face lights up further. "Do you think?"
Another wave of giddiness hits me. I grin and motion to the food. "Try the meat. The chef makes the best lamb dishes in Morocco. "
"Well, you know how much I love my meat," she teases.
I chuckle.
She picks up her knife and fork, cuts a piece off, and pops it in her mouth. "Mmm."
"Told you," I boast, then take a bite, groaning.
"It's so good," Fiona adds, putting the salad on her fork and stating, "It's interesting how the salad looks like brown mush."
"It's good, though," I claim.
She eats it and nods. "It's delicious. I can never get eggplant dishes to turn out very well."
"Do you like to cook?" I ask.
She nods. "Yes. But I hate cleaning up."
"Tell you what, you cook and I'll clean up," I offer.
Her lips twitch. "Really?"
"Yes. Of course."
She suggests, "Or, we could cook and clean up together."
"Deal," I agree, feeling the warmth in my chest expand even further.
We eat silently for a few minutes, and Salambek slips in to give us more cocktails. He leaves, and we return to eating.
Fiona takes a sip of her Morrocotini and then puts her fork down. She pats her napkin on her lips, then turns toward me.
"Everything okay?" I question.
She hesitates.
My chest tightens. I put my silverware down and encourage, "Whatever it is, say it. "
She opens her mouth, shuts it, then puts her hand on my inner thigh.
My cock springs back to life. I warn, "Careful where you put your hand, little bird. We might get arrested."
She teases me further by caressing her fingers higher, then leans into me. "So..."
"So?" I arch my eyebrows.
She bites on her lips, staring at me.
"You're making me nervous," I admit.
She softly laughs.
"Glad I can amuse you," I murmur.
She laughs again, then she goes serious. She finally says, "So you're okay if I get off my birth control?"
My stomach flips.
Stop being a pussy.
I put my arm around her and stroke her bicep, asking, "Are you sure you're ready for a baby?"
She slowly nods.
"My baby?"
She frowns. "Let's not go down this path again."
"I meant because I'm a Petrov."
She tenses.
"Ah. You forgot about that part," I state.
She shakes her head. "No. I didn't. I just hope my mom won't hate me forever. "
I sigh and kiss her head. "I'm sorry. And she won't. One way or another, we'll figure it out."
Sadness fills Fiona's expression. She mutters, "I can't imagine my mom not being a part of our kids' lives."
"Then she will be," I insist, but I hate how I don't have the problem solved.
Fiona offers a brave smile. "I guess it'll be her choice, right?"
"Yes, but don't think anything but good thoughts. She won't be able to stay away from you or the babies."
Fiona waggles her brows. "You said babies ."
My heart races faster. I remind her, "You said you wanted lots of babies, not just one."
She beams brighter. "I do."
What am I agreeing to?
She wants babies, so I have to give them to her.
What if they hate me?
Rehashing this isn't going to fly with Fiona.
I pick up her hand and kiss it. "If you want a houseful of babies, then that's what I'll give you."
She puts her palm on my cheek and scoots closer, then kisses me. "Good. And you know what we said back there?"
My stomach flutters. "Yeah."
She looks nervous. "I meant what I said."
I nod. "So did I."
She grins, then teases, "Good. Now I need to eat my meat. My husband made me work up an appetite, and I plan on burning more calories tonight."
I chuckle, give her a chaste kiss, and pick up her fork. I put lamb on it and hold it to her mouth. "Well, by all means, Mrs. Petrov. Please. Eat your meat."
She smirks, then runs her hand over my semi, declaring in a naughty voice, "I plan on eating lots of meat tonight, my dear hubby."