Epilogue
Charlotte
Lottie has carrot on her eyelashes.
Actual carrots. One orange streak stuck to the very tip of one, blinking like a tiny flag waving surrender.
I bite my bottom lip to stop the laugh bubbling up, but it escapes anyway. She looks at me, affronted, as if I’m the messy one. Her chubby hand lands in the bowl of purée and slaps the tray of her highchair with impressive power.
“Нет,” I scold gently. “No.”
Lunchtime rule number one: Russian only. Vitali insists on it. Our daughter, six months old today, should grow up with both languages.
I try again, more patient.
“Лотти, аккуратно.” Lottie, careful.
She responds by trying to feed the spoon to her own eyebrow.
Well…effort is effort.
Soft footsteps sound behind me, and warmth pools low in my belly before I even turn. Vitali moves into the room like he always does, purposeful and quiet, aware of where every shadow lives. His tie is loosened a little, top button undone. Work-Vitali, but slightly unwound at the edges.
He bends to kiss the top of Lottie’s downy head first, he always greets her first, then his hand finds my hip in a familiar, grounding touch.
“How are my girls?” he asks in Russian, voice rich enough to melt sanity.
I look up, and that stupid flutter beneath my ribs starts again. Six months and the man still has the power to turn my bones into warm honey.
“Лотти ест… очень… беспорядочно,” I manage. Lottie is eating… very… messily.
He huffs a soft laugh. “Она — Дубович.” She is a Dubovicha. As though that excuses chaos.
He removes his suit jacket and rolls his sleeves to the elbow, like he’s about to perform delicate surgery rather than spoon-feed vegetables.
And somehow, this, this domestic, quiet moment, is more devastatingly attractive than any of the times he’s pinned me to a door and made me forget my own name.
“Я скучал.” His mouth finds my cheek. I missed you.
He was only gone a few hours. But those hours stretch now, like time refuses to behave when he’s not near. I swallow, because something inside me has grown too big to contain.
“I was with Sophia this morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and stay within the rules. “Мы гуляли в саду.” We walked in the garden.
“And the little one?” he asks, gaze dropping automatically to my hands… my belly…
He doesn’t know.
Not yet.
My pulse stumbles. I look at Lottie again, her soft cheeks, her little fist gripping the spoon like it’s treasure, and emotion swells so suddenly behind my ribs I almost gasp with it.
He has given me everything. A home. A place to belong. A family. Himself.
This love, ridiculous and gigantic, doesn’t fit in the space a contract once carved.
He wipes a bit of orange mush from Lottie’s chin with his thumb, then lifts it to his own lips, licking it off without thinking. A gesture too sensual for vegetables.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine.
I can’t wait anymore.
My breath trembles out.
“Витали…” Vitali…
His body stills. The air thickens.
“Yes?” He says it careful, like he can already feel a shift.
I slide my hand into his, fingers threading like roots tangled in earth, and guide his palm to rest low over my abdomen. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that he will.
He frowns at first, puzzled.
Then realization detonates.
His hand press-fits more firmly. His chest rises as he inhales sharply, eyes snapping to mine, stormy and wide and bright with something fierce.
“Ты беременна?” You’re pregnant?
My heart kicks wildly. “Да.” Yes.
The word hangs between us like a lit match.
His jaw clenches. His throat works around a sound that might be prayer or curse or both. His thumb strokes the spot beneath his hand, reverent, possessive, disbelieving.
“We did it,” I whisper. “Again.”
“No,” he breathes, voice breaking into wonder and need. “You did. You’re giving me another heir. Another child. Our child.”
His other hand comes up to cradle my face and he kisses me, soft at first, like he’s tasting the miracle, then deeper, hungry, desperate, relieved. Lottie babbles happily, kicking her carrot-covered feet like she approves of this news.
He pulls back only enough to rest his forehead against mine. His voice is a vow:
“Значит… ты остаёшься навсегда.” So… you’re staying forever.
My throat tightens. “Всегда.” Forever.
He kisses me again, longer, deeper, and Lottie squeals like she can already sense another sibling on the way, like she knows she’ll never be alone.
Then Vitali’s voice drops to dark silk, and wicked promises and he moves close enough that his breath brushes my lips:
“It’s nap time.”
He plucks Lottie from the highchair, wiping carrot from her with smooth strokes of a cloth he grabs on the way.
I follow him up the stairs, watching him talk and coo to our baby in Russian, my heart kicking up a notch when I think about what he is about to do to me. How he is going to make me feel.
The anticipation alone is enough to heat my blood.
I go through to our bathroom and strip off my vegetable stained T-shirt and leggings. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My body is different now, but I feel amazing. I feel strong and sexy, knowing my body grew our perfect child, is growing another.
And Vitali is still as insatiable for me as he ever was.
We enter the bedroom at the same time, me from the bathroom and him from the nursery. The moment his eyes land on me they turn dark with needy desire.
He groans as he presses against the length already tenting his trousers.
I watch him from across the room, my pulse already a wild drumbeat in my veins.
Vitali's eyes rake over me like fire, dark and devouring, his hand still absently pressing against the thick bulge straining his pants.
Lottie's down for her nap, bless her quick-to-sleep little soul, and now it's just us.
Him. Me. This electric hunger that seems to be a permanent hum between us.
God, I feel powerful. The way he looks at me like I'm a goddess he wants to worship and wreck in equal measure. It makes me bold. Feral.
I cross the room slowly letting my hips sway just enough to tease. His breath hitches, chest rising faster, but he doesn't move. Not yet. He's waiting, those storm-gray eyes locked on mine, daring me to take what I want.
And oh, I want.
When I reach him, I don't hesitate. My hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his shirt.
I yank, hard, and buttons pop like gunfire, scattering across the floor.
He growls low in his throat, a primal sound that vibrates straight to my core, but I don't stop.
I shove the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the hard planes of his chest, the intricate tattoos that tell stories of violence and survival.
My fingers trail over his abs, and he hisses, his cock twitching visibly through his pants.
"Charlotte," he rasps, voice rough like gravel. "Fuck, what are you—"
"Shh." I press a finger to his lips, then replace it with my mouth, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him groan.
He tastes like salt and sin, and I deepen the kiss, tongue thrusting against his, claiming him the way he's claimed me so many times before.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in possessively, but I break the kiss and shove him back toward the bed.
He stumbles once, surprise flashing in his eyes, but then that wicked smile curves his mouth. He knows. He sees the fire in me, the need to control this, to drive us both to the edge.
"Sit," I command, my voice breathy but firm.
He does, perching on the edge of the mattress, thighs spread wide, that massive erection tenting his pants like a promise I desperately need to know.
I step between his legs, my breasts level with his face, and he leans in instinctively, mouth latching onto one nipple.
The hot suction sends a bolt of pleasure straight between my thighs, making me wetter, achier.
I thread my fingers into his hair and pull, yanking his head back.
"Not yet," I whisper, loving the way his eyes darken with frustration and lust. "You touch when I say."
He nods once, jaw clenched, but his hands flex at his sides like it's taking every ounce of restraint not to flip me over and pound into me. Good. I want him feral. As desperate as I am.
I drop to my knees between his thighs, my hands making quick work of his belt and zipper.
His cock springs free, thick and veined, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
My mouth waters. I wrap my hand around the base and moan at how hard I find him, how hot he is.
I stroke once, slow and firm. He bucks into my grip with a guttural curse, his abs contracting.
"Fuck, malyshka..."
I lean in and lick him from base to tip, swirling my tongue around the crown, tasting the salty bead there.
He groans, head falling back, fists clenching the sheets.
I take him deeper, sucking hard, hollowing my cheeks as I bob, my free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently.
He's shaking now, breaths coming in ragged pants, and the power surges through me like lightning.
This man, this ruthless, unbreakable Bratva heir, is unraveling because of me.
But I don't let him come. Not like this. I pull off with a wet pop, standing as he lets out a frustrated snarl, his cock throbbing angrily in the air.
"Charlotte—"
"Lie down," I say, my voice husky with need. "Middle of the bed."
His eyes flash with understanding, and he complies, shifting back, lying flat with his head toward the pillows.
I crawl over him, straddling his hips in reverse, my back to his face, ass hovering just above his straining cock.
Reverse cowgirl. I've fantasized about this, about controlling the depth, the pace, about making him beg while I take what I need.
I reach between us, gripping him, and lower myself slowly onto his length.
The stretch is exquisite, burning, filling, perfect.
I sink down inch by inch, feeling every ridge, every vein as he splits me open.
We both moan, the sound raw and animalistic.
When I’m fully seated with him buried to the hilt, I grind once, circling my hips, feeling him hit that deep spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Fuck," he growls, his hands flying to my ass, squeezing, spreading me wider. "Ride me, Charlotte. Take all of me."
I lift and slam back down, hard and fast, the slap of skin on skin echoing like a filthy symphony.
Pleasure coils tight in my core, building with every thrust. He's so deep like this, hitting angles that make me see white.
I brace my hands on his thighs, nails digging in for leverage, and set a brutal pace, up, down, grind, repeat.
My breasts bounce with the force, my breaths coming in sharp cries.
Vitali's feral now, hips bucking up to meet me, his fingers bruising my hips as he tries to pull me down harder. "That's it," he snarls. "Fuck me like you own me. This pregnant pussy so tight, so wet for me."
His words ignite me. I lean forward slightly, changing the angle, and oh fuck, his cock drags against that sensitive front wall, sparking fireworks. I ride him harder, primal need taking over, my body slick with sweat, thighs burning but I don't care. I want more. Need more.
“I do own you,” I pant. “Every inch of you is mine,” I say with a panting grunt as I cup his balls with one hand and tease them lightly.
One of his hands slides around, finding my clit, rubbing furious circles that make me gasp. The other squeezes my hip hard and the pain twists into pleasure so intense I clench around him like a vice.
"I can’t wait for you to come on my cock," he he says, voice wrecked. "Milk my cock, Charlotte. Show me how much you love being full of my cum."
It's too much. The stretch, the friction, his fingers, his words.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, ripping a guttural cry from my throat.
My walls pulse and spasm around him, vision blurring as wave after wave of ecstasy drowns me.
I grind down hard, riding it out, my body shaking violently as I squeeze his balls.
Vitali roars beneath me, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and explodes.
I feel him pulse, hot spurts filling me, marking me from the inside.
His groans turn into primal, broken whimpers, his body arching off the bed and his balls tightening in my hand as he empties everything he has into me.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs and sweat, breaths heaving like we've fought a war. I slide off him slowly, wincing at the delicious ache, and turn to curl against his chest. His arms band around me immediately, possessive and tender, lips pressing to my forehead.
"Forever," he murmurs in Russian, voice hoarse.
"Forever," I echo, my hand splaying over my belly where our new future grows.