Page 33 of Kingpin's Nanny

Her eyes fly open. “I should clean?—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl into her ear.

She shudders with delight, and I run a possessive hand down her front, lingering over her breasts.

We breathe in unison, and I smile at the red and white of her outfit. Not quite like Santa, but a nod in that direction.

Then she looks back at my desk, and tilts her head. Picking up the Secret Santa present I was wrapping, she furrows her brow in confusion. “Lucas, you’re surethisis for Secret Santa?”

“Quite certain.”

With a snort of laughter, she puts it down. “Who is it for?”

“You’ll find out at the London Maths Club Christmas lunch.”

“Spoilsport,” she says happily, and cranes back to kiss the side of my neck. Pure happiness washes over me. Bella and I had a Spring wedding almost ten years ago, with Ivy as a bridesmaid,and Bella looking breathtaking in white silk. Since then, it’s been a blur of babies, birthdays, and perfect Christmases. I can never believe my luck.

My wife and kids make everything good.

“Mafia Christmas party, then I’m going to take you to bed properly later, and make you scream for that stunt you just pulled,” I promise Bella. “Now wrap the present like a good girl, and be quick. If we’re late I’ll tell everyone it’s because I had to discipline my naughty little elf.”

“You’re far too protective to do that,” she giggles as she reaches for the wrapping paper and covers the gift in five seconds flat, with an efficiency that stuns me anew every time I see her do it.

“True,” I admit. “You’remineand I don’t share. Not even subtle details.”

I take her hand and interlock our fingers, and we leave my office like that. Together. Always.

A few minutes later, the whole family is in the front hallway where I first saw Bella. The winter sun isn’t as strong as the summer when it highlighted her like the angel she is, but it touches all twelve of us now.

Bella, Aunty Cath, and I are ushering everyone out the door when Sylvie’s plaintive cry comes from near my knee.

“Daddy!”

I juggle eighteen-month-old Willma in my arms to look down at her.

Sylvie looks up at me, eyes shimmering with tears. “I haven’t got my bunny ears!”

Oh fuck. A crisis of the bunny ears headband. They are critical to Sylvie’s emotional stability, and we cannot go without them.

“Where are they?” We have a lot of organisation with so many of us, but apparently that cannot overcome the chaos of one of my middle daughters.

“The playroom.” Her lip wobbles.

Danger, danger. I really should have been helping get the kids ready to go out rather than allowing myself to be distracted by the excruciating Christmas tradition of Secret Santa, and my wife luring me into fucking her.

“I’ll get them for you.” I know how important these things are, even as I glance at Wilma, who will inevitably cry if I put her down. I head towards the stairs, which will be quicker than the elevator for just two flights.

“It’s alright, Dad,” Ivy says, ruffling Sylvie’s hair. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks.” The gratitude comes from bone-deep. Or at least cartilage deep. My first daughter has a special place in my heart.

“No worries,” Ivy says and whistles for her dog—she managed to persuade us to give her a puppy by the third Christmas of asking—and they take off upstairs in a cloud of glitter. Ivy has tinsel in her hair and wrapped around her waist, and her dog has tinsel on his collar. I suspect they’ll match the outfits of her friends, the other children of the London mafias. I really shouldn’t have agreed that the dog could go to a London Maths Club event, but Ivy assured me her pup would be better behaved than most of the Bratva boss’ sons. That had the ring of truth, to be honest.

Willma gurgles, and I jig her in my arms a bit. Seconds later, the all-important bunny ears are on Sylvie’s head, and we pile into the car. A scratch of regret gets through my skin that I have to spend time with anyone who isn’t my family.

“Fucking Christmas,” I grumble under my breath. Christmas is good for filthy sex with my wife, and nothing more. I refuse to believe otherwise.

“Dad!” Ivy laughs and elbows me, then cuddles her dog closer on her lap. “You love Christmas!”

“Hmmm.” She’s far too perceptive for a sixteen-year-old.

“You smile for all of December. Don’t pretend!”

“Lies.” I rub my face to hide my grin.

I suppose Christmas isn’t so bad.