Page 22 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

EMILY

Five years later

“Now, we drink tea,” the voice of our five-year-old daughter declares with a touch of impatience, echoing from the open door to her bedroom. It was her birthday just a couple of weeks ago, and this tea set has been her obsession since.

Stroking my belly, I stop in the corridor of our family house on the way back from the bathroom—pregnancy requires many loo breaks—and wait for a response, but there isn’t any except the soft sound of fabric shifting.

Not a surprise, since our three-year-old twins are downstairs with the amazing nanny—Joyce is a treasure and loves our kids as much as she does her own grandchildren—so there’s only one likely candidate for who Natasha is playing with. Her father.

I peek around the doorframe to see my husband’s back, shoulders impossibly wide. He’s sitting on a tiny chair, at a child-sized table, apparently at a tea party with his eldest daughter. Natasha is opposite him, head bowed as she focuses intently.

Markov still doesn’t say much. I don’t think he ever will, but he’s a great listener. He happily listens to our kids talk absolute nonsense for far longer than I can.

Natasha has a doll in front of her, and there are a soft dog and a teddy bear on the other two small chairs at the table. I can’t see who Markov is playing, since his back is huge and blocks my view.

As Natasha chatters on, giving tea to all her party guests, I take a moment to admire my husband.

He’s in a pair of dark trousers that hug his muscled bottom, which he has perched on the tiny chair.

His waist is still narrow, and the slim black leather belt makes my fingers itch to undo it.

Even after years of marriage, I can’t resist him.

His white shirt is perfectly tailored, and as he brings a plastic teacup to his mouth, his rolled sleeves are revealed, along with his toned arms.

I’d be hard pressed to say which aspect of his body is my favourite, but his forearms, strong, covered with dark hair that partly obscures his tattoos that are like tidelines down his arm are swoon-worthy.

He and I have matching tattoos on our arms. A moon rising reflected in dark water, a nod to Lunacharski, which means a “goblet full of moonlight”.

Mine is the reverse of his, with a dark moon over pale water.

He calls them our mate marks.

Over the years he’s added, in flowing script, the names of our children within the outlines of bones that run down his arms and hands.

A part of him.

He didn’t say anything about the tattoos, just quietly returned home with them after each of our babies was born. I adore that about Markov. I never doubt his commitment to me and our family. He loves us. He loves us totally, we’re his life. Which is why he’s playing “tea” with Natasha.

“Mummy!”

Caught.

Natasha bounces in her seat, and Markov turns slowly, looking at me over his shoulder. He smirks when he sees me. I don’t know whether that’s because of the way I’m spying on him, like he first saw me all those years ago, or because of my bump. The one he put there, of course.

I run a protective hand over my five-month pregnant self.

His gaze follows, then slides down to see my naked legs and feet beneath my maternity dress.

He was right about that too. I have had plenty of use from the maternity clothes from that first shopping spree, as well as the ones he insisted on by pressing the matte black credit card into my hand with a meaningful scowl day after day until I did as he wanted. And earned his smile.

Markov loves to see me enjoy things he bought or paid for. He loves to watch me come, and to watch my face as I take his cock in all the imaginable ways, and some that are blush-makingly creative.

And that’s how you end up with three children and lots of maternity clothing.

He told me once he was slightly more impressed by the way I’ve turned around the data processing and archiving at Mortlake than by the miracle of how I gave him children, which felt like peak Markov to think they’re comparable.

“Will you play with us?” Natasha asks pleadingly.

“For one cup,” I agree, and pad into the room.

Markov and Natasha both smile, big, genuine, with their identical grey eyes. Natasha has my curly hair, but otherwise, she looks just like her dad.

“Shall I be teddy...” I stop as I see the toy in front of Markov.

“You can be teddy. Daddy is a mushroom, and that’s why he can’t speak,” Natasha informs me cheerfully.

I can’t speak either as I sink into the undersized chair, clutching my belly.

“A mushroom,” I say faintly.

Markov’s expression is full of mischief as he glances at me. Because before him is a small, rainbow-coloured, iridescent, dick.

It’s wearing a condom hat, and has a smiley face.

And last time I saw it, this monstrosity was in my home office, where the kids aren’t usually allowed because of the potential for adult and or mafia content.

“Natasha, where did you get the toy Daddy is playing with?” I choke on the final couple of words because my husband raises one eyebrow, as though to say, “It isn’t me who loves to play with my dick”.

“Uhh…” Natasha looks sheepish. “I found it.”

The plastic penis smiles mockingly at me.

“The thing is, my friend Lina gave it to me.” She was giving them away at her “spicy romance and spicy food” evening at her bookshop.

“Why did she give you a toy?” Natasha asks innocently.

Markov snorts with laughter that he turns into a cough.

I glare at him. Markov is listening, but also unrolling his sleeves to cover his tattooed forearms. I almost protest. I like that view. It’s the one thing keeping me sane.

“You’re an adult, you don’t need a toy?—”

Markov rumbles a low chuckle.

“Everyone needs toys,” I reply smoothly, but Natasha is scowling.

“It’s my toy now. I was going to take it to school.”

Oh no. No no no.

I shoot a panicky glance at Markov, press my hand to my belly and pray that this next child is a boy and not obsessed with penises. Peni. What’s the plural...?

Dicks. With dicks.

Markov gives me an innocent look, almost bland, then turns to our daughter, who is on the verge of a meltdown.

“Natasha.” He says her name with a rasp in his voice from disuse, and his customary efficiency.

Her head snaps up.

He picks up the disputed dick or mushroom or whatever it is, and flicks it this way and that.

She watches sulkily.

Even I don’t see how he does the trick.

One second it’s in his fingers, the next it’s gone, and Markov is holding out his hands.

Natasha gasps in shock. “What happened to the mushroom?”

Markov shrugs and searches performatively left and right, as though trying to find the plastic knob.

“It was a magic mushroom,” I say, lips twitching with mirth.

“But who will you be at the tea party now?” she protests, also looking under the table, with her dad.

How he got away with that without causing tears, I’ll never know.

Instead, he leans one long arm—suspiciously full at the cuff—into a pile of other toys and pulls out a stuffed rabbit.

Oh no.

“Bunny!” Natasha exclaims, and takes the accessorised soft toy from her dad’s big hand. It was the must-have toy a few months ago, and of course Markov bought it for Natasha, complete with Velcro-on accessories.

In this case, fruit.

So wholesome. If only they weren’t two plums and a banana placed right between the rabbit’s paws. Below its waist.

Natasha fusses with placing the bunny in the correct place at Markov’s knees, but my mischievous husband leans over and grabs my chin, pulling me in for a brief, hard kiss. And although there are no tongues or lingering nips, heat flushes into me.

His other hand brushes my stomach as he withdraws, a silent promise. He looks after me in every way.

Then he’s straightened, and gazes down seriously at Natasha. Tapping his long index finger on the comically small cup, he demands, “Tea.”

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