Page 32 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The house is quiet when I return.

Not silent—never silent, not anymore—but warm. Settled. The front door clicks shut behind me, muting the sound of distant rain tapping against the stone steps. I hang up my coat and loosen my tie, the soft hum of something familiar pulling me further in.

I follow it to the living room, and stop in the doorway.

Esme’s on the floor, her legs folded beneath her, loose strands of hair falling around her face.

She’s laughing—shoulders shaking, head tilted back—and the sound roots me to the spot.

In front of her, Liliana lies on her back, kicking her feet with wild delight, her hands wrapped tight around a stuffed gray bear with a bow around its neck.

Her giggle cuts through the room like light.

She babbles something incoherent, squawking, then squealing with joy when Esme leans down and blows raspberries into her belly.

I don’t speak. Don’t move.

It hits me harder than anything I’ve felt in months.

The fire flickering low in the hearth. The blanket Esme’s half sitting on. The toy bear. The sound of my daughter’s laugh—mine—and the look on my wife’s face when she watches her.

It’s so painfully domestic I can hardly breathe.

I never thought this would be mine. If someone told the old me I’d end up here—tripping over stuffed bears, married to a woman whom I adore—I’d have called them crazy.

Esme catches sight of me a moment later. Her smile changes, softens. She tucks her hair behind her ear and lifts her chin.

“You’re home.”

I nod, still standing there like a man who’s lost the ability to cross a room. “Got back early. Traffic was better than expected.”

Liliana kicks again, the bear clutched tight in her chubby fists. I step forward and crouch beside them. She squeals, arms flailing when she sees me.

“Come here, love,” I murmur, lifting her easily into my arms.

She smells like powdered milk and Esme’s perfume. Like soft blankets and warmth. I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing her in.

I look down at Esme. Her smile hasn’t quite returned. There’s something faint around her mouth—just enough tension to make me pause. A flicker of something.

“Long day?” I ask, lowering myself to sit beside her.

“Not really,” she says, reaching to tug the blanket back into place. “She’s been like this all afternoon. Just… loud and happy.”

“Good.” I bounce Liliana gently, watching her latch on to the collar of my shirt with curious fingers.

Esme shifts slightly, leaning against the couch behind her. Her hand rests on my knee without thinking. I cover it with mine.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” I say, not accusing. Just honest.

She looks at me, then away. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods, but it’s not convincing.

“She’s growing fast,” she says, and she’s right. In the two months since her birth, Liliana has already outgrown my favorite of her onesies. “Every day feels like a new version of her. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“You haven’t missed a thing.”

“I know, but still.”

There’s more to it. I can feel it in the way her fingers flex under mine.

I lean in and kiss her temple.

She sighs. “I’m okay. I promise.”

I don’t let it go, not really. I just hold her hand tighter and rest my cheek against Liliana’s soft head, watching Esme’s eyes flick between the fire and the baby and the thoughts she doesn’t quite say aloud.

***

The house has finally gone quiet.

Liliana is down for the night—fed, bathed, swaddled, and asleep with her fist curled beside her cheek. The monitor hums softly in the background as I finish locking up the downstairs. Lights off. Alarms set. The usual.

I take the stairs slowly.

There’s no sound coming from the bedroom when I push the door open, but I don’t need it to know she’s awake.

Esme lies on her side, half buried beneath the covers, her eyes fixed on the far window, even though the curtains are drawn. Her body is still. Her breathing even. But she’s not sleeping. I know what she looks like when she sleeps.

I step inside and close the door quietly.

“You’ve been sulking,” I say without warning.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue.

Her voice comes softly, without heat. “A little.”

I unbutton my shirt slowly, watching her in the low glow of the bedside lamp. “You want to tell me why?”

She shifts, then sits up, the duvet falling from her shoulder. Her hair is messy. Her eyes are tired. But what I notice most is that she looks hesitant. Not angry. Not emotional. Just… withheld.

“I feel invisible sometimes,” she says.

I pause.

Her voice doesn’t waver, but it cuts. “You’re always working. Or handling something. Or with the baby. And when you’re here… I know you love her. I know you love me, but—” She sighs. “It’s like I’m not in the picture anymore. Not the way I used to be.”

I study her in silence.

She meets my gaze. She’s braver than she thinks.

“I miss you,” she adds. “My husband. The man who once looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.”

I sit at the edge of the bed, and for a long second, I don’t say anything.

Then, slowly, I smirk.

“You’re jealous,” I murmur.

Her eyes widen, her brows pulling together. “I’m not—”

“You are,” I interrupt, amused now. “Of your own daughter.”

“I am not jealous of Liliana,” she says, but there’s color rising in her cheeks.

“You are,” I repeat, leaning closer. “It’s okay.”

She opens her mouth, probably to deny it again, but I reach for her before she can.

One hand in her hair. One at her waist.

Her body stiffens—only for a breath. Then she leans into me, mouth parting, breath caught somewhere between indignation and want.

I pull her into my lap, carefully, mindful of the way her body is still healing in quiet, invisible ways.

“I could never forget you,” I murmur against her ear. “Not for a second.”

She swallows hard.

“I’ve been trying to get it all right,” I continue. “The business. The house. Her. You. I didn’t realize what I was missing until I saw your face tonight.”

Her hands curl against my chest.

“I didn’t want to say it,” she whispers.

“Say it next time,” I reply. “Or I’ll make you jealous on purpose.”

She lets out a breath that turns into a laugh—half annoyed, half aroused—and before she can speak again, I kiss her.

It starts slow.

Controlled. Careful.

My lips move over hers with the same patience I used the first time I touched her, but underneath it now is something thicker. Heavier. Weeks of quiet restraint. Weeks of late nights, of passing touches, of wanting but not reaching.

She shifts again, sliding her arms around my neck, deepening the kiss.

It turns hungry.

Her mouth parts under mine and I taste the need in her—just like before, only different now. Weighted with something softer. Stronger.

Love.

I press her down gently into the mattress, never breaking contact, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her side.

She gasps softly, lifting into me.

I trail kisses along her jaw, down her throat, over the curve of her shoulder.

“I miss you too,” I whisper. “But I never stopped wanting you.”

She arches beneath me, fingers tugging at my shirt.

“Then show me,” she breathes. “Like you used to.”

“With pleasure.” I smirk, dragging her under me with a confidence that’s never left, even when everything else has changed. “You remember how this goes?”

“Remind me,” she breathes.

“Gladly.”

She’s breathless beneath me.

Her eyes meet mine in the dim light, wide and waiting, the flush on her cheeks blooming into something deeper.

I kiss her again—slow, open-mouthed, coaxing.

I feel her melt beneath the weight of it, her hands moving over my back with quiet urgency, like she needs this more than sleep, more than breath.

I trail kisses down her throat, pausing at the hollow just above her collarbone. Her pulse flutters there, quick and unsteady. I taste it, feel her fingers curl against the nape of my neck as I press lower, slowly undoing the buttons of her nightdress one by one.

She lifts her hips to help me ease the fabric down.

I grin against her neck. “Patience, sweetheart. I’m going to make you beg for it.”

There’s no hurry. Not tonight.

I want to see her. All of her. To remind her that nothing—not work, not fatherhood, not the passing of time—could ever dull this need. This fire that exists only for her.

Her skin is soft beneath my palms, warm from sleep, stretched with motherhood and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched. I kiss the curve of her breast, the line of her ribs, the soft swell of her stomach. She shivers under my mouth, sighing my name like it’s a confession.

“Kion…”

I look up.

She’s watching me, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in quick rhythm. She’s flushed, hair spread out on the pillow, eyes dark with want.

I slide back up, bracing myself on one arm while the other cups her face.

“I’ve missed you like this,” I murmur.

She nods once. “Then take your time.”

My fingers explore her slowly—every inch. I map her with mouth and hands, relearning what makes her arch, what makes her gasp, what soft, whispered curses she lets slip when she’s just on the edge.

She’s wet for me—eager, aching, every part of her humming with the kind of tension that’s been building for far too long.

When I slip my fingers between her thighs, she spreads wider, welcoming me with a soft moan that lands hot against my neck. I stroke her slowly, watching her eyes flutter shut, watching her hips rise off the bed.

“You feel the same,” I whisper. “So good for me, hmm?”

“Always yours,” she breathes.

I push two fingers into her, and she gasps, her legs tightening around my hips.

I take my time, working her open again with steady pressure, watching the way her lips part, the way her brows knit with pleasure. She clings to me, grounding herself in every touch, every breath.

When she starts to tremble, I slow.

She whines—quiet, frustrated.

I grin against her neck. “Not yet.”

Her laugh is a broken, breathy thing. “You’re cruel.”

“You wouldn’t love me if I weren’t.”

I withdraw my hand, lift her thighs gently, and settle between them. She pulls me closer, one leg hooking behind my back.

When I enter her, it’s slow. My cock aches for her, but the tension is so wonderful I find myself bucking into her, a moan muffled as I clamp my lips closed.

She gasps and clutches my shoulders, head tipping back as I fill her inch by inch.

She’s tight, hot, slick—her body welcoming mine like it’s never forgotten how we fit.

I still once I’m buried deep, breathing hard against her neck.

She strokes my jaw. “Kion…”

I meet her eyes.

“Don’t hold back,” she says.

Of course I don’t.

I move in her with purpose, finding the rhythm that makes her lose track of time, of sound, of everything but the two of us.

Her moans turn into gasps, then into soft cries that break open something in me.

I kiss her through all of it—her mouth, her cheek, her throat—until she’s clinging to me with everything she has, trembling around me.

Her hands grasp at my shoulders, nails dragging down my back in desperate little arcs.

Her head tips back, lips parted around breathless moans that rise and fall with every thrust. I move deeper, harder, drawn by the way her body reacts—how she tightens around me, how she trembles under every stroke like she’s unraveling in my arms.

I press my mouth to her throat, to the spot just beneath her jaw where her pulse races against my lips. She whimpers when I kiss it, softer now, like she’s right on the edge again.

“You feel everything?” I murmur, voice low, ragged.

She nods, unable to speak. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently.

I shift my weight, angling just enough to find that spot inside her that makes her gasp, arch, cling to me like she’s drowning.

Her breath catches, her thighs tighten, and her whole body starts to shake again.

I keep her right there, riding that edge, her moans getting louder, needier—until she falls apart with a cry I swear I’ll never forget.

She breaks beneath me, her whole body tensing, then pulsing with heat and pressure. Her legs lock around my hips as I thrust once, twice more, before I follow her over the edge—everything in me pouring into her in one long, shuddering groan.

The world stills.

I stay inside her, forehead resting against hers, both of us slick with sweat, breathless, hearts pounding.

I can’t help myself. I grin—slow and satisfied, voice rough in her ear. “That was so fucking hot.”