Aldo
(Set in the third trimester, some weeks before Vera was born. Bonus content.)
The council was an intractable beast I could neither bypass nor attend with the necessary focus, and Arkady—seven months round, bored, and profoundly incorrigible—proposed a solution with a mask of perfect innocence. He’d discovered, much to his delight, that a heavily pregnant consigliere’s mate can leverage a terrifying amount of influence. With winter-water eyes that dared me to refuse him, he suggested we replicate our first encounter.
“You kept me under your desk for ninety minutes once,” he murmured, his voice a low, taunting vibration against my mouth. “Back when you were still posturing, pretending you didn’t want to keep me. I held it perfectly. I’ve replayed it more than I’ll ever admit.” He leaned in, his scent spiked with a sweet, frantic, nesting heat that was thick enough to choke an alpha. “I want to do it again. But this time, it’s not an operation. It’s mine. Let me be the distraction while you work.”
I had him in my lap—not relegated to the footwell; he was too far along for the floor, and I would sooner burn Philadelphia to the ground than force him to kneel on hard wood. I settled him sideways across my thighs behind the heavy mahogany desk, draping a thick wool blanket over both of us to simulate a domestic scene of a mate kept warm. Underneath that wool, I was buried deep inside him, seated firm, hard, and entirely still. His tight, scorched-earth heat was flooded with a thick, syrupy slick that devoured my shaft while I navigated ninety minutes of syndicate chaos.
“Still,” I commanded into the shell of his ear before the capos arrived, one hand splayed possessively over the taut, heavy curve of his belly, the other anchoring him to my rhythm. “You hold me, you do not shift, you stay silent and composed while I handle these men. If the weight becomes too much, or the little one moves against you, you tap my wrist twice. Twice is your command to clear the room.” I pressed a lingering, searing kiss to his temple. “This is control, moya istina. It is yours, over a body the world spent nine years using, which you have finally reclaimed. It is mine, over a room of men who think they hold the power. Hold this reality with me.”
He held it. My truth. The most disciplined operative in the city sat in my lap with my cock buried to the root in his dripping heat, composed as a marble bust while I steered six made men through the brutal dismemberment of Lukin’s empire. I felt every infinitesimal clench he mastered, his walls milking me in agonizing, hidden spasms while he kept his face completely blank above the desk.
I felt every subtle shift of the new, precious weight he carried. Twice I felt him cresting near the threshold of ‘too much’ through the bond, his internal muscles clamping down so violently I had to white-knuckle the armrests to keep my voice flat. Twice his hand hovered over my wrist before pulling back, choosing to stay, choosing to endure, choosing to take all of me. It was the most harrowing, erotic meeting I have ever conducted.
When the last man departed and the heavy doors clicked shut, I tore the wool blanket away. He was flushed, wrecked, magnificent—round with my daughter and still the most devastating liar I’d ever encountered, except that he possessed no secrets from me now. The bond was a torrent of raw, unadulterated want.
“Move,” I rasped.
He shivered at the release of that ninety-minute discipline, his head rolling back against my shoulder, and then he began to shift in my lap. He lifted his hips slightly, testing the sudden freedom, before grinding back down in a slow, heavy circle. The wet, messy squelch of his nesting slick and the friction of our skin sounded loud and obscene in the quiet office.
“Careful,” I groaned, my hands instantly moving to cradle the heavy, low curve of his belly, ensuring the weight of our child was solid, warm, and completely supported against my palms. “Slow. Easy.”
He whined, a guttural, desperate sound that broke from his throat, but he obeyed. He began circling his hips with a breathless, agonizing focus. His nipples—swollen, dark, and hypersensitive from the final weeks of pregnancy—brushed friction-hot against my shirt with every roll, already weeping a thin, pearlescent trace of milk that soaked into the linen.
“Good,” I breathed, my teeth grazing the scent-gland on his neck, inhaling the intoxicating musk of a mated, pregnant omega. “That’s it, you beautiful, filthy thing. Take every bit of me.”
The need built, a frantic, serrated edge. I knew he was close to shattering from the sheer weight of holding back for so long, but I held his hips, anchoring him in place. I am a man of infinite patience, and I had learned that my greatest love language was the art of the edge. I held him in that exquisite, agonizing tension, worshipping him not just with my body, but with my words.
“You spent nine years braced for the knife, expecting to be used,” I murmured, my hand tracing the taut swell of his belly, feeling the slight kick of our daughter against my palm. “Let me keep you in this state of grace a little longer. I have all the time in the world for you.”
I reached around, working his hardened, leaking nipples between my fingers, pinching the sensitive peaks until he sobbed, a drop of sweet cream smearing across my thumb. I brought it to his lips, making him taste his own fertility before I fed him promises that were both blasphemous and reverent.
“I’m going to fill you again after she’s born. And again. I want you round, claimed, and mine. Not for the family—for me. I want to keep you heavy with my children until you can’t remember what it was like to be a ghost.”
He was past speech, his grey eyes glazed over, his jaw unhinging in a slack, beautiful expression of pure surrender as his body clenched rhythmically, desperately around my length.
When I finally allowed him to finish, I stopped holding back. I gripped his hips and drove upward, hitting his sweet spot with a brutal, bottoming-out depth. Arkady shattered with a violence that left him sobbing in two languages, his climax tearing through the bond like a white-hot strike as his walls convulsed around me in a crushing, relentless vice.
I followed him instantly. My shaft shuddered, and at the very root of him, my knot began to swell aggressively, locking us together in a thick, physiological seal. I buried my face in his neck, pouring a massive, scalding torrent of alpha seed deep into his womb while he wriggled against the intense, stretching pressure of the knot plugging him completely full.
“Red?” I forced out, my voice shredded, undone by the sheer intensity of the bond.
“Green,” he gasped, weeping into my shoulder, wet and ruined, laughter bubbling through the tears. “Green, you patient, beautiful monster—green.”
Afterward, I gathered his heavy, trembling body onto my chest, mindful of the precious curve between us, and cleaned us with the slow, meticulous care I’d learned was the only way to treat something truly holy. I licked the remaining traces of milk from his chest, gentle now, and held the one unstrategic, irrational thing I’d allowed myself in fifty years of tactical living.
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