23. April

23

APRIL

Matvey appears in the doorway just as I'm bidding Yuri goodbye. "You're still here?"

Yuri looks, for all intents and purposes, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It doesn't help that there's a literal cookie dangling from his mouth. Chocolate chip, with just a sprinkle of caramel.

"She invited me to tea," he says defensively.

"Just a little thank you," I add, patting Yuri comfortingly on the shoulders. "Now, be careful on the way home. You have my number if you need to reach me."

"Yeah, yeah," Yuri grumbles. His eyes dart toward the exit and his feet shuffle in place, like he can't get out of here fast enough. Honestly, it's kind of adorable. "Thanks for the tea."

"Thanks for the help," I reply, waving as he goes. All throughout the exchange, Matvey keeps looking at me as though I've grown two heads.

"Why are you acting like you're his mother?" he demands as soon as the door's shut behind our backs. It's not unkindly, though. If anything, he sounds… amused?

I shrug and steal the dinner trays from the cart. "He's younger than me."

"By two years."

"Still."

We sit at the table. For some reason, the air's different tonight. Lighter. Maybe it's thanks to Yuri's cameo, or maybe it's the sock monkey watching over from the top of the fridge. Impossible to say, really.

"You didn't have to do all that, you know."

Matvey doesn't so much as shrug. His frozen posture seems to scream, That's how casual I am about this. See? I didn't even move. "I know. I wanted to."

"It was a nice gesture."

"Good."

"I'm still gonna need you to vet Dr. Allan."

Matvey glances up from his plate with a glint in his eyes. His lips curve helplessly upwards—something I take as a personal victory. A-ha! I nearly shout. So you can laugh! "I'll put Grisha on it."

"Thank you," I reply graciously.

All throughout dinner, I can't keep a grin off my face. It's stupid, but I can't help it—I'm in a really good mood. A far cry from this morning, surely.

"Is Yuri the reason you hoard chocolate chip cookies?"

"Mhm. His sweet tooth will be the death of him. But I suppose there are worse ways to go."

"It's really sweet," I tell him. "Both the gesture and the cookies."

"Don't eat too many," Matvey warns. "Too much sugar's bad for the baby."

"Says the guy who always brings me dessert," I chirp, undeterred. "Nice pocket square, by the way."

Matvey glances at his jacket. It's a different one, but the indigo pops just as beautifully against the black. "Thank you. A decent tailor made it for me."

"Just decent, huh?"

"Good with the hands, but a bit mouthy for my taste."

I lob a dinner roll at his head and the smile that's been simmering since we sat down finally dawns on Matvey's face. I take it as a win.

All in all, it's a relaxed evening. Fun. It's been a while since I've had that—I'd nearly forgotten what it felt like.

I always knew Matvey had a playful side. Seeing it out in the open like this, however, is different. It makes me feel like I'm in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

Again, that's something I haven't had often in life.

After dinner, as usual, Matvey picks up my hand to kiss it. I steel myself against the familiar rush of warmth, that brief, intense burst of sensation, three seconds at the most.

One, two, three…

Matvey's lips stay.

I freeze. I don't dare say a word. All I can do is shoot a covert glance at my baby daddy's face, the long shadows of the night covering his expression. A curtain I can't peek through.

And then his mouth moves.

One more kiss, just shy of my knuckles. This time, he lingers, brushing against my skin in a slow caress. Indulgent. Like he's savoring the taste of me.

"Matvey…?" I venture, voice small.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't stop, either. Up, up, all the way to the curve of my wrist, kissing the spot where the bone dips. Then higher still.

I'm quivering from head to toe. This isn't warmth—this is a bonfire. And right now, I'm dangerously close to the flame.

"This is a bad idea," I breathe once those burning lips rise all the way up my arm, my bare shoulder, planting shivers all over. Goosebumps—my skin rising to meet his.

He doesn't deny it. "Mm," is all he says, a growl that I can feel against my throat. He nips at the delicate skin there, dragging a gasp from me, but I force myself to swallow it. Force myself to keep it quiet. If I do, maybe he won't realize how badly I want this. How badly I need it.

But it's already too late.

His lips meet mine. It's the barest brush of skin, almost an accident. I exhale raggedly, my breaths coming in short, failing me?—

Suddenly, I feel his strong fingers trapping my chin, forcing me to turn my head and look him in the eye. Cerulean eyes, the color of frostbite.

"Good or bad doesn't matter," he whispers against me, his lips a hair's breadth from mine. As he speaks, I can feel them moving. "Do you want this?"

I wish I could say no. I wish I could turn my head away, put one foot in front of the other, leave his kisses behind. I wish that I could make the smart choice, for once.

But I've never been a good liar.

And my heart makes terrible choices.

"Yes," I breathe.

So he kisses me.

He kisses me long and deep. He kisses like he's hungry, like we haven't just had the kind of dinner that could make you sleepy just by glancing at it. He kisses like he's starving.

And I'm the only meal worth going for.

We stumble backwards into the ottoman. He catches me by the waist, lowering me down gently. It paints a stark contrast with the way his mouth is devouring me. Bite after bite, like an offering.

"Fuck," he groans into the curve of my neck. "You were made for this."

I shudder. The second his sandpaper voice strokes my ear, I lose it completely. "Matvey…" I breathe, unable to say anything else, anything coherent. It feels so good—to finally have a name.

His teeth scrape all the way down: down my jaw, my neck, my throat. At the same time, I can feel his hands working at my sash, tugging impatiently to pull it free.

Finally, my dress falls open.

I try to fight the impulse to cover myself back up. It's embarrassing—my belly's gigantic right now, stretched full with the evidence of what we did last time we ended up like this. It makes me feel self-conscious, even more than usual. After all, there's no way anyone would find this body?—

"Beautiful," Matvey murmurs. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

He forces my hands back at my sides. Forces me to let him look. Even his eyes seem to be devouring me right now, leaving behind nothing but bones. No: I have a feeling he'd crush those under his teeth, too. Anything to swallow me whole, to have more of me.

Then he kneels between my legs, and suddenly, I can't think straight.

"Mat—" I start, but my words are cut short. Swallowed, almost literally. Abruptly, his tongue claims me where I'm most sensitive, sending shocks of pleasure down my spine, and it's all I can do to bite my lips and choke on my own voice.

But he won't have that. "No," he snarls, five fingers pressing into each thigh. Keeping them apart. "Let me hear you fall to pieces for me."

So I do.

I writhe on the ottoman, moaning shamelessly while Matvey ravages me. With his tongue, his teeth, his everything. I can feel the trace of stubble on his chin when he turns to bite into my inner thigh, and that faint scrape drives me to madness.

I feel like a live wire. I've never been so sensitive in my whole damn life. "Matvey," I call again, this time weaker. Wrecked in all the ways that count. " Matvey. "

Blindly, I reach for his hair. I make a fist around his roots, not to hurt, but to hold on. Otherwise, I feel like I might drown.

Matvey groans into my flesh, the sensation reverberating all the way inside me. " Blyat', kalina. " His efforts redouble, eager to hear more broken moans from me. I'd laugh at the size of his ego, but truthfully, it's the size of something else that's haunting my mind right now.

I want it so bad. I want my baby daddy to flip me over and fuck me like he means it—but I also don't want him to stop. I don't want his mouth to leave me.

His teeth come out to play, rolling my clit between them, and I nearly white out from pleasure. "Matvey, I'm gonna?—"

My fist goes tight in his hair. Suddenly, it's all too much: his tongue keeps lapping into me, hot and deep, and I simply can't hold on any longer.

I come with a scream. I've never been a screamer, not once in my life, but apparently, that's another thing Matvey Groza's made me: pregnant, and loud.

Loud enough to want to die afterwards, shame curling over me in the wake of pleasure. How far is it to the balcony, I wonder? Maybe I could make it. I was always a fast sprinter.

But Matvey doesn't let me. In fact, Matvey doesn't let me go anywhere. "Hips up, kalina ," he commands instead, and all but yanks me to the edge of the ottoman, rising with my legs in his grip. The back of my thighs is flush against his rock-hard chest—and it's not long until I feel a rock-hard something else pressing against me, demanding entrance.

I look up. Matvey's staring at me from above like a vengeful god, ready to take back what's rightfully his.

Do it , a shameful part of me whispers. I'm yours.

"April," he rasps, voice dark and serious. It makes me pay attention. "Is it safe?"

It takes me a moment to figure out what it means. Of course it's safe , I think hazily, glancing down at my humongous belly. It's not like you can get me double pregnant, right?

Then I realize: Oh.

He's worried about the baby.

"Yes," I breathe, for once sure of myself.

"Are you certain?"

Unless you don't fuck me right this second. In that case, I'm gonna die, and Nugget's gonna be pissed at you at least until college. "Yes, Matvey, you won't break my water by pounding me into an ottoman. Now, just?—"

My voice breaks. It's like all sound has been punched out of me: I can't speak, I can't breathe.

All I can do is feel.

Matvey's face splits into a grin. A feral one, the kind that's born in the wilderness. "Good."

He's already inside me. It's just the tip, but it's a big tip, and it splits me completely.

"Matvey," I whine, rolling my hips to take him deeper, but he's just as much of a sadist as the first day we met, when he tied up a poor, innocent tailor and had his wicked way with her—well, maybe not that innocent—because he refuses.

He doesn't thrust, doesn't move. Only grabs my thighs tighter and keeps me from moving, completely at his mercy.

"Nuh-uh," he tuts, holding me perfectly still. "Not so fast, kalina. "

I want to die. Is it okay to want to die?

I can feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. Frustration, impatience—and, most of all, pleasure.

Because he's there. Inside-but-not-quite, just enough to give me a taste, to make me want to squirm for it. Beg for it.

I can tell that's exactly what he wants.

Ego—that's what it comes down to again. Which one of us is the most stubborn? Which one of us can endure the longest, resist temptation to gain the upper hand?

Right now, it's sure as hell not me.

"Please," I break, too far gone for pride. "Please, I can't take it anymore, I need?—"

His eyes darken. I can see his pupils blow wide, eating away at the blue like dark water chipping at ice. Slowly, slowly?—

"Ah—!" I cry out, fisting the pillows by my head as Matvey finally, finally slides home inside me.

He leans over me, blocking out the light. "Hold fast, kalina " is all the warning he gives me before he starts pounding in earnest.

He pulls nearly all the way out. I can feel every inch of him sliding away, the friction almost too hard to bear. Reflexively, I clench my thighs around him, locking my ankles at the small of his back to prevent him from leaving, leaving me empty and aching and?—

And then he slams back in, giving me no room to breathe.

"Matvey!" I call uselessly, too lost in the pleasure to care. "Matvey," I moan, over and over again as he fucks me into the ottoman without a care for my life.

That's not entirely true , a lucid part of me whispers, small as it is. I can tell, despite everything, that he's holding back; that, if it weren't for the baby, he'd be rearranging my insides mercilessly.

I don't know how I could've taken that. As it stands, I can barely take this: this reckless rhythm of push and pull, driving me damn near crazy.

Matvey doesn't stop. He fucks me exactly the way I asked him to, hard and fast and deep, grinding his cock into that one spot that always brings me to tears. I can feel my orgasm building up again, thrust after thrust, as if I didn't come hard enough to cry just a few short minutes ago.

"Come for me," he growls as if reading my mind, hips stuttering against mine. "Come for me, April. Show me those noises you make . "

Mindlessly, I do.

I throw my head back against the pillows and cry out, wracked with pleasure for the second time tonight. It's even more intense than the first. Matvey's cock keeps hitting that spot over and over, choking me to tears as I come helplessly. I shake and shake, and I'm still shaking by the time I feel him grunt, push himself flush against me, and fill me all the way up.

Put a baby in me , I think incoherently, my already pregnant belly jutting out between us. Put another one inside.

Dazed, I let myself fall down from the high.

We catch our breath against each other, lips just shy of kissing. I realize that Matvey hasn't pulled off a single article of clothing. He's looming over me in perfect elegance, if a bit disheveled.

Good , I think with satisfaction. So the ice man can melt, too.

And I'm the one who did it.

He pulls out slowly, carefully. I whine at the feeling, keeping him in place by his tie. "No," I moan.

"No?"

"No." I feel childish, but I don't have the energy to care. "Stay."

At that, Matvey goes oddly rigid. It takes me a moment to fully realize what I've said, the staggering implications of it.

Way to fuck this up, Flowers.

He sits up. So do I. The pocket square's still there, tucked neatly into Matvey's jacket.

"I have to go," he says, tone guarded.

"Yeah. Right." I fix my hair as I tuck my legs behind me. My now very useless legs, if the way they're trembling is any indication. "Yeah, of course. Me, too. It's late. Weeknight, you know. Gotta… gotta rest up for work."

We part like that, me mermaid-posing on the ottoman and him fidgeting with everything his hands can find: cufflinks, collar, buttons.

The pocket square.

He lingers at the doorway, long enough for me to risk a look up. "Goodnight, April," he says, a bit quicker, raspier, more throttled than usual.

"Goodnight, Matvey."

He doesn't kiss my hand this time.

For a second, I wonder if he ever will again.