"You're gorgeous."
"I'm a whale."
"You're carrying my children. You've never been more beautiful." He moves behind me, hands gentle as they span my waist. "Every curve, every change—it's all because of us. What we created."
His lips find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I melt back against him. "Mikhail..."
"Tell me if anything's uncomfortable," he murmurs against my skin. "The babies—"
"The babies are fine. I need my husband."
His hands move with reverent care, relearning my changed body with a tenderness that makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears.
"Too much?" he asks immediately, pulling back.
"Perfect," I whisper. "Don't stop."
He takes his time, worship in every touch. This isn't the desperate passion of our first week together, when we were running on adrenaline and the constant threat of death. This is deeper—the steady burn of established love, of knowing exactly where to touch to make me gasp, of trust so complete I don't have to hide anything.
"You're shaking," he observes, steadying me.
"Good shaking."
"There's bad shaking?"
"Mikhail, stop talking and—" My words dissolve into a moan as he finds exactly the right angle, the right pressure.
"That's it, little wolf," he murmurs against my ear, his Russian accent thicker with desire. "Let go for me."
The endearment that once annoyed me now makes heat spiral through my core. I turn in his arms, needing to see his face, to watch his control fracture when I touch him in return.
"Careful," he warns as I pull him closer.
"I'm pregnant, not broken."
"You're everything," he corrects, and the raw honesty in his voice undoes me more than any touch could.
When we come together, it's with four months of practice at reading each other's bodies, at knowing exactly how to move, how to breathe, how to exist in perfect synchronization. He's careful of my belly, creative with positions, attentive to every shift in my breathing.
"Look at me," he commands softly when I close my eyes.
I open them to find him watching me with such intensity, such complete focus, that I feel more naked than skin could ever make me.
"Mine," he says, and it's not possessive—it's a promise. A vow. A declaration that he'll never stop choosing me, choosing us.
"Yours," I agree, then because I know it drives him wild: "Always yours. Only yours."
His control finally breaks, and he buries his face in my neck, my name on his lips like a prayer as we fall apart together.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my back against his chest, his hand protective over where our twins rest.
"I love you," he says into the darkness.
"Even enormous and hormonal?"
"Especially like that."
"Good answer."
