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And then they stood there, staring at each other, and Ago—who had never felt himself unequal to anything—found himself as close to floundering as he had ever been.
He didn’t know if it was Christmas that was getting to him. The fact that he was celebrating it, apparently. More likely it was the fact that he had given her a gift like this—a gift that was not the sort of thing he could accomplish with a mere wave of his hand while he concentrated on other things. This nursery had actually required thought.
Ago told himself that he did this only to sweeten the pot. To make her happy to stay put, right where he wanted her. That it was simply a gesture, nothing more, and had nothing to do withhim.
Though now, looking at her, he understood that he really hadn’t thought this through.
Because now he felt that he’d revealed more of himself than he’d intended to, and worse, he was clearly exposing himself in a way he would have avoided entirely, had he realized this was how it would go.
It felt like a misfire, if he was honest.
And he was Ago Accardi, so he had no experience with such things.
He still couldn’t read the look on Victoria’s face. She looked almost solemn as she reached out and took his hands. Then she brought them to her belly and smoothed them into place, leaving them there.
As if this was her gift.
And the strangest thing was that it felt like one.
It was not as if he hadn’t touched her belly before. There was no part of her he had not touched. But at the same time, Ago had not touched her belly quite likethis. He had not...lingered.
He certainly had not done what he did now, leaning down so he could press his lips to the crest of her belly, and in no particular hurry.
Ago heard her breath leave her raggedly. But all he could focus on was the heat of her, seeming to blaze through the fabric of her nightgown. That was another gift, surely, because he could feel that heat wrap around him and pour into him.
But better yet was his own son, there within her, who kicked as if he already knew his father.
God willing, a better father than his own had been.
A sentiment so unusual, and so forbidden, that Ago could hardly believe he’d admitted to feeling such a thing.
Maybe that was why he found himself on his knees, where he could press his kisses all over her belly and, for once, not because he intended to build that wildfire between them. For once, simply, because she was his and she was carrying his baby.
Because this was his wife and his son.
Because like it or not, plan or no plan, this was his family.
And that word seemed to land in him differently, today.
He looked up to find her watching him, her blue eyes wide, tears making trails down her cheeks.
“Buon Natale,”he told her, though his voice was gruff. “Merry Christmas,mia mogliettina, and you too, my son.”
When she made a broken little noise, he helped her down to kneel with him. Then he kissed her mouth, again and again, until it was better. Until she was sighing, not sobbing.
And soon enough the strange mess of feelings gave way to lust and longing, and other such comprehensible things.
It was a relief to help her move astride him, there on the floor of their first child’s nursery on a Christmas morning that seemed swollen with portent.
Ago told himself that this had been his aim all along.
Sex. Passion. Nothing more, nothing less.
Those things that had ruined him in her uncle’s garden that he could use, here, to bind her to him so tightly that she would never think to leave. That she would never think to care that he had made her choose her own cage, after all.
Better still, that she would never notice that despite his best intentions, he’d made a critical error.
And had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the bars with her.
