Page 237 of Vicious Intentions
“Your Uncle Kill promised they’d stop by after they leave Uncle Misha’s. It shouldn’t be too long now. Maybe a week or so,” my husband replies when I take too long to answer our baby girl.
“But I want to see Uncle Misha too,” she pouts, folding her arms over her chest.
“We just saw your Uncle Misha three months ago,” I remind, before my husband caves to her every whim.
“But that was foreeeeeverrrr ago!”
“Let me see what I can do, sweet girl,” my husband says, visibly more relaxed now that Matty has finally climbed down from the tree.
“Mama! What do we have to eat?” Matty asks, running toward me.
“Your father made mac and cheese for lunch. It’s in the fridge, kiddo.”
“Score!” He fist-pumps the air before pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Lina, do you want some too? I can teach you how to use the microwave again.”
“Why do I have to learn how to use the microwave when you can do it for me?” she asks, honestly perplexed by her brother’s offer.
“Do you want mac and cheese or not, Lina?” he asks, rolling his eyes at her.
Marcelina doesn’t think twice before running to her brother, grabbing his hand, and dragging him toward the house.
“I swear that kid is going to give me a heart attack one day,” Matteo grumbles, walking over to me and plopping down beside me on the blanket spread across the grass.
“Instead of worrying about Matty, you should be more concerned about Lina. She’s got you wrapped around her finger,” I reprimand lightly.
“Just like her mother,” he coos, grabbing my laptop, closing it, and pushing it aside so he can rub my belly. “And how is my little Tulip doing today?”
“Don’t call our baby that. I told you I want to name her Paolina after your mother.”
“And I agreed. But considering we made her in a tulip field, I think it’s only fitting that it becomes her nickname. Isn’t that right, Tuli?” he coos, pressing a kiss to my belly.
“You’re incorrigible,” I laugh.
“I’m a great many things,vita mia. As long as one of them is being yours.”
He leans in and presses a sweet kiss on my lips, one that quickly ignites something inside me. Something carnal and hungry. Something that has me imagining all sorts of dirty things.
Damn these hormones.
Anytime my husband so much as touches me, I get the overwhelming urge to shove him onto the ground and have my way with him. A fact that clearly isn’t lost on my husband by the way he’s licking his lips at me right now.
“Don’t you even think about it. My feet are swollen two sizes, my back is killing me, and this baby keeps kicking my bladder like it’s a football.”
“Aw, baby. I hate seeing you so miserable. How can I make it all better?” he asks, positioning himself in front of me, grabbing my bare foot and beginning to rub it.
“That’s a good start,” I sigh, placing my hands behind me and letting his fingers work their magic.
It’s not the earthshattering orgasm I was picturing but when you’re seven months pregnant, a good foot rub sure does come close to it.
“I was thinking about something,” he says, his fingers digging into the sole of my foot in the most glorious way.
“Hmm?” I hum absentmindedly, my head falling back over my shoulders.
“If we name little Tulip after my mother, then it’s only fair the next girl we have gets named after yours.”
I fling my head toward him so fast I almost get dizzy.
“What do you mean ‘the next girl’? Just how many babies are you trying to put in me?”
