Page 55 of The Pakhan's Secret Babies
I kiss down her neck and across her collarbone. Her breasts are fuller, heavier. I take one nipple into my mouth and suck gently, then the other, listening to the soft sound she makes.
My hand moves between her thighs. She is already wet. I slide two fingers through her folds, circling her clit slowly before pushing inside.
“Feel how ready you are for me,” I whisper against her skin. “So wet. So perfect.”
She rocks against my hand, her forehead resting against mine, eyes open and dark. I guide her hips up, then down. She sinks onto me inch by inch until I am buried completely inside her. The feeling is tight and hot and perfect. She stays upright at first, hands on my shoulders. I hold her waist and help her move in slow rolling motions.
“Like that,” I tell her quietly. “Ride me slowly. Let me feel all of you.”
She moves with me, taking me deep. I watch her face the entire time, the way her lips part and her eyes flutter when I hit the right spot. My forehead stays pressed to hers. We breathe the same air.
“God, Elena,” I murmur. “You feel incredible. So tight around me. I could stay inside you all night.”
After a while, I turn her gently onto her side. I curl up behind her, chest to her back, one arm wrapped around her, my hand resting just below the curve of her stomach. I lift her top leg slightly and slide back inside her from behind. The position lets me hold her close and move deep and slow without any pressure on her belly.
I thrust steadily, pressing my mouth to the back of her neck. “Is this good?” I ask, voice low. “Tell me if it is too much.”
“It’s perfect,” she breathes.
I keep one hand between her legs, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles while I thrust. My other hand stays protective on her lower belly, thumb brushing lightly over the soft skin.
“You are carrying my child,” I whisper against her ear. “And you still feel this good. So warm. So wet for me.”
She pushes back against me, meeting every thrust. Her breathing grows ragged. She reaches back and grips my thigh, nails digging in. I press my mouth to her shoulder and keep the rhythm deep and steady.
She tightens around me, her body trembling. A soft, broken sound leaves her throat as she comes, pulsing in waves that pull me over the edge right after her. I bury myself deep and stay there, groaning her name against her skin as pleasure rolls through both of us.
We stay locked together like that for a long moment, my arm still wrapped around her, my chest pressed to her back. Our breathing slowly evens out. The lamp is still on. The city glitters beyond the windows. Neither of us moves to turn the light off.
She turns her head and looks back at me. The lamp throws its light across her face. The city glitters beyond the windows. I think about two years of her sitting outside my office, what it cost her, what I did not see. A masquerade. A beautiful dress. A woman who wanted one night where she was not my secretary, took it, paid for it quietly, and ever since.
I reach over and turn the lamp off.
In the dark, she’s still there beside me, her breathing even and close, and I lie on my back and look at the ceiling I cannot see, and I say nothing because there is nothing I know how to say yet that is equal to what she just told me.
But I do not move away.
And neither does she.
23
ELENA
My father opensthe door before I knock.
He has been watching for the car from his chair by the window, which is what he does when he is expecting me. He’s standing in the doorway in his cardigan with more color in his face than he has had in months and the brightness of a man who has put down something very heavy and is still getting used to the feeling of his hands being empty.
I hug him in the doorway the way I have hugged him since I was small, both arms, my face against his shoulder, and he holds me back, pats my hair twice, and says, “Come in, come in, it’s cold.”
The house smells the same. Garlic and warmth and something baked, and the television is on low in the front room, and the neighbor’s dog is barking somewhere outside, and everything is exactly as it has always been except that my father moves through his own kitchen with ease.
He makes tea without asking if I want any because he always makes tea and I always want it, and we sit at the kitchen table theway we always sit, and he looks at me across the table with his steady eyes, and he says, “You look different.”
“Different how?” I say.
“Settled,” he says. “You look settled.”
I wrap my hands around the mug. “I’m okay, Papa.”
