by Bethany-Kris
God, Viviana wished her mind would come up with something appropriate to say. Something as heartfelt as his, something to make her seem grateful for the time, extravagance, and beauty of his words, gifts, and love—anything at all. But, nope. Nothing came. Speechless again, the only thing Viviana could do was cry. Anton let her.
“Thank you for giving me our child, Viviana.”
Chapter Twelve
There was a man in Anton’s bedroom.
Viviana was downstairs reorganizing all the cupboards in the kitchen, of course, but still.
There was a man in his bedroom.
Anton was twitchy. Or his trigger finger was.
“Boy, you better quit glaring at those stairs like you expect them to fall in on themselves.” Clarissa kept her eyes on her dusting while scolding. “I thought your week away would have rid some of that tension of yours.”
Anton appreciated how Viviana had managed to bring their maid out of her introverted shell. Before, Clarissa addressed him as sir, no matter how many times he asked her not to. She had always been properly respectful and kept her distance. Now, she was more like family, and she didn’t let Anton get away with a single fucking thing.
“There’s a man in my bedroom.”
“That’s the fourth time you’ve muttered that in the last twenty minutes. He’s been up there for an hour. Is it really bothering you that badly?”
Yes, Anton thought petulantly. There was nothing he hated more than the thought of another male even coming near the marital bed he shared with his wife. Anton didn’t know where that little issue of his stemmed from, but it had his blood fucking boiling. Irrational? Maybe. That didn’t make the problem any less real.
“Well, how about I call your mother and let her verbally smack you back into this century. Or better yet …” Clarissa said lightly, cocking a brow at her boss, “I could go in the kitchen and tell your pregnant wife that while she’s been fretting and nesting for the last week, you’re sitting here being jealous over the man who is painting your bedroom mural instead of helping her.”
Goddamn it.
“You wouldn’t call Sasha,” Anton replied, not wanting to call Clarissa on whether or not she’d tell Viviana. She probably would.
“Try me. Go help your wife and leave the poor painter alone, Anton.”
Sighing heavily, he crossed his arms and glared at the stairs for a while longer.
Perhaps Anton wouldn’t have been so agitated about the man if his week hadn’t been so damned stressful. While the week long getaway to Vermont had been beneficial for him and Viviana in more ways than one, it had also left things on hold back in New York. Too many things. Nobody would or could do a whole hell of a lot on the business side of things if the boss wasn’t around to give the okay.
Well, the boss hadn’t been answering calls unless they weren’t for business, so shit didn’t get done. Now, Anton was backed up to the nuts. It was making him freaking crazy for Christ’s sake. He really needed to give Erik and Ivan a little more leeway with their positions and stop taking so much of the responsibility himself—that was all there was to it.
It certainly didn’t help that Anton was still worrying about the possibility of one of his guys making plans to kill him. He had been pushing that to the side of his mind, though, attempting to see it from a different perspective. Unfortunately, he had only been able to see it from his own and he hadn’t yet confessed his suspicions to anyone else.
The annoying little issue that was Tatiana seemed to die, thank God. Since he’d been back, there was no random appearances, no attempt for contact. Nothing. Anton was grateful, but he was suspicious, too.
So, there were those things, and then there was Sergei.
The stupid, Russian fool.
The Jersey Pakhan still wasn’t taking calls. Or better yet, he wasn’t refusing a sit down. After all, he couldn’t refuse one if he wasn’t asked to have one. Sergei had been playing this game for far too long, and Anton was goddamn well sick of it. Anton assumed because of Boris asking around about Tatiana, that it must have got the other man’s panties in a twist over something.
It made Anton nervous.
A good face to face should always happen after something happens to mix the blood between bosses in a bad way.
“What do you mean?” Anton asked, trying to forget his mafia problems for a while.
Clarissa rested her duster against her thigh. “Pardon me?”
“You said she was nesting. What in the hell does that mean?”
It wasn’t like he’d ever heard of it before. What did nesting have anything to do with her reorganizing every freaking inch of their kitchen … and the bathrooms, and their walk-in closet, and the baby’s room—four times in a week? If you added that into the sudden urge to clean Viviana had, Anton wondered when in the hell she found time to study for her exams coming up the following week.
“Nesting, Anton. Didn’t you read those books she gave to you?”
Anton stared at Clarissa like she’d grown a second head. Viviana didn’t say he had to read the books just that he should. So, he didn’t … well, most of them. “They don’t have guns in them.”
“You’re a riot. Really. The birth should be fun for you.”
“Why?”
“You’re just like your grandfather. You have two places your mind goes—family, and the family. That’s it. If it isn’t about guns and money, or wives and homes, you don’t want to hear it.”
Anton didn’t think that was a bad thing. “Fine. I’m going to go ask Viviana what nesting means.”
Clarissa huffed, blowing a curl out of her eye in the process. “You men … I swear. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it, Anton. It’s getting close to the end, or at least her body and mind thinks it is. It’s like her subconscious way of getting her ready for the baby. She’s cleaning every speck of dirt and dust out of this house, making things easier for herself once he’s here, and tiring herself out so she can sleep a good ten hours every night.”
Anton had to give Clarissa credit, what she said made a lot of sense. He hadn’t even considered that was Viviana’s motherly instincts coming out to play, but given her sudden need to have a list of things for him to do when he returned home from the club, well … yeah.
“Huh.”
Turning back to stare in the direct vicinity of the man in his bedroom, Anton wished the painter would hurry the hell up and get out. It was still plucking at his nerves like someone was using them as an instrument, and not in a good way.
“The painter isn’t even bothering your bed, Anton. He’s just painting the wall in the baby’s cubby. Now stop being bitter for no reason and make yourself useful. Perhaps you could—”
“Go help Vine, Anton,” he said under his breath.
Everybody always needed to pick at Anton’s jealousy. As if he could help it, honestly.
“You said it, not me.”
The quiet, bluesy melodies singing through the kitchen had Anton smiling as he made his way in that direction. Viviana had her head stuck in the cupboards beside the sink, her hips swaying to the beat as the lyrics rolled off her tongue. Anton didn’t get to hear his wife sing as often as he liked—she had a beautiful voice, even if she didn’t think so.
Also, Anton wondered where she got that love for blues from. Nicoli had once enjoyed the tone, emotion, and soul to the music and had several favorite bars he liked to frequent to hear it sung live, but his daughter didn’t know that.
“Nicoli used to love that noise, too,” Anton said, coming up behind his wife.
Viviana must have heard his approach, or knew he had been watching, as she didn’t start in fright. “It’s not noise. You like it.”
Resting his hands to those still swinging hips of hers, Anton moved to the tune of the beat, feeling Viviana press her backside into his groin as she danced. It wasn’t long before he was peppering kisses up the side of her silky, soft neck and one of her hands were weaving into the hair at t
he nape of his.
Time didn’t much matter to Anton when they were like this. It was far too easy for him to get lost in the rocking sway of her shoulders, the smell of floral perfume, and the heat of her skin on his. With Anton’s nose skimming behind her ear, her back melting into his front, he decided the best music in the room was her soft, contented sigh.
“What, are you suddenly in the mood to dance, Anton?”
Laughing low, he spun Viviana around so she could face him. “With you, always.”
“Well, I have a lot of work to finish in here, so …”
“We’ve got a little while to get it done.”
Her lips curved with a playful smile. “Three weeks.”
Yes, only three. Their son would make his debut exactly on his due date, according to the doctor. Viviana had her appointment three days earlier and they were pleased the insulin seemed to be working to her favor, and Demyan’s. After the doctor checked Viviana’s cervix—something that made Anton cringe and rage at the same time—she wasn’t showing any signs of delivering soon. Not wanting to risk her going overdue, they set up an appointment for her to be at labor and delivery early in the morning on July fifth to be induced.
Anton couldn’t believe May had already passed them by and that June was there and leaving just as quickly.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Good. The pressure from this morning is finally gone.”
“And the pain?”
“Better,” she said.
Eyeing her speculatively, Anton wondered if Viviana was just saying that to appease his worry. She’d woken up around four in the morning out of breath, tears filling her eyes, and with what she described as a horrible ache in her hips. An early morning phone call to the doctor said it was likely just the weight of the baby settling into an uncomfortable spot and to walk until he repositioned himself.
So, Viviana had been on her feet all day. Anton didn’t like that.
While Anton loved seeing his wife pregnant, glowing, and so full of life like she was, he also knew it was taking a hell of a lot out of her body. Pregnancy was not an easy thing to get through, he’d come to learn. Not that he didn’t have respect for his wife before, but she had it from him in the bucketful now.
“Come on, go sit down and let me finish putting this away for you.” Leaning down, he caught her silken mouth with his. “Please?”
Her tongue swept along his bottom lip before slipping in to join his. Anton reveled in the taste of her kiss, the way her lips pressed harder, and her heat started a stirring in his groin. Fuck, how he loved his wife. Viviana fisted his t-shirt to bring him closer. Anton braced his hands to the counter and kissed his wife a little longer.
He could fight to get her to sit down in a minute.
“How about I go lay down in bed, and after you finish putting the rest of this stuff away, you can come join me?” Viviana nipped his jaw.
Anton froze. “No.”
Oh, the slap of rejection that colored her cheeks a bright pink had him backtracking instantly.
“Shit, that’s not at all what I meant and you know it, baby. The painter is still up there finishing the last bit of the mural and the room probably reeks of fumes. We’ll probably sleep in the guestroom tonight.”
Viviana glanced down at where his fingers were squeezing into her sides. “Why do you have a death grip on me?”
Anton loosened his hold. “I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No—”
“You do that whenever someone gets too close to me.”
“Viviana, it’s just you and me here.”
Something wicked curved Viviana’s pretty, pink lips up into a grin. A grin that said she knew exactly what was going on with him. Apparently Anton hadn’t been hiding it well enough. “There’s a man in our bedroom.”
Anton scowled, letting the lie roll off his tongue before he could stop it. “It’s not bothering me that bad.”
“Really? Well, I’ll just go up and say hello, then. After all, he is using that special paint that doesn’t give off as much smell. He’s got two fans working and the windows open. I’ll be fine for a minute or … five.”
“Fuck that you will.”
Without even considering his actions, Anton picked Viviana up abruptly and sat her backside firmly on the kitchen counter. He leveled her with a stare that gave away every single one of his feelings when it came to what she just suggested. Those doe-eyes of hers only blinked back mirth at his jealous flare.
“My wife will not be in our bedroom alone with any man that isn’t me, Viviana.”
“Ever?” she asked.
Anton’s hands slapped the counter. “Vine.”
“Some people think you’re scary when you’re mad. I think it’s cute.”
Cute. Great, Anton thought.
Rubbing circles into his quickly throbbing temples, Anton stepped between his wife’s opened legs and met her gaze once more. “Please don’t go up there.”
“You know I wouldn’t, Anton.”
There was nothing Anton was more grateful for than Viviana’s understanding. Some might have called his jealousy irrational, and sure, he knew it kind of was. Viviana never gave him any reason to be worried—she was as true and loyal to him as she would ever be. She was crazy, foolishly in love with him, too, no matter his ridiculousness at times.
Maybe the jealousy stemmed partly from his upbringing, and a little more from his job. A lot of men in his business only thought of women as toys to be used and discarded. The ones they wanted to keep for themselves, they kept locked away on a shelf to be admired. Trophies, as it were.
Anton never wanted his wife to be seen as his trophy, but allowing his desire and love for her to be written out clear as day was a double-edged sword. Yes, he spoiled her to the nines and back, gave her whatever the hell she wanted whenever she wanted it, but he also let her do as she pleased. Viviana didn’t stray out of line, and she never strayed from him.
To the men in their world, she was an enigma. A woman who didn’t need to be taught or reminded what was expected of her, who didn’t socialize outside of the people closest to her husband without first knowing it was okay, and a woman who had yet to have even a shred of impropriety blemish her reputation.
His wife—the boss’s wife.
It wouldn’t be abnormal for other men to watch Viviana, and want her, too. Or, they wanted to see if there was something hidden going on beyond what they could see. Mafia wives were one thing, but Anton’s wife was something else entirely.
Anton hadn’t expected all of those things from Viviana—nothing beyond her loyalty and love—but she gave it anyway.
Viviana sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay down here with you until he leaves.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“However …”
Her tiny hands grabbed at his sweats, pulling him into her and the counter. Anton hadn’t stumbled in years, but when his wife’s fingers slipped beneath the cotton of his workout pants and boxer-briefs without any indication she planned on doing it, his knees damned near buckled.
“Fuck … Vine, wait—”
“Nope.” She hushed a soothing sound, dragging her teeth against his cheek. “Be extra quiet, okay?”
Anton fucking choked on his tongue, when those soft, nimble fingers of Viviana’s wrapped around his length and squeezed. Whenever he was close to her, his cock was always semi-hard and ready to go, so it only took a few slow, tight strokes of her fist around his length to get the blood rushing straight down to his groin. Already steel-hard, the vein in his shaft throbbing to the beat of his heart, Anton swallowed the groan bubbling up in his chest.
“Clarissa and the pa-paint—”
Viviana clicked her tongue, biting down to his jaw sharply and causing Anton to hiss from the sting. Now it was his wife in control—teasing his body with talented squeezes of her grip in just the right spots on his length, rolling the tip of her thumb over the cres
t of his cock, scratching lightly with fingernails over tender flesh as she slid her hand back down.
“It’s a good thing I love my man,” Viviana whispered.
Her tongue snaked out and struck his lips with heat and wetness. Burying his mouth into her chest, clenching his teeth to hide the moans threatening to fall, Anton shuddered against the sweet smell of his wife and her body. Sparks were bursting behind his closed lids as she stroked him faster, her grip turning snugger.
It should have surprised Anton how fast his cock started to ache with the want for release, but it didn’t. His wife had been in too much pain that morning for him to even consider sex, and he’d been too damned busy for the last couple of days and coming home late.
Viviana kissed the top of Anton’s head, her free hand coming to tangle into his hair as her fingernails scraped along his scalp soothingly. Precum spread under her wandering fingers every time she reached the head of his member, the sticky fluid lubricating sensitive nerves as his body jolted into her embrace like the sudden jerks of his hips.
“Jesus, Vine, don’t make me come like this … I want to be inside of you,” he growled.
Viviana laughed breathlessly, her legs tightening to his waist at the same time her fingers clasped painfully tight around his throbbing dick. Effectively, she rooted him in place. “No, I think I want to feel my husband’s come all over my fingers.”
When she tugged once, then twice, on his cock, Anton grabbed hard to her thighs and compelled the moans of pleasure bubbling up in his throat to go away. Realizing his wife wasn’t about to stop in her drive to make him come in his pants, Anton relaxed into the sensations curling his groin with a burning bliss, allowing the pressure to build. Higher it went with every stroke. Tighter it coiled with every squeeze.
