I Got Pregnant by My Boss, the Mob Heir, So He Put a Ring on It novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: The Guest Room
In her new bedroom at the mansion Gio goes down on her and they have sex for the first time since the night they never spoke of; she finds a Finnish note under her pillow.
The guest room was bigger than my whole apartment.
It had a four-poster bed, a stone fireplace with a real fire already laid, and a window that looked straight down at the lake.
A housekeeper had turned the covers back and gone without a word.
I stood in the middle of the rug with my coat still on and listened to the house.
It was too quiet.
Somewhere below me a clock ticked, and somewhere farther off a door closed.
I took off the coat and hung it on the bedpost.
I put the ring on the nightstand and then picked it up again and held it.
I was going to sleep in a Brandisi bed.
I was going to have a Brandisi baby.
For six weeks I had sworn I would never see the inside of this house.
The knock came at ten past three.
Two knuckles, patient and quiet.
I knew who it was.
I opened the door.
Gio stood in the hall in a gray T-shirt and black trousers, barefoot, with his hair wet from a shower.
He smelled of soap and nothing else.
He did not look like the man who had told a dock of armed men that I was his.
He looked like a man who had been standing outside a door for a long time.
"I won't come in unless you say," he said.
"You said it wasn't in the terms," I said.
"It isn't," he said.
"Then why are you here?" I asked.
"Because I haven't stopped thinking about it," he said.
"Not since the yard office.
"Not since September."
I looked at him.
I thought about the lock on the door and the lock on the gate, and every door in this house that belonged to somebody else.
"Rules," I said.
"Tell me," he said.
"Nobody falls in love."
"Nobody," he said.
"This is only this," I said.
"And I can say stop at any time."
"You can say stop at any time," he said.
"I'll hold you to that one the hardest."
I took his wrist, pulled him over the threshold, and shut the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
He had me against the wood before the sound finished.
One hand was flat beside my head and the other was in my hair, and his mouth came down slow and deep.
I kissed him back, and the slowness did not last.
He tasted of mint and of the whiskey he must have had in his father's study, and when I opened my mouth under his, he groaned.
My hands went under his shirt and found warm skin over hard muscle and a line of hair running down his stomach.
"Take it off," I said.
He pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it.
He was lean and broad through the chest, with a long white scar curving over his left ribs.
A small black anchor was tattooed over his heart.
I put my palm flat on the anchor.
His heart slammed against my hand.
"You're beautiful," I said.
He stared at me.
"Don't say that," he said.
"Why not?" I said.
"Because I'll believe it," he said.
His hands found the hem of my work shirt and the thermal underneath.
"Arms up," he said.
I raised them.
He peeled both off together and tossed them aside, and I stood there in my bra and canvas pants with the fire throwing light across my stomach.
He looked at me for a long moment, and his breath stopped.
"Look at you," he said, hoarse.
"Mine."
"Say it again."
"Mine," he said.
"You're so fucking mine."
I should have corrected him.
Instead I grabbed the front of his trousers, and he hissed.
I found the hard line of him through the cloth and stroked it, and he put his forehead against mine and shuddered.
"Bed," I said.
"Now."
"Not yet," he said.
"Gio," I said, and my voice broke on it.
"Say my name again," he said.
"Gio, please," I said.
He lifted me.
It surprised me how easy it was for him.
He carried me to the foot of the bed and set me down on the edge of the mattress.
Then he knelt on the rug between my knees.
"Boots," he said.
He unlaced them one at a time and pulled them off, and then my socks.
He unfastened my pants and I lifted my hips so he could drag them down my legs.
That left me in plain cotton underwear I had put on that morning for a night shift.
He looked at that, too.
He put both hands flat on my thighs and spread them apart.
"I want my mouth on you," he said.
"I want to taste you.
"I've wanted that since September."
My stomach flipped.
"Then do it."
He hooked two fingers in the cotton and pulled it aside.
He bent his head and licked me, one long slow stroke from my entrance to my clit.
I cried out and put both hands in his hair.
He growled against me and did it again.
He was thorough and patient and he did not hurry.
He found the place that made my hips jerk and stayed there.
He circled it with the flat of his tongue, flicked it, then closed his lips around it and sucked until I was gasping.
"Oh, God," I said.
"Gio."
He pushed one finger inside me, thick and slow, and curled it up.
I shook.
"There," I said.
"Right there."
"I know," he said into me.
"I remember where."
He added a second finger.
He worked them in time with his mouth, and the pleasure climbed my spine so fast I could not keep quiet.
I bit my lip and tried, and it didn't help.
"Let them hear," he said, rough.
"I don't care who hears you.
"Let them all know whose you are."
I came with a cry.
It broke over me in long waves, my back arching and my thighs locking around his head.
He held me down with one forearm across my stomach and licked me through it.
He did not stop until I pushed at his shoulder, oversensitive and shaking.
He lifted his head.
His mouth and his chin were wet and shining, and he looked at me like he had won something.
I took him by the hair and pulled him up onto the bed and kissed him, tasting myself on his tongue.
"Your turn," I said.
"Take your pants off."
He stood and did, quick and clumsy, and I looked.
He was hard and flushed and thick, curving up against his stomach, with a bead of wetness at the tip.
I wrapped my hand around him and he made a noise through his teeth.
"I'm not on anything," I said.
"I can't get more pregnant."
His laugh was short and broken.
"I haven't been with anyone since September," he said.
"Since you."
"Then come here."
I lay back and he followed me down, bracing himself over me on his forearms, and I guided him to my entrance and held him there.
I felt the broad head slide through the wet.
His whole body shook.
"Look at me," he said.
"Look at me while I do it."
He pushed in slowly.
He was thick enough that I felt every inch, a deep stretch just short of too much.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
He went all the way in and stopped, buried to the root, trembling.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"You feel so good.
"I'd forgotten.
"God, I'd told myself I'd forgotten."
"Move," I said.
He moved.
He started slow and deep, with long strokes that dragged against everything inside me.
He watched my face the whole time.
Each time I gasped, he said it back.
"That's it, Raisa.
"That's it.
"You take me so well."
Heat rolled up my spine.
I hadn't known I wanted to hear that until he said it.
"Tell me," I said.
"Tell me what I'm doing to you."
"You're killing me.
"You're so tight and so hot, and you're carrying my child, and I've never wanted anything the way I want you."
The word hit me low and hard.
My child.
My whole body clenched around him.
"Say it again," I said.
"My child.
"Mine.
"You're mine, and you're carrying mine, and I'm going to keep you both safe if it kills me."
I ought to have been furious.
I came apart instead, shuddering with my nails in his back, because he was so sure.
He drove deeper and I met him, hips rising.
The bed knocked against the wall.
He reached between us and rubbed my clit with his thumb in tight slow circles.
"Come for me," he said.
"Let me feel it."
The second one broke over me all at once.
I screamed his name at the high ceiling and clamped around him in long hard pulses.
He lost it right behind me.
His rhythm broke and he shoved deep, shaking.
He groaned my name into my hair as he came, hot and endless.
He collapsed beside me, careful with his weight, and pulled me against his chest.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
The fire popped in the grate.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back.
"That wasn't in the terms either," I said at last.
"No."
"I'm still not in love with you."
"I know," he said.
"Neither am I."
He kissed the top of my head and held me.
Toward five o'clock he got up and dressed in the dark, and I pretended to be asleep.
I heard the door close.
I rolled over to reach for the water glass on the nightstand, and my hand brushed something folded under my pillow.
It was a sheet of lined paper, torn from a notebook.
On it, in pencil, in small careful capitals, someone had written a sentence I could not read at first.
Then I could, because Helvi's mother had spoken that dialect over every one of my skinned knees.
It was Finnish, in the old Ostrobothnian way of spelling.
It said: Do not eat anything from this house.
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