Chasing the Mother of My Twins

Mia

The nursery was dim except for the nightlight's soft glow. Lily nursed at my breast, her tiny hand curled against my skin. Leo was already asleep in his crib—one small mercy tonight.

The door opened.

Ethan stood in the doorway, tie loosened, top button undone. Whiskey and cologne. Another late dinner, another night where I was just and wife in the introductions.

We hadn't spoken in three days. Not since he'd texted Emergency meeting instead of showing up for the twins' vaccinations. When I'd confronted him that night, he'd said, "They're four months old. They won't remember."

I was done with the silent treatment.

He didn't move, just watched. Not his usual quick glance before disappearing into his study—this was different. His gaze dropped to where Lily fed, lingered on the damp patch of milk on my nightgown. My skin heated under the weight of it.

His jaw worked. His hands flexed at his sides.

"Put her down."

Not a request. His voice was rough, barely controlled—the voice I remembered from our wedding night, from the rare moments when distance collapsed into something raw.

My pulse kicked. I knew what that voice meant.

I eased Lily into her crib. She fussed, then settled. I adjusted her blanket slowly, buying time, because I knew what would happen when I turned around.

And God help me, my body wanted it.

He hadn't touched me since the twins were born. I'd begun to think he was one of those men—disgusted by what pregnancy had done to my body. But the hunger in his eyes suggested otherwise.

His hands caught my waist before I straightened, pulled me back against him. Heat through thin cotton. I gasped—from surprise, from the sudden awareness of my post-baby softness, from the ache in my breasts that hadn't faded yet.

His mouth found my neck. "Ethan, the babies—"

"They're asleep."

He turned me, kissed me hard. Not the perfunctory touches—this was hunger, desperation, his fingers tangling in my hair as his tongue demanded entrance.

I should've pushed him away. Should've asked where he'd been tonight, why now after three days of silence.

Instead my hands fisted in his shirt. My lips parted. Because this—this raw, wordless thing between us—was the only language we'd ever spoken fluently.

We stumbled from the nursery into the hallway, his hands everywhere at once—sliding under my nightgown, skimming over the curves that pregnancy had softened, the stretch marks I'd learned to hate. But he didn't seem to notice or care, his touch almost reverent as he backed me against the wall outside our bedroom.

"God, Mia—" The words were lost in another bruising kiss as he lifted me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The cool plaster against my back contrasted sharply with the heat of his body pressed against mine, and I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize—needy, wanton.

We barely made it to the bed. He laid me down with surprising gentleness, his eyes dark and unfocused as he hovered over me. The moonlight through the window cast silver across his features, making him look almost like a stranger—or perhaps like the man I'd imagined he could be, back when I'd been foolish enough to hope.

His fingers laced through mine, pinning my hands above my head as he moved inside me. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, filling me completely until I gasped against his mouth. He paused, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged and hot.

"God, Mia—" The words were guttural, almost pained, before he began to move in earnest, each stroke deep and measured, as if he were memorizing the feel of me. The intensity of it stole my breath—not just the physical sensation of him stretching me, the delicious friction that made my body clench around him, but the way he looked at me, really looked at me, his eyes dark and fixed on mine as if I were the only woman in the world. As if I mattered.

His rhythm built gradually, hips rolling in a steady cadence that had me arching beneath him, my legs tightening around his waist. When he released one of my hands to grip my thigh, hitching it higher over his hip, the angle shifted and I cried out—he was deeper now, hitting something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, and when I forced my eyes open, when I met his gaze, something flickered in his expression—something almost vulnerable beneath the raw desire. His free hand slid between our bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves where we were joined, circling with maddening precision.

The dual sensation made me tremble, made coherent thought impossible. I was dimly aware of the sounds spilling from my throat, shameless and needy, but I couldn't stop them, couldn't do anything but hold on as pleasure coiled tight and hot in my core.

"Ethan—" His name broke on my lips as the tension built to an unbearable peak. He captured my mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing my moans as his rhythm turned urgent, almost desperate, his control fraying with each thrust.

"Don't let go," he murmured against my lips, and I wasn't sure if he meant my hand still pinned above my head or something else entirely, something more. But I held on, held on to him and to the fragile hope blooming treacherous in my chest, held on as the coil finally snapped and I shattered, my body clenching around him in waves.

He followed moments later with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his face pressed into the curve of my neck. I felt the heat of him spilling inside me, felt the tension drain from his body as he collapsed against me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

For several long seconds we stayed like that, tangled together, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat. Then he shifted, rolling us onto our sides without pulling out, one arm sliding beneath my head while the other wrapped around my waist, holding me close.

Afterward, even as he finally slipped free, he kept me tucked against him. His heart hammered against my ear, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him, into the illusion of intimacy. His fingers traced idle patterns on my bare shoulder—slow, almost unconscious touches that felt dangerously like tenderness.

His thumb traced slow circles on my shoulder, and I let myself wonder if something had shifted tonight. Maybe he was finally seeing me—seeing us, seeing them. The thought was dangerous, but I was too tired to fight the fragile hope taking root.

I don't know when I fell asleep, only that I woke to darkness and the sound of his voice.

"Lucia..."

The name was barely a whisper, sleep-soft and tender. I went rigid in his arms, my heart stuttering to a stop.

"...loved you..."

The rest dissolved into incoherent mumbling, but those words were crystal clear. His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer, and I understood with sickening clarity that in his mind, he wasn't holding me at all.