The most powerful man I’ve ever known is on his knees.
For me.
Not offering yet another “deal.” Not presenting a “logical solution.”
Offering his heart.
“I think it might be love,” he said.
Nearly a minute after he said it, the word is still percolating in the air between us, impossible and terrifying and everything I’ve secretly wanted to hear.
“Say something,” he whispers. “Please.”
His heartbeat thunders against my palm, rapid and strong. Real. This is real.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. “But your inheritance. The Bratva. Everything you’ve worked for—”
“None of it matters without you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and something inside me cracks open right along with it. “I was so focused on what I might lose that I couldn’t see what I was gaining.”
My chest tightens. “And what’s that?”
“You.” He rises slowly, still holding my hand. “You and our child. A real family. Not the twisted version my father tried to conjure up, but something better.”
Hope flutters in my chest, a fragile bird testing damaged wings.
It’s been down for so long. It thought flying was a thing of the past. Something that other people got to do.
Not it.
Not me.
But…
“How do I know this is real?” I whisper. “How do I know this isn’t just another game?”
Vince inches closer, his free hand cradling my cheek with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. “Because I’m fucking terrified,” he says. “I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life, Rowan. But the thought of losing you—” He stops, swallows hard. “It breaks me.”
A rogue tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
“I did this all wrong,” he continues. “I came at you with demands and ultimatums because that’s all I’ve ever known. It’s how I was raised. How I was taught to get what I want.”
“And what do you want, Vince? Really want?”
“You,” he says simply. “Just you. However you’ll have me.”
I search his face for any sign of deception. But all I see is raw vulnerability—something I never thought Vincent Akopov was capable of.
“The baby—”
“—is a miracle I never thought I’d have,” he finishes. “But even if there was no baby, I’d still be here. On my knees, if necessary.”
He guides my hand to the marks on my throat where his father’s fingers dug in. “I will never let anyone hurt you again. That’s not a threat or a promise of protection. It’s a vow.”
I close my eyes. I need a moment to process.
When I open them again, Vince is still there, still looking at me like I’m the center of his universe. Like nothing else matters.
And suddenly, against all odds and all reason…
… I believe him.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Then his face transforms with a smile I’ve never seen before—open, unguarded, radiant with joy.
“Say it again,” he urges, drawing me closer.
“Yes,” I laugh through my tears. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Vincent Akopov.”
His arms wrap around me as he hauls me off my feet in a fierce embrace that steals my breath away. When he sets me down, his hands frame my face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “For not showing you what was in my heart.”
“Was there always something there?” I have to know. “In your heart?”
“From the moment you walked in on me that day.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks. “I just didn’t know what to call it. Didn’t know how to face it.”
“And now?”
“Now, I know exactly what to call it.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I love you, Rowan St. Clair. I fucking love you.”
The words wash over me like a baptism, sweeping away every last doubt, every fear, every shred of resistance. I am born again. I am purified by his love.
I throw my arms around his neck. “I love you, too. I’ve loved you for so long.”
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s different from any we’ve shared before. No domination, no power play, no battle of wills. Just pure, naked emotion flowing between us.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I’ll make this right,” he promises. “I’ll give you the proposal you deserve, the ring, everything. Just as soon as—”
“I don’t need any of that.” I slide my hands into his hair. “I just need you. The real you.”
“You have me, Rowan. All of me.”
And then he’s kissing me again, backing me toward the couch, his hands already working at the buttons of my blouse.
“Wait,” I gasp against his mouth. “What about Arkady? Is he still…?”
“Gone,” Vince murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck. “He knows how to make a quiet exit.”
Relief flows through me, followed quickly by a different kind of heat as his hands find my skin.
“I need you,” he whispers, reverent and desperate at once. “Need to feel you. All of you.”
I nod, unable to form words as his mouth continues its devastating journey down my throat, his tongue soothing the marks his father left.
He lowers me onto the couch, following me down, his body covering mine with familiar weight that somehow feels entirely new.
This isn’t like before—not the frantic coupling of lust and danger, not the power games we played to avoid what we really felt.
This is slow.
This is tender.
This is everything.
His hands undress me with worship in every touch. When my blouse falls open, he presses his lips to the curve of my stomach where our child grows.
“Ours,” he murmurs against my skin. “A miracle.”
Tears sting my eyes at the reverence in his voice. I reach for him, tugging at his shirt. “I need to feel you.”
He strips quickly. It’s the same body I’ve memorized in our stolen moments together. But I’m seeing it with new eyes now—seeing the man beneath the scars and tattoos, the heart beneath the armor.
When he slides my pants down and off, he finds the stretch marks on my hips—silver lightning bolts of teenage growth—and trails his tongue along each one, like he’s seeing me with new eyes, too.
“Perfect,” he breathes.
My panties come off last. I raise my hips to let him take them away, but no sooner are they gone than do his lips press against the place where our child will come into the world. As if he’s blessing the space before it is called into service.
“Mine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound possessive.
It sounds grateful.
My body trembles under his touch, every flaw transformed into glory by his adoration. When I’m naked, vulnerable, completely exposed, he looks at me again, eyes like pure, black liquid.
“I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in my life.” He swallows. “I don’t deserve you. But I’ll spend every day trying to.”
“You already have me.” I guide him inside me with a gasp of completion. “All of me.”
He moves slowly, cautiously, his eyes never leaving mine as we find our rhythm. It’s like he’s memorizing every expression, cataloging every sigh.
“I love you,” he repeats endlessly. “I love you. I love you.”
I squirm beneath him, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion entwined so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
His mouth finds mine again, softer than before but no less consuming. I taste his desire, his relief, his love—all the things he struggled to say now pouring from his lips to mine.
“I need to taste you,” he murmurs suddenly, his voice rough and jagged with desire. “Every inch of you.”
I nod feverishly, unable to form words as he pulls out and begins a slow journey down my body.
His tongue circles each nipple, drawing them to aching peaks that send jolts of electricity straight to my core. My breasts are more sensitive now—pregnancy already changing my body in subtle ways—and I cry out when he sucks one hardened bud into his mouth.
“So responsive,” he says, a note of wonder in his voice. “Is it different now?”
“Yes,” I whimper. “Everything’s more—oh, God—more intense.”
He smiles against my skin. “Good.”
His hand slides between my thighs, fingers parting me with practiced ease. When he touches me there, my hips buck involuntarily.
“So wet for me already,” he croons. “So perfect.”
“Please,” I beg, not caring how desperate I sound. “I need more.”
He keeps inching down my body until his broad shoulders spread my thighs wider. His eyes meet mine one last time before he lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out and cling to his hair with both hands. He licks a slow, deliberate path from my entrance to my clit, then flirts around the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“You taste like heaven,” he groans against me. “Like mine.”
His words send another wave of heat through me. Mine. Yes. His.
Two thick fingers press inside me, curling to find that spot that makes me see stars. His tongue never stops its relentless attention on my clit.
“That’s it,” he urges as my thighs begin to tremble. “Let go for me, Rowan. I want to feel you come on my tongue. Soak me. Ruin me.”
His filthy words push me closer to the edge. I’ve always loved this side of him—the commanding, confident lover who knows exactly what my body needs.
But it’s different now. His dominance is tempered with tenderness, his demands softened by devotion.
“I can’t—” I gasp as the pressure builds. “I’m gonna— Vince, I’m going to—”
“Come for me,” he commands, sucking my clit between his lips as his fingers thrust deeper. “Now.”
The orgasm hits so hard it almost hurts. My back rainbows off the couch as pleasure radiates through every nerve ending. I cry out his name, over and over. It’s the only word left that makes any sense at all.
He works me through it. When I finally collapse, boneless and breathless, he rises up my body to claim my mouth again. I taste myself on his lips, tangy and intimate.
“I’ll never get tired of watching you fall apart,” he says against my mouth. “It’s a work of fucking art.”
I reach between us to find him hard and straining, pre-cum already gathering at the tip. My fingers wrap around his length, stroking slowly.
“I need you inside me,” I tell him, my voice hoarse with desire. “Need to feel you.”
His eyes go black with lust. “How do you want me?”
The question surprises me. Vincent Akopov asking what I want instead of simply taking.
Wonders never cease.
“Like this,” I say, shepherding him between my thighs. “Face to face. I want to see you.”
He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. But he doesn’t push forward.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you,” I whisper, cradling his face in my hands. “I love you, Vincent Akopov.”
With those words, he pushes inside me in one slow, deliberate thrust that tears the breath from my lungs.
“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. “So tight. So perfect around me.”
He stills, fully seated inside me. Our bodies are as close as two people can possibly be. I feel every inch of him, stretching me, filling me completely.
“Move,” I urge, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Please.”
With a strangled chuckle, he begins to thrust, slow and deep, each stroke purposeful. His eyes never leave mine.
“I want to feel you everywhere,” I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders. “Deeper.”
He responds immediately, lifting my legs higher around his waist, changing the angle so he can thrust even deeper. Each stroke now hits a spot inside me that makes sparks fly behind my eyelids.
“Like this?”
“Yes!” I cry out. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
His rhythm becomes more urgent. Sweat glistens on his brow. “You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good wrapped around my cock. Spread so wide and moaning for me, taking me, pulsing around me…”
“I want to ride you,” I suddenly decide, pushing against his chest.
He rolls onto his back without breaking our connection. Now, I’m on top, straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep inside me.
“Beautiful,” he breathes as his hands slide up to cup my breasts. “My goddess.”
I begin to move, finding my own rhythm, taking my pleasure and giving him his. His hands roam my body like he can’t decide what he wants to touch first—my breasts, my hips, my stomach where our child grows.
“The mother of my child,” he says with awe. “Carrying my baby while taking my cock so perfectly.”
I lean forward, changing the angle so my clit grinds against him with each movement.
“I’m close again,” I pant, moving faster. “So close.”
“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Let me see you make yourself come on my cock.”
I slip my hand between us. The dual sensation—his thick length stretching me open, my own fingers circling my most sensitive spot—shoves me toward the edge.
“That’s it,” he encourages, thrusting up to meet my downward movements. “Take what you need from me.”
“I’m c-coming,” I cry out as the pleasure peaks. “Vince!”
My inner walls clench around him as the orgasm rips through me, more intense than the first, but somehow softer, more expansive, floatier. My entire body shudders with the force of it.
Before I’ve even finished coming, Vince flips our positions again and moves me around. Now, I’m on my hands and knees, and he’s behind me, his chest pressed against my back as he enters me in one swift stroke.
I can feel the gears shifting. Love is still there, the undercurrent to all of this, but the lust that’s always defined us is rising above the tides now. Jagged and sweaty and fucking seductive.
He presses my face into the couch cushions and yes, yes, that’s what I want, I want to be owned and pinned by him, I want him to tear his pleasure out of my body by force. It’s dark to balance out the lightness. It’s everything.
He is everything.
“I need to be deeper,” he growls in my ear. “Need to feel every inch of you. Because when I ruin that pussy with my cum, I need to know that it claims all of you there is to claim.”
In this position, he hits places inside me I didn’t know existed. I’m bent like crazy and my joints are screaming, but that just adds to it. It all makes it better.
“You’re mine,” he chants with each thrust, one hand splayed across my stomach, the other tight on the roots of my hair. “Say it back. Say it the fuck back, Rowan. Say who owns this.”
“Yes,” I sob, pushing back against him. “You. Yours. All yours.”
His pace becomes erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck. I know he’s close.
“Come inside me,” I beg. “Fill me up. Make me yours completely.”
His groan is almost animalistic. “Say my name when I come,” he demands. “I want to hear it on your lips.”
“Vincent,” I moan as his thrusts become deeper, harder. “Vince, please…”
With a final powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against mine as he hurtles toward the finish. “Rowan,” he gasps, my name a benediction on his lips. “My little doe.”
When I come for the last time, it’s with his name on my lips and tears on my cheeks.
When he comes, it’s the exact same way.
Afterward, he holds me close. “I never thought I could have this,” he confesses quietly. “A woman who loves me despite knowing what I am. A child. A future that’s more than just power and control.”
I turn in his arms to face him. “And now?”
His smile is soft, unguarded. “Now, I can’t imagine any other future.”
I believe him. I believe every word.
We don’t make it to the bedroom until our third round. By then, we’ve christened the couch, the kitchen counter, and the hallway wall.
Each time is different.
Each time peels away another layer of the walls between us.
As we fall onto my bed together, I realize I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. For years, I watched him from afar, building elaborate, unspoken fantasies around a man I thought I could never have.
Now, he’s here, in my bed, in my heart, promising me forever.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin as we catch our breath.
“That dreams come true. I never thought I could be this happy.” I nestle closer to him. “But I’m still a little afraid to believe it.”
He kisses my forehead. “Believe it. I’m not going anywhere.”
“What about your father? The FBI? All of it?”
“We’ll face it together.” His voice is resolute. “I meant what I said, Rowan. Nothing matters more than you and our child.”
I look up at him. I know this face so well. The sharp jawline, the silver-streaked hair, those impossibly blue eyes.
But now there’s something new there—a softness I’ve never seen before.
A vulnerability reserved only for me.
“I think our baby’s going to have your eyes,” I say, pressing my palm to his cheek.
His own hand covers mine. “Let’s hope they get the rest from you. The world doesn’t need another Akopov temperament running around.”
I laugh, the sound filling the small bedroom. “I don’t know. I’ve grown kinda fond of that temperament.”
“Even when I’m being an arrogant, controlling asshole?”
“Maybe not then,” I admit. “But definitely now. When you’re just… Vince.”
“Just Vince,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that.”
We make love once more before exhaustion claims us. This time is the sweetest yet—slow and deep and achingly tender. As I drift toward sleep in his arms, I feel his hand settle protectively over my stomach again.
“I’ll get you a real ring tomorrow,” he murmurs against my hair. “Something worthy of you.”
“I don’t need diamonds,” I say sleepily. “Just you.”
His arms tighten around me. “You have me. Forever.”
I believe him. After months of doubt, of fearing I was just a convenient solution, of protecting my heart against inevitable heartbreak—I finally, completely believe him.
Vincent Akopov loves me. Me, Rowan St. Clair, former marketing associate, current executive assistant, forever the woman who stumbled into his office at exactly the right wrong moment.
And I love him—the criminal, the businessman, the protector, the father of my child.
Every version of him, dark or light.
