Chapter 25
The event was held in a private lounge tucked inside a hotel that charged more per night than most people's monthly mortgage. Rielle was going to read excerpts from her new book before her signing, and the stage was set for that with a microphone, a stool, and a covered pitcher of ice water.
The murmur of the well-dressed crowd was low, allowing me to focus.
I clocked exits first—one behind the stage, one leading to the hallway, another out the side, and a service door near the small bar.
There were two guards that belonged to the venue.
I had two stationed in here, too, not including Mikhail and Juvie.
Mikhail lounged against the far wall, looking casual.
He wasn’t. Juvie was whispering to a red head, sending her into giggles, but I knew he was paying attention, too. He always was.
Theory slowed beside me, her curious gaze moving around the room.
“What is this?”
“A reading.”
“A reading?” She looked up at me, frowning. “You brought me to a reading?”
I glanced at her like I was offended. “I read, thank you very much.”
She scoffed. “Not sure The Mafia Murder Manual counts.”
“I read that in a day. Got an A+ on the quiz. I'm on to your books when you leave them open.”
She stopped walking. “What?”
I pressed against the small of her back until she moved again. “Gotta know what makes my wife a best seller. Also gotta see what you interested in.”
“First of all, mind your business. Second, if you stretched out the spine on any of my paperbacks, we divorcing.”
“First of all, you are my business. Second, we not divorcing.”
“We are if you damaged my books.”
“I’ll buy you new ones.”
“That’s not the point. I annotate my books. Even write in the margins. And some of them are my emotional support books.”
I looked at her skeptically. “Emotional support books?”
“Yes. Important for my mental health,” she whispered as she smiled at random people in the audience.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“Mm,” I replied noncommittally.
We reached the small, private room off the lounge before she could ask another question. I opened the door and let her step in first. Rielle Bright stood inside. Theory froze.
My wife, who had asked Andrei how to threaten to stab me in Russian just yesterday, who had gotten smart with my father, and who glared at Maxim every chance she got, went perfectly still except for the widening of those pretty brown eyes.
Rielle smiled.
She was a beautiful woman, maybe mid-forties, with smooth brown skin, long locs, and an aura of calm that said she knew she was exactly who she thought she was.
“Theory Sidorov,” she greeted, holding out her hands.
Theory’s elbow slammed into my stomach. Hard. Grunting, I bent forward.
“Damn.”
“Shut up,” she whispered, before taking Rielle’s hands.
“I ain’t say nothing,” I protested.
“You did this?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at Rielle, then back at me, then at Rielle again.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually— I mean, I am but not like— I love your work. Like, I really love your work. Your prose is so perfect, and the way you write desire and love? Baby! It’s just—” She stopped and pressed her lips together. “I’m talking too much.”
Rielle laughed softly. “You talking like a writer. There’s a difference.”
Theory looked touched by the compliment. I liked seeing it.
“She’s a writer, too,” I said.
Theory whipped toward me. “Targen.”
I shrugged. “What? You are.”
“I know what I am.”
“Then why can’t I say it?”
“This is her night, her time.”
“Girl, it's always the time for your man to brag on you. But I know you, Theory Miller. Contemporary romance with a lot of spice. Honey, that Where Angels Fear to Tread? Perfect.”
Theory clapped her hands over her mouth, failing to hold in a squeal.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! You know me?”
“Of course, I know you. I know you've been hinting at getting into something else, too. Tell me about that.”
Theory hesitated then spoke almost shyly at first. “More romantic suspense.” She glanced at me. “Thinking about writing women trying to survive stubborn, arrogant, overbearing men who think a marriage license is permission to do anything.”
Rielle’s amused gaze slid to me. I shrugged again.
“Sounds like fiction.”
Theory sniffed as Rielle laughed again.
“I’m very glad you came tonight. Your husband sent me something beautiful for you.”
Theory’s smile wavered. “He sent you something?”
I touched her waist. “For later.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine. “Targen.”
“Trust me.”
She stared at me for a long moment, a mix of suspicion, curiosity, and nerves clouding her eyes. Then she looked at Rielle and seemed to remember she was in the presence of one of her literary heroes. And she remembered trusting me was starting to come easy to her.
“Okay,” she said, her voice softer.
I kept my hand on her until we were seated in the main room. We were close to the stage but angled slightly away from the crowd. Just what I wanted—private enough for what I had in mind, public enough for her to feel the spiciness of almost being seen.
Theory leaned toward me as the lights dimmed. “Did you pay for all this?”
I had requested and received some upgrades for security reasons, but…
“No.”
She gave me a look. Damn. She knew me more than I realized.
“I paid for some of it.”
“Targen.”
“I’m a sponsor of art.”
“Boy!”
“A whole modern-day patron out here.”
She shook her head, but I could see the excitement she was trying to hold in. She kept looking toward the stage as her fingers worried the edge of the program. I put my hand over her bouncing knee.
“Relax, milaya.”
“I am relaxed,” she lied.
Silently, I tapped her knee. She stuck out her tongue, but the bouncing stopped.
“You happy?” I asked.
I had to stop myself from holding my breath. Her face softened. She looked open. She looked like she was happy. She looked like she was… mine.
“Yeah. I am,” she admitted.
That was all I needed.
Rielle stepped onstage to warm applause. She read short passages from her upcoming book. After the last one, she waited for the room to settle again.
“I have one more piece for you tonight,” she said into the microphone. “This one is original, and it was given to me by someone who, like me, understands that desire and passion can get real messy.”
Theory’s head whipped toward me. My hand slid from her knee to her thigh. Her eyes narrowed. I looked at the stage like I had no idea what was happening.
“This piece is simply called ‘Honey.’ The artist said it started as a poem, but it didn't quite manifest that way. I think it came out exactly as it was supposed to,” Rielle said.
Theory breathed out softly. “Targen—”
I leaned close enough for my lips to brush the shell of her ear.
“Just listen,” I whispered.
Rielle lowered her voice, made it even richer and as smooth as good whiskey.
“Honey.”
A hush settled over the room. I could feel my wife's anticipation. My hand spread wider on her thigh.
“I've read about women who taste like sin. Decadent. Dark. Deadly. Irresistible. You're addictive like that. You cause the same kind of obsession, dangerous because you embody what a man would risk it all for.”
A soft exhale escaped my wife as my fingertips traced random patterns on the inside of her thigh.
“Targen,” she whispered.
“Shh.”
“But sin?” Rielle continued. “Nah. You don't set me on a path to ruin like sin. You saved me in places you never saw, in times you never knew, in ways I can't speak. If I could imagine the ways sin tasted, it’s like something made fast, so you fall before you have time to think, to regret. And you taste....” Another pause.
“You taste like something God made slow.”
Theory’s breath caught. My hand slid higher. Her thighs pressed together. I smiled against her ear.
“Open,” I murmured.
She inhaled sharply. “You better not.”
“I better not what?”
Her fingers curled around the edge of the tablecloth.
But those thick thighs opened more.
“You taste like warm honey when it's slipping from that wooden spoon. You taste like golden sunlight on my tongue. You taste sweet enough to make a man like me forget every ugly thing he’s ever done and remember why he'd do them again.”
I tapped the seat of her panties, smiled at the dampness I found there. My shorty was always wet for me, open when she didn't even want to admit it.
“Your skin looks like it, too. Warm, soft, golden... like it glows from the inside. How could a man keep himself from reaching for you twice?”
Theory shifted in her seat.
I knew that movement. Her legs spread. My fingers slipped below the silk to something infinitely softer. Rielle continued calmly while I sat there beside my wife pretending I wasn't doing filthy things to her.
“And your eyes… when you look at me with those honey-brown eyes, I finally understand obsession. I understand why men ruined kingdoms and started wars. I understand what can make a man who is feared kneel.”
Theory’s lashes fluttered once. My fingers slid up, rubbed gently. Her breathing changed.
“Targen,” she whispered without looking at me.
I ignored her, let my fingers work as Rielle read.
“I love it when you're sweet as honey, milaya, when you laugh and tease and melt all over me. But when you're angry? When you argue and pretend your mouth wasn’t made to be kissed slow?”
I whispered the last line against her ear. She bit her lip against a moan, fought to stay still as her breathing and pulse quickened.
“You breathing hard, milaya.”
“'Cause you acting up in public,” she hissed under her breath.
Rielle spoke the next line. “I love showing you that it is. But just when I feel like I win—”
I felt the soft tremors of her coming orgasm, hid a smile at the thought of making my woman, my wife fall apart in a room full of people.
“Targen, please,” she whispered. “Baby... don't.”
Fuck. I wanted her to cum, but I wanted her to want it more than that.
I moved in my seat. My thumb stroked one more time along the inside of her thigh, slower this time.
“Just when I taste victory on your lips, I realize that you're not just sweet. You're dangerous. Because honey can drown you if you take too much at once. And I will never get enough.”
Rielle glanced up, signaling the end. The audience applauded enthusiastically. Theory grabbed my wrist beneath the tablecloth. She didn't move it. She just stopped me.
For now.
She made a tiny, frustrated sound she probably didn’t mean for me to hear.
I heard it, though.
“Greedy,” I teased.
“Shut up.”
“You hot?”
She glared at me. “I hate you.”
“Liar.”
“Do not start tonight,” she warned.
I pressed a kiss beneath her ear. “You started it when you wore this dress.”
“I wore this dress because it’s cute.”
“You wore this dress because you wanted me to suffer.”
“And yet, here I am suffering,” she muttered.
“Good.”
Her head turned. “Good?”
“A lil’ suffering builds character, or whatever Job said.”
She glared at me, but then she grabbed my hand as Rielle nodded toward us. For a few seconds, she sat there with her hand tangled in mine, staring at the stage like she had forgotten where we were. She finally turned toward me. Her eyes were wet, her mouth trembling.
“You wrote for me.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“You so unfair,” she whispered.
I brought her hand to my lips. “I know.”
“No. I mean it, Targen. You can’t just…” She stopped, searching for the right words. “You can’t just learn me like this and then use it against me.”
I chuckled. “I’m not using it against you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m using it for us,” I corrected.
She stared at me. I leaned closer.
“What you thinking, malyshka?”
She glared at me. “Don’t.”
I sighed. “There go that word again.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
I brushed my lips over hers, barely touching. “Well, I was gon’ continue our date night, but you can tell me to take you home, if it's too much.”
Her lashes lowered. I waited. The room brightened a little as the lights went up. People started moving toward the bar, toward the stage, toward Rielle. Everything was busy around us, but Theory still sat there, caught between wanting time to process and wanting time with me.
Finally, she whispered, “Not yet.”
Relief flooded through me so hard I had to close my eyes for a second. I was a little surprised and a lot grateful. My wife was giving me another little yes, and I knew by now not to take those for granted.
I kissed her knuckles. “Okay.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You not gon’ say something smart?”
I grabbed my chest. “I’m capable of restraint.”
She looked at me like that was the worst lie ever told. I laughed as I stood up, adjusting my jacket before my hard ass dick embarrassed both of us. Then I held my hand out.
“Come on, pretty girl.”
“My makeup okay?”
I studied her face. She was all glossy lips, slightly red cheeks, bright eyes. My baby was so damn beautiful my chest hurt.
“No.”
Her face fell. “What?”
“You look like you just got seduced in public,” I teased.
Her mouth fell. I grinned.
“Targen! I cannot stand you.”
“You can. Come on.”
She took my hand and stood, leaning into my side like she belonged there, because she did. I kept my arm around her waist, thinking about the eventual drive home.
“What you up there plotting?” she asked.
“Getting you out of that dress and on my dick,” I answered truthfully.
She kissed her teeth. “Yo’ little poem wasn't that good,” she chided.
Then, her laughter surrounded me. And that? That was enough.