Chapter 31 #2
“It came up in conversation one day. I was happy to share the info,” Everly offered smugly.
My nigga was marrying a real one. Shorty had been helping me out above and beyond the call of duty. I fist bumped her.
Real snorted. “This nigga been pretending he hard for years. Whole time, his favorite movie is about romantic hood poetry.”
“He said, while dressed like a candy cane,” I responded dryly.
“When you put it like that, baby, it makes sense these two ended up together,” Ev said.
“I know, ol’ Come live with me and be my loooove ass nigga,” Real mocked dramatically.
Theory burst out laughing.
I pointed at him. “Get out.”
“Nah. Theater paid for through ten.”
“Real.”
He grinned and lifted both hands. “A’ight, a’ight.”
He was still laughing when he disappeared. Theory led me to the middle of the room to center seats. For a while, we ate popcorn, sipped from the same soda, and watched people whose Houston accents were nowhere near authentic. I loved this shit anyway.
I settled deeper into the seat beside my wife while the movie played. Right around the scene where Lyric softly quoted: “Come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove…” Theory shifted beside me, then climbed directly into my lap, her back to my front.
My hands automatically spread across her thighs.
“A’ight. This my type of carrying on,” I murmured against her neck.
She kissed her teeth. “Boy, hush.” But she giggled softly, her voice sounding kind of nervous again.
Interesting.
She leaned back against my chest, then reached for my hands, settling them on the hem of her top.
“Lift it.”
My brows rose immediately. “In this fine public establishment?”
“Nobody’s here.”
“Real ass somewhere lurking.”
“He know better. Plus, Mikhail and Juvie guarding the door.”
I smiled slowly. “You got a lotta faith in these niggas.”
She looked over shoulder and smiled at me softly. “I have a lotta faith in you.”
“Ay, what you romance writers call that warm feeling I get in my chest when you say shit like that?” I asked, trying to play off that that was exactly how I felt.
My fingers slid beneath her shirt carefully.
Warm skin and the metal of her waist chain met my palms, then I dragged it over my wife’s head, already anticipating what we were about to get into.
Then I saw the bandage stretched across her back.
I froze. No new hurt was allowed to her, not on my fucking watch. Not ever again. Had she been hiding this? Was this the reason for the nervousness? The disappearing all week? The secretive behavior? That warm feeling I had just been talking about was suddenly a different kind of heat.
“Theory…”
“Take it off.”
“Baby—”
“Man, just do it!”
Slowly, carefully, I peeled the bandage away, and when it was gone, my breath left me on a rough exhale.
The fresh, lightly-greased tattoo stretched beautifully across the center of her back, not low or hidden.
Butterflies and flowers curled around delicate skulls in swirls of colorful ink.
It made no sense, but somehow… it just did.
And in pretty script, right in the center were two words: Mrs. Sidorov.
My hands went still against her skin.
Onscreen, Lyric’s soft voice continued talking in its exaggerated southern twang, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. Theory shifted nervously in my lap. “Say something.”
How the fuck could I when my baby was telling me that she was choosing to settle in with me and this life, represented in skulls and a Russian Bratva name entwined with the butterflies and honeysuckle she loved?
My brilliant, stubborn, complicated wife was choosing my violent, stubborn, complicated self. She moved restlessly, waiting for my response, I knew. I cleared my throat, found my words.
“You put my name on you,” I said hoarsely.
Her fingers twisted her ring. I wasn’t even sure she realized. “You said none of it was coming off, the ring, the name, so....” She shrugged, her voice hesitant, soft, unsure.
Jesus Christ. How could she need reassurance? I lowered my forehead to her shoulder and laughed once, disbelieving.
“You really out here tryna fuck me up in this theater.”
She relaxed a little then, turned so that our eyes could fully meet.
“You like it?”
Like it? I kissed the center of her spine carefully, just above the fresh ink.
“Nah, baby,” I murmured. “I love it.”
She melted backward against me.
“I gotta be the luckiest nigga in the world. I’m giving my girl back shots, look down and see that fat ass ripple, look up and see my name. Hell, yeah, Mrs. Sidorov. Let’s go put that in motion now,” I suggested.
She rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Mr. Sidorov. Just lewd and lascivious for no reason.”
Then she reached for the oversized bag sitting beside us and pulled out a huge beach towel.
I frowned. “Why you got beach equipment in the movie theater?”
Theory glanced at me, honey-brown eyes glowing wickedly in the dim light.
She stood and turned to face me, then placed the folded towel between my feet.
Suddenly, I knew exactly where this night was going.
She dropped to her knees on the cloth. I thought about stopping her.
That idea kept circling through my head while she reached for my zipper and eased it down, looking up at me with those beautiful eyes, darkened to amber.
“Baby…” I meant to say something to let her know this wasn’t necessary.
I forgot what it was when she pulled me through the front of my boxer briefs.
The first soft lick of her tongue against the head of my dick, gathering my pre-cum and sampling it like it was a delicacy had me exhaling a curse and dropping my head back against the seat.
I forgot that damn movie except for the hope that I got to fold my wife up like Treach did ol’ girl on the side of that house.
She kept it light like that for a moment, tentative licks that bathed my length and girth.
Then, my wife opened the exquisite heat of her mouth to me, soft, plump lips forming a tight seal as she sucked down inch after inch of my dick.
Theory introduced me to the gift of her tongue’s flexibility and the lovely accommodation of her throat as she began a slow, deep suction that had me clutching the seat tighter than I ever had on any rollercoaster.
Because she was so generous, she let her hand join the action, twisting and pumping me as I fought not to whimper.
The soft, quiet pulls of her pretty mouth soon gave way to a louder, wetter slurping intermixed with gagging as she took me deeper and deeper, those gorgeous eyes watering as my wife worked to please me.
She looked up at me as she hummed softly in satisfaction.
And fuck… I wasn’t one to lose control. Not in the frozen hell of Siberia or in fights with my brother or even when I stood by as some of the worst men I knew were sacrificed on operating tables.
But this woman…
Theory had disrupted my control from the moment I saw her curled in a chair in a loud ass living room.
And right now, gagging and crying and humming on my dick, my wife threatened to completely undo me.
I pulled her off my dick—an act for which I deserved a damn prize—then stood, lifting her up with me.
“I'm starting to think that you get off on seeing me lose my mind over you,” I accused, my thumb brushing over her wet lower lip.
I spun her around and pressed her over the seats in front of us. She smirked over her shoulder at me.
“That’s a problem? Cuz I could say the same about you,” she teased as I ripped her panties away from her already dripping center and pressed inside her.
I groaned at the tight, welcoming heat of her. Three days without this was too long. I anchored us, one hand on a lush ass cheek, the other grasping her side, my thumb resting near her tattoo. And that view?
Yeah. It was everything I thought it would be.