Chapter 11 #2
Then again, I guess we need photos to make it look real.
Cal’s outside smoking, and Father Luigi’s skulking in the back, helping himself to what I suspect is some whiskey, but every time his gaze finds Harry, he lights up, like he matched her and Torin himself.
The church door opens and Callahan pokes his head in. “Seamus?”
I walk down the aisle and step out into the New York night.
And my heart slams. There, in a long white dress with burgundy boots and a long, gauzy white veil, is my bride-to-be.
For a woman who spits hate at me with her gaze, she’s beyond fucking gorgeous.
Her black hair’s up, tendrils cascading down around her face. Red full lips and long black lashes with cat eyeliner call to my libido. In the breast pocket of my suit is the prenup, but as I reach for it, I stop.
“Is there a problem, Cal?” I ask, eyes not leaving her.
She slams her red-nailed hands on her hips, the bruise still just barely visible on her grimacing face. Good. It reminds me she’s a fucking liar.
“Last chance to back out, Seamus,” he says, blowing smoke as he drops the butt of his cigarette and stamps it out with his shoe. “Your bride just got out of a cab. I’m not sure she’s Murphy material.”
For a moment I stare at him, and then I have to swallow my smile. “You could be right.”
Her eyes narrow. “We had a deal, Seamus.”
My name is jagged on her lips.
“We did make a deal,” I say. “But she hasn’t signed the prenup.”
“So you can back out. There’s a nice lass from a good family who’s looking to make ties with us,” Cal says, the oil of his words coiling in the air, and I can practically hear her blood start to bubble.
“Give me the damn prenup.” She holds out her hand and I slap it onto her palm. In the warm glow of the church’s outside lights, she goes through it on the top step, her finger tracing down vertically.
There are a few times she stops reading and fixes that wild, fiery glare on me, but then she reaches the end.
She doesn’t want to sign it. She’d like to make amendments. And she’s trying to wriggle out of it to get a better deal even though it looks good enough.
“No changes, nothing,” I say at the looks she gives me. “It’s this or I walk, and you lose everything.”
“It’s not fair.”
I sigh. “It just means you can’t touch a thing of ours and you’ll have no claim when we’re done and you finally have your bratva.”
I’ll have that piece she promised, too. It’s enough that I can force her out of the top position. If I choose.
The wording is careful, and the Volkov Bratva consists of both the aboveboard shipping part and the criminal part, which is stated. The three of us know she has no wiggle room.
And I’m going to be disappointed if she doesn’t spend a great deal of our marriage looking for a way out.
But short of killing me and my family, she’s out of luck.
Try and kill me and I’ll kill her. It’s that simple.
I might, anyway, if I find out she was involved with Siobhan or Paddy.
“My father’s lawyer—”
“Will get a copy. Sign it or we walk,” I say.
“Give me a pen.” She grips the papers so tight I think she just might tear through them.
Cal hands her one. “I’ll be witness. And then, how about as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll walk the bride down the aisle?”
It’s not an actual question, and as soon as everything’s signed, I go back inside to take my place at the end of the aisle with Dec, who’s delighted to be my best man.
Cal walks her down the aisle a minute later, and Father Luigi clears his throat as Harry scrambles up and hands Ava a bouquet of white orchids.
She offers Ava a brilliant smile, then joins her husband, as Cal sits with his wife, holding her hand.
“Ava, Seamus,” Father Luigi says. “You’ve opted for the short version. A very short version. So I’m here to ask… Ava, do you wish to marry Seamus Dylan Murphy?”
“Yes.” She sounds like she’s about ready for her appointment with Madame Guillotine.
“And Seamus, do you wish to marry Ava Rose Volkov?” Father Luigi asks.
“Absolutely,” I say, offering her a big, shit-eating grin.
The priest looks heavenward for a moment, but says, “I then pronounce you husband and wife, until death do you part.”
Arnold barks.
I send Father Luigi a dark look at that last one and his eyes dance.
Asshole. I didn’t put that in the vows.
But it’s done. The quickest wedding in history and Harry, Lucie, and Dec take photos with their phones.
Afterward, we leave the church where Mikey waits to drive us all home.
Ava’s silent for the ride, but Dec can talk enough for everyone in the limo. It’s not the party limo, but it’ll do.
When we get home, Ava stands in the foyer, unyielding, like she’s a saint sent wrongly into hell. And we’re her hell.
Anyone else, I’d feel sorry for. But she keeps looking at me with that hard-as-fucking nails expression, the disdain and hate tangled in her fiery glare.
“I think my bride’s tired. We’ll have time to catch up and celebrate later,” I say.
Grabbing her hand, her other full of the bouquet Harry gave her, I drag her from the room. There’s an elevator, but we barely use it, so I head for the stairs.
“Let go,” she hisses, trying to free herself from my grip.
“But… it’s your wedding,” Harry says, her voice trailing after us.
I don’t say a word until we reach the top floor. My bedroom suite that used to house Callahan and Lucie is open, the lights low and the king bed I prefer to sleep on is now decked out in white.
There are flowers, and a soft breeze plays with the curtains from the Juliet balcony I never open.
I’m not sure who the culprit is, but my money’s on my two sisters-in-law. What am I even thinking… of course it was them. No one else would do this.
“Let. Me. Go.” Her eyes spark pure, white-hot flames.
I put my hand to my heart. “I never got to kiss the bride.”
“Don’t,” she says through gritted teeth. “I don’t want you to.”
I still have her hand in mine, so I pull her in against me. It’s heat lightning when we connect. She molds herself against me and I’m hard in an instant.
“You do,” I say. “You just don’t like me for reasons I have yet to uncover.”
She slides her hand up over my shoulder and into my hair. I do the same to her, and I wrap the loose strands that are warm like silk around my fingers, close to her scalp, and I pull, dragging her head back.
Ava gasps, eyelids fluttering as she parts her lips. It’s an invitation that’s almost impossible to deny.
But I let go and push her away. Now her eyes fly open wide, and there’s pure murder glittering in the depths.
And I grin. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Of course, no means no.”
“I didn’t say no,” she says, voice a growl.
She’s breathing fast, uneven, as she strips off the top layer of her dress, and I have to stifle a groan. The dress is more like a tight silky slip than a dress. And it sets off fantasies. Mainly because now her nipples are displayed. Hard and pushing tight against the thin material.
I circle her, coming in close just to breathe in the addictive night jasmine and spice of her. “You did. You said you didn’t want me to.”
“That’s not a no. I hate you with every last part of me. But it wasn’t a no.”
I stop, come in close, lips hovering close to hers. “Why, because we’re married?”
“Gotta make the best of it.”
“To keep me happy?”
“I don’t give a fuck about your happiness, but if I’m trapped, so are you.”
I run my tongue over her lips, torturing myself, torturing her. “I could change my mind anytime and walk out the door of this union.”
“You can’t. It’s why I signed the prenup. Twelve months. Or you give me two million dollars. It said so. I walk, I get nothing. The year’s up and I get nothing. But you… if you walk, you owe me that.”
The one small clause I added. Honey to the pot. And she’s there, lapping it up.
She’ll never let that happen, though, because she wants her bratva too much. But I wanted her to think she could get the upper hand.
“So what’s the problem?” I slip fingers down her cheek, pushing one of the thin straps, along with the cream strap of her bra, off her shoulder. “You didn’t say no.”
I go to kiss her, but she spins away, breathing hard.
And she puts a hand to her stomach. “I just… I just need a moment.”
“I’ve had you spread out so wide I could see inside you, Ava. I’ve fucked your mouth, your throat, your cunt, and your ass. I’ve had you on your knees like the world’s hottest whore, showing me my cum in your mouth. I’ve had you making sure I watch you swallow it, and now you’re suddenly coy?”
Ava sits on the bed and unzips the boots, kicking them off one by one before peeling off the stockings, her skirt hiked high.
I don’t think she realizes just how unbelievably erotic the image is. Her with those long, smooth thighs, the straps halfway down her arm and the top half of one breast displayed, not quite giving me nipple glory but close enough.
“I’m not being coy.”
I toss my jacket on a chair and pull off my tie, thinking briefly about tying her up.
Another time. I like her wild and free and fighting. I want her blood in my mouth, her life in battle with mine as I fuck her into submission.
Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m going to take her ass again. It was delicious, tight, and I could go so fucking deep. It also has that special honor of being a way to dominate, to control, and to humiliate.
But I strike the last one off. She wasn’t humiliated when we did it. She was into it. And dominating her is like a battle where I’m not sure who’s going to win.
I think it’s the one thing I like about her, that appetite for hot, animalistic sex that’s earth and fire and to the death satisfying. She can match me in a way no one has yet.
If I wanted to, I could fuck her hard and rough on the floor. I could plunge into her cunt. That might be better than both her ass and mouth combined because when she comes, she fucking tries to destroy my dick, her contractions are so strong. And she’s so wet and slick.
Fuck, I could go from her cunt to her ass. I could get toys.
I make myself stop because my boner’s on the edge of pain.
“No, sweet thing, you’re not coy. You’re just trying to reconcile your hate with your desire, aren’t you?”
Startled, she looks at me and I push her back on the bed and peel off her underwear.
I take a moment to breathe in her evocative scent.
I don’t even have to touch her to know she’s aroused.
The panties are wet, but her scent is like a calling card, the pheromones singing to me, letting me know she’s mine for the taking.
And it’s rude to ignore an invitation. I toss the panties on the floor and hook her legs over my shoulders before diving into that wet wonderland.
She moans, bucking her hips against my mouth, beckoning me to taste and to plunder. I lick and suck on her lips, push my tongue up into the honey of her, and then I lick all the way up to her clit where I suck and bite and play her button until she comes, shaking and screaming my name.
“Fuck me,” she says, her voice a breathless whisper. “Now.”
I don’t waste time. I unhook her legs, unzip my fly, and release my cock. Then I plunge in, riding her hard through her orgasm, pushing her into another, and I slam into her over and over until it’s too much and I come, too.
When I’m done, I stay buried inside her. I’m still hard. And her furiously satiated gaze hits mine.
“Want and hate. Is that it? Is that what gets you off?” she whispers, spite in every word.
“When it comes to you, maybe.” I pull her breast from her dress and suck and bite her nipple, her pussy rippling against my cock. Then I lift my head. “But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. So why don’t you cut through the bullshit and tell me why you hate me so much?”