36. Thirty-Six #2
“I’m counting on it,” Arrow replied. “A wedding without the threat of bloodshed would disappoint everyone, especially you.”
I laughed. I imagined the pews filled with beautiful monsters in designer clothes, weapons concealed beneath Italian suits and couture gowns. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me.
Arrow’s eyes darkened at that, fingers flexing against my hip. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“That was always the plan,” I whispered, pressing my palm against his chest where his heart beat steady and strong beneath my touch. “But not until after you make me your wife.”
His mouth curved into that dangerous smile I’d come to crave. He backed me against the altar, the cold stone pressing against my thighs as he caged me between his arms. The cathedral’s shadows wrapped around us like a shroud, the stained glass throwing blood-red patterns across his face.
“Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you on our wedding night?” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.
I tilted my head, exposing my neck to him. “Surprise me.”
He laughed, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. His teeth grazed the tender skin below my jaw, right over the bruise he'd left earlier. “I’m going to make you forget your name, your family, everything except who you belong to.”
“Possessive, are we?” I breathed, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Always.” His hand slid up my thigh, bunching the fabric of my dress. “Want to desecrate this altar before the wedding? Give the old saints something to really pray about?”
My breath caught in my throat as he pinned me against the altar. Some distant part of my brain registered that we were about to defile a sacred space, but the wicked thrill of it only made me want him more.
“You don’t think God will strike you down for fucking me in his house?” I asked, my voice echoing in the cathedral’s emptiness.
His laugh was dark and delicious against my neck. “If he hasn’t killed me yet for everything else I’ve done, I doubt this will tip the scales.”
His hand slid higher, fingers finding the edge of my panties. The stone altar was cold against my back, a shocking contrast to the heat of his body pressing against mine. I arched into him, my hands finding and clutching onto him.
“Your priest might come back,” I whispered, though I made no move to stop him.
“Father Pavel knows better than to interrupt a Romanov.” His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Besides, what’s a wedding without a scandal?”
I reached between us, my fingers finding his belt. “I thought the scandal was the wedding itself.”
He caught my wrist, squeezing just tight enough to make my pulse jump. “Careful, Harlowe. You start something here, I’ll finish it. And I won’t be gentle.”
“When have you ever been gentle?” I challenged, meeting his gaze.
The moonlight streaming through the stained glass cast him in blood-red and midnight blue, turning him into something otherworldly—a demon pretending to be a man. His eyes burned with a hunger that matched my own.
“Last chance to run,” he whispered against my lips.
“What if I do?” I whispered, not because I would, but because I needed to hear what he’d say.
His hand moved to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a promise.
“Then I’d hunt you,” he said simply. “I’d burn down every city you tried to hide in.
I’d follow your scent across oceans.” His thumb brushed my pulse.
“And when I found you, I’d make sure you’d never forget who you belonged to again. ”
A shiver ran up my spine at the possessiveness in his voice. Not fear. More primal, like the thrill of being wanted so completely that even escape wasn’t an option.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” I asked, my voice barely audible in the vast cathedral.
“Both.” He pressed his forehead against mine. “Everything with us is both.”
His hand slid up my thigh again, this time with more purpose. He lifted me onto the cold stone of the altar, my dress hiking up around my hips. God, the sacrilege of it, being spread across an altar where generations of brides had made holy vows, had me dripping for him.
“Your father would kill you if he saw you now,” Arrow whispered against my neck.
“Your father would applaud you,” I countered, gasping as his fingers found the edge of my panties.“And yet here we are,” I breathed as he pushed my thighs apart.
“Here we are,” he agreed, his eyes reflecting the stained glass above us.
His mouth claimed mine with bruising force. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.
“Sacrilege looks good on you,” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck.
“Everything looks good on me.”
His fingers slid beneath the lace of my panties, finding me already wet for him. “Always so ready,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Always so fucking eager.”
I bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Shut up and fuck me.”
He growled, the sound reverberating through my chest. With one swift motion, he tore my panties away, the delicate fabric giving way easily in his hands.
I should have been angry—they were La Perla, after all—but I couldn’t summon the anger through the wave of desire that crashed through me.
His fingers played me expertly, thumb circling my clit while two fingers pushed inside, curling upward to find that spot that made my vision blur.
“Look at me,” Arrow demanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
I defiantly met his gaze, even as my body betrayed me, clenching around his fingers. The moonlight streaming through the stained glass painted him in shades of blue and crimson, like some unholy saint of violence and desire.
“I want you to remember this,” he said, working me faster, “when we stand here in two days. I want you to feel me inside you while you say your vows.”
I laughed, breathy and sharp. “You think I’ll be thinking of you? Maybe I’ll be counting exit routes instead.”
He twisted his fingers inside me, making me gasp. “You’ll be thinking of me. I’ll make sure of it.”
His free hand worked his belt, unbuckling it. The leather slid free with a hiss that echoed in the cavernous space. He unzipped his pants, freeing himself, hard and ready. I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around his length, feeling him throb against my palm.
“The great Arrow Romanov,” I taunted, stroking him slowly, “about to fuck his enemy on holy ground. What would your mother say?”
His eyes flashed with something primal, his grip tightening around my wrist. “My mother would recognize a queen when she saw one.”
He positioned himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against my slick heat. I braced myself against the altar, palms flat on the cold stone. The stained glass above cast jewel-toned shadows across our bodies, saints and sinners watching our unholy communion.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice echoing in the emptiness.
I arched against him, impatient. “Since when do you ask permission?”
“Since I decided to make you beg in God’s house.” His thumb traced my lower lip, pressing into my mouth. I bit down, tasting salt and skin.
“I’d rather die,” I whispered against his finger.
His laugh was dark velvet. “That can be arranged. After.”
Without warning, he slammed into me, filling me so completely that the breath was knocked from my lungs. My head fell back, a moan tearing from my throat and echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The saints in their stained-glass windows seemed to avert their eyes as Arrow claimed me on their altar.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving me back against the cold stone. My dress bunched around my waist, my legs wrapped tight around his hips as he fucked me with the single-minded focus of a man marking territory.
“Look at you,” he growled, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks. “Spread out on God’s altar like a sacrifice?”
I gasped as he hit a spot deep inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The sacrilege of it all, being fucked on sacred ground by a man whose family had destroyed mine, only heightened every sensation.
“Is that what this is?” I panted, my nails raking down his back through his shirt. “A sacrifice?”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. “This is worship, malyshka.”*
The only kind men like me know how to give.”
His pace quickened, each thrust driving me higher, pushing me toward that precipice where nothing existed but sensation.
I bit down on his shoulder to muffle my cries, tasting expensive wool and salt.
The sound of skin against skin echoed obscenely in the sacred space, competing with our ragged breathing.
“Say my name,” he demanded, his voice rough with exertion. “Say it like a fucking prayer.”
I turned my face away, defiant even as pleasure coiled tighter in my core. He grabbed my chin roughly, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were dark with lust and something fiercer, something that made my heart race.
“Say it,” he demanded again.
I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Arrow,” I gasped, the name torn from my throat. “Arrow!”
His smile was victorious and savage as he drove into me harder, the altar beneath me cold and unyielding. My head fell back, exposing my throat to him, which he immediately claimed with his teeth.
“Again,” he growled against my skin.
“Arrow, fuck,” I whispered, then louder, letting it echo through the cathedral like blasphemy. “Arrow!”
His rhythm faltered for just a moment, and I knew he was close. I clenched around him deliberately, watching his face contort with pleasure and pain.
“Good fucking girl,” he murmured, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. “Now come for me, Harlowe. Come on this altar so God himself knows who you belong to.”