Chapter 43
GABI
Somewhere, alarm bells ring. Did I just say yes?
No?
Ivan asked, and I’m not sure if I responded. It must be the tingling of alcohol dancing through my veins because my brain has left the building, to such an extent that even Chiara doesn’t interrupt. I never expected the whisky to hit my bloodstream so fast or with such enthusiasm.
Maybe it’s because he’s kneeling in front of me, his body’s heat melting into mine, his touch like a drug I soak up through my skin.
It doesn’t matter, because all I can focus on is the swirl of his tongue and the slow swoop of sparks it ignites down my back as he kisses me deeper. He tastes of whisky, and it’s intoxicating.
His hands seem to be all over me in tender caresses—in my hair as he’s pulling back my head, opening my throat, more kisses on my already heated skin, then on my chest as he rips at my shirt’s buttons, impatient now, then on the clasp of my bra, unhooking and exposing me in one fluid movement, tossing my clothes to the side.
I immediately cover up with my arms, aroused but flustered. This is going too fast.
“No,” he murmurs as he reaches for my wrists, but I resist, locking my arms. His intense blue gaze searches mine. “You trust me, don’t you, Gabriella?”
My name sounds so soft on his lips, an echo of the way he touches me.
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to do this.” I trust him, but I still fear through the layers of my fucked-up past. Since I was seven, I knew my life wasn’t normal, and never would be, but what happened to me later messed me up even more.
“We’re not married yet,” I murmur, clinging to the most logical straw for a good convent girl.
But we will be. It hangs between us, a weighty truth I won’t be able to side-step like I’ve been planning to.
“I just want to look at you, moya ptichka, because you’re fucking beautiful.”
Heat swarms my cheeks, and I drop my gaze, shy, grateful that the only light comes from the desk lamp. “I’ve never done this before.”
I’ve never even been naked with someone before, not even on that day with Randazzo, the Russian, and that godawful woman who told me she was just doing her job. They had only one mission: to mark me.
“I’d hope so.” He lets go of one wrist to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Like my body, yours is for my eyes only. Now let me.”
My blush deepens as I recall how I looked at him. How I loved seeing every inch of his toned body, his tattoos, how he told me to have a proper look and I did—like a woman starved. He’s just asking for a return of the favor.
My already tightened nipples harden even more where they’re pressed against my arms, and a very needy heat soaks my panties. I lick my lips and manage only a breathy, “Okay.”
He takes my wrists and gently pries them away, like I’m a new book being opened, discovered by the only man who would ever read me like this. And it feels so good to open up, to let go and allow this to happen, because aren’t books made to be read? Bodies to be touched? Women to be loved?
Just like he is doing now, slowly, with reverence, but he is feasting on me with hungry eyes, his fingers grazing my breasts, touching me where I’ve never been touched before, and a new layer of desire drifts onto the pile that’s already settled.
He takes his time trailing his fingers over my skin, down the delicate slopes, to the sides, and then traversing the underside as I close my eyes, each sensation feeding into the build-up in my body.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his thumbs featherlight as he circles the tips, sending little shock waves to my clit, and I’m begging with my body, pushing deeper into his touch.
“Ivan,” I whisper on a shudder and, as if he knows exactly what I need, he dips his head, kissing his way to my breasts. His hand drives back to the nape of my neck, and with a firm grip, tugs at my hair, forcing my breasts up and to his lips.
I rake my fingers into his hair, already short of breath. When he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, I stop breathing, snatching at desperate little inhales as the intense arousal seems to seep through my body to my sex.
“Hmm, like that, don’t you,” he murmurs as he works his way to my other breast, my chest heaving against his lips. “Can’t wait to suck your clit, moya ptichka.”
I drag in a haggard breath. This wasn’t the plan. This has never been the plan.
I’m on a fake period.
He’s going to go down there to make me come and, in the process, discover my lie. And all the rest of them, too.
“Ivan—” I say, fumbling for common sense with lust-numbed fingers and failing. I need this to stop, but I don’t want him to stop.
He lets go of my hair, his hand circling my throat, squeezing his way down, trapping and releasing my breath in a gentle way that only pulses desire to my sex. As he straightens, he spreads my legs even wider, and with me perched on the edge of the seat, my jean’s crotch hugs tight against my clit.
“I’ve got you, moya ptichka,” he says as he clasps his hands to my butt and tugs me flush against him, his lips on mine as he quiets me with another deep kiss. “I’ll make you come like this,” he whispers against my mouth. “Keep it clean, for now.”
And then he rocks into me, his hard length just the right width, snug against the tight spot where my clit is trapped against my jeans.
I reciprocate, unable to stop myself, wanting more, wanting all of him as the divine pressure of his cock and our mutual grinding teases me to the point of no return.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, someone barks that this is sin, that I’m falling for the Devil’s temptation, but it’s faint and far away, because for the first time in my life, I get it.
Everything is in sync: my body, his intoxicating scent and pure male form, his cock, the perfect pressure, our lust riding a wild, unstoppable force. Already, my legs are trembling. Deep inside, I start to quake, my inner earth slow to shatter into waves that become tsunamis as I climax.
I moan into his mouth, into his kisses that have grown slow and languid, reading me, every quiver a wave he lets me ride for as long as possible as his hands keep me anchored against him, digging into my ass as I’m still coming with a need I’ve denied for too long.
At last, I drop my head to his shoulder with a final shudder, breathing slowly where I’ve pressed my face to his neck, coming back to the present.
His collar is trapped against my chin, and his beard is soft against my forehead.
My hands have slipped to his chest where I’ve burrowed into him like a kitten, and he’s let me, allowing me to come back to reality with gentle fingers caressing up and down my naked back.
“Fuck, Gabriella,” he grunts when I shift, sneaking my hand under his shirt, resting it over his heart, which is pounding fast. He’s cradling me close, tight, but somehow so gently and safe.
I just know when I shatter to pieces, he’ll hold me together like this until I have healed.
“You could make a grown man come in his fucking pants like a teenager.”
“Did you?” I ask shyly, letting my breath ghost over his skin, mimicking him, and with a funny feeling of pride, feel his nipple harden under my palm.
“No,” he says on a chuckle. “Too old for that. But it was touch and go there for a hot second.”
“What a shame,” I tease, emboldened by his soothing touch on my back, his words, by what we’ve done. “What do I do?”
I need guidance here, and this man knows what he’s doing, what he wants.
“Nothing, moya ptichka.”
His response makes me stumble. Isn’t a man’s pleasure always the end goal?
“Why?”
He hasn’t even taken off any of his clothes, and the way his pants are straining, he must be uncomfortable.
“Because I don’t know if I can keep myself in check tonight.
” He leans closer and runs his tongue along my ear.
“You’re not the only one sex-starved here, moya ptichka.
I want you so badly that I might ruin your first time.
I want it to be perfect for you. Not here on a random chair, quickly, just to satiate my needs. ”
“Oh.”
I want you so badly…Can’t keep myself in check. I’m going to melt if he keeps on talking like this. Already, everything he’s done tonight has been fatal for my efforts to keep from falling in love with him. I’m fooling nobody. I’m on the ledge. I just need to jump.
“Got to pace yourself,” he says with a smile in his voice, reaching for my clothes.
“What if I don’t want to pace myself?” I murmur, disbelieving the words as they come out of my mouth.
This isn’t how I was raised. These aren’t the feelings or thoughts of a good Catholic girl. It sinks in that maybe I’ve never really been one…and if I was, that girl is being peeled way, evolving into someone new. Someone I’m going to love being, living a life I’ve only dreamed about.
Ivan already has my arms back into my ruined shirt, though without my bra. Who’d want it in any case? It’s such a convent girl bra, and right now, I feel like a goddess. So this is what Chiara was going on about…
His fingers tease my skin as he tries to cover my breasts. “I don’t want either of us to go into this with regret or guilt, so we’ll wait for our wedding night.”
To think he already knows me this well. That Catholic guilt will eat at me until it’s all I can think of. But that’s not the only regret I’ll have if we ever get to exchange marriage vows.
“Surely, that isn’t going to be soon? I mean…” This happened, and I want more, having tasted it…and I don’t want to wait. Who is this woman? And what is this man doing to me?
“So it is a yes?”
There’s a smile in his voice, and I can’t help smiling back.
Caught out. Trapped into an answer. Stuck in a cage. Chained by vows. Hunted.
Inwardly, I deflate. This is all I’ll ever have of Ivan, but I’ll pretend it’s a yes as long as I can escape before we actually say our vows. I’ll never have a wedding night with this man.
“Yes.”
I just gave him my heart’s answer, but I’m betraying myself. I can’t bring danger to his doorstep, or to his girls. I’d never forgive myself.
“Good. Clearly, I shouldn’t keep you waiting,” he teases as he stands and holds out a hand for me. “We’re getting married on Friday.”
“Friday?” I repeat, stunned. “But Milana is getting married on Friday.” I can’t get married on Friday. I can’t marry Ivan. “I—I—”
“It’s arranged, moya ptichka. There’s no point waiting, and the whole family will already be together.”
“A double wedding?” I say, just to say something, so shellshocked I have to place my hand in his. My legs have turned into jelly.
“Yes.”
I’m finally standing, my shirt flapping open as cold descends on me. I was warm mere minutes ago, in his arms. This feels like betrayal. I’m betraying him.
“Cover up somehow. I ruined the shirt.”
“It’s okay, everybody is in bed,” I say, letting go of his hand to fold the shirt across my chest. I just need to get to my room, close my door, and digest this new reality. Figure out how I’m going to escape before Friday, Milana’s help or not.
My brothers—
No. They can’t know.
And then that decrepit Russian, that man…as a nanny, I can hide in plain sight in the Petrov household, but as Ivan’s wife? What if he expects me to entertain, to have his friends over, his business partners? His other Bratva connections? It will only be a matter of time.
Bile turns in my stomach…no, just no.
His hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me out of his office, and I let him, in a haze of denial.
“More men are around, moya ptichka, guarding the house. They stick to the shadows, but I really don’t want them to catch glimpses of what’s mine.”
Mine.
If one word is going to break me, it would be that one. Minutes ago, I would have loved being called his. Now, I’ve trapped Ivan and his daughters in a room they can’t escape, and it’s only a matter of time until the executioner comes.
I suspected men were in the house, guarding us, all along. “I didn’t notice anybody,” I whisper, my panic rising.
But I already know why there are more men and why I don’t notice them.
“They’re there, simply because I need to protect Milana. I can’t let her do something stupid like try and run.”
Or for me to escape my cage.