Chapter 60 Gabi
GABI
When I wake up, I’m immediately plagued by an empty nightstand—no more Bible, no more fairy tales, only the harsh reality of an aborted marriage—and the memory of that Russian’s voice, which seemed to infiltrate my dreams, turning them into nightmares.
Ivan’s side of the bed is empty, and not slept in. So much for a wedding night.
I struggle up as little girl voices sound down the corridor.
“Softly, malyshki,” Ivan warns. “Gabi’s still sleeping.”
Not anymore, but he’s allowed me to sleep in and that says everything. Ivan. I don’t know what to make of the man.
“I’m awake,” I call out.
A quick knock sounds, and the door flings open. Two little bodies pile into the room and onto the bed.
“Gabi!” Irisha is clambering onto me, Katya hot on her heels. Ivan presses the button for the shutters, and they rattle open.
I gather the girls in my arms and kiss the crown of their heads as light spills into the room.
And yet you would become a mother to my girls and leave?
God knows how deeply those words stung. Irisha and Katya don’t deserve any of this.
Whatever happens next, these girls will be my magnetic center, and I will focus my energy on making sure they’re cared for…
until I get to leave…or die…whichever comes first.
Ivan doesn’t come in but stands in the doorway and shoves his hands into his pants pockets as he leans against the doorjamb. He’s dressed for work, so I suppose we’re back to business as usual. Except, I have business to deal with, too: Chiara.
“I’ll be at home, working in my office today.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Letting me sleep in,” I say softly.
For listening last night and giving me a chance to talk. For not throwing me in a cellar to rot away. For not forcing me…raping me as he could have. For being gentle, and caring, and in all this a perfect gentleman, even if he is a Bratva Pakhan with blood on his hands.
He walks into the room, leans in, and presses a soft kiss to my mouth. It’s unexpected and sweet, and my heart starts to thump in my chest at his caress. He smells fresh, all toothpaste and shower gel, whereas sleep is still stamped on every part of me.
Heaven help me, but I want this man. All of him. Even after everything I disclosed and the truth that’s spread out between us now, I want him with every female longing in my body. Our marriage might be a business arrangement, but I dread acknowledging that for me, already, it’s more.
He brushes his lips along my cheek to my temple and whispers in my ear. “You’re welcome.” He inhales softly, and with a barely audible groan, pulls away, but I catch his hand.
“Ivan.” I glance up at him, knowing if I don’t push my case, it might fall through the cracks.
“Yes?”
“Last night, when I told you about my friend, Chiara—”
“Yuri is already on it. If there is anything to find out, his network will.”
“Okay. I—” I don’t know what to say. Despite everything, he is putting my needs first. “Thank you.”
He nods. “Come, girls, we’ll go down for breakfast and give Gabi time to have a shower and so on.” With a wink to me, he picks Katya up and has her perched on his shoulders in two seconds. “Take your time. And yes, Irisha, you’ll have your turn on my shoulders.”
Irisha is clambering off the bed, and soon, my room is emptied of little girls and one big man whose silent instruction was clear: feel free to touch yourself, moya ptichka, you’re no longer in the convent here.
I drop back onto my pillows and stare at the ceiling, in awe he could turn up desire in my body with a simple kiss and a few choice words. Sexually starved, he’d called himself, and not the only one.
With a sigh, I get out of bed, stretch, and go to the bathroom for my morning routine.
The memory of Ivan taking a shower here spills into my mind, and my arousal streams through my veins, hitting my core where I finally feel myself awaken after a very long slumber.
I’m no longer a convent girl and have bloomed into something in my time here I don’t recognize: a wanton woman who would spread her legs for her husband at any time, but I’m not sure he wants me.
Not after last night and everything that transpired. And Darya—
I can’t think of his first wife; I don’t like how that ended. Instead, I home in on the streaks on the shower’s glass walls, where Ivan left his mark. Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus…
I strip my pajamas and step into the shower, not taking my eyes off the squirts of semen that had run down the wall like fatty raindrops, drying right there for me to claim. What would it have been like if these had rained into my mouth, onto my tongue? What would he have tasted like…?
I run a fingertip over one, finding it brittle, sticking to my skin, and when I raise it to my lips, the taste is all him…
salty, sweet, with a hint of bitter. It’s wasted here against the glass wall.
I bet he’d have no qualms coming in my mouth, letting me swallow his essence.
The mere thought shoots desire through my body.
I ride my finger deeper into my mouth, savoring his taste, mimicking what his cock would do if I were to kneel and worship him.
The visual of him jerking off floods my mind, and all I can think of is having him here with me as my hand slides between my legs where my clit is already swollen and I’m wet with need.
If I had him in my mouth, my pussy would feel empty, wanting him, yearning, craving.
But I’d still be able to touch myself and my husband would encourage it, even.
I bet Ivan would fill me with his fingers, his fist, toys he’d surprise me with.
I’m pulsing, savoring the ramp-up to release, visuals of us flitting through my mind.
I’ve closed my eyes to savor the moment, but as my fingers circle my clit, I open them to find and harvest with my tongue… only to spot the hidden camera.
Oh my God. For a moment, I falter. He has been spying on me. Through a small lens buried in the arm of the wall-mounted make-up mirror. This is why he knew about the call.
And he had the audacity to call me a spy!
I should be mortified and embarrassed, but something primal takes over. He has been watching me…maybe desiring me, even fantasizing. At the thought, the need to find release bulldozes me.
The possibility that his security crew might be screening the footage, too, enters my mind, but my husband is possessive. Nobody else is seeing this footage. He alone has been monitoring me.
And then one question thunders through my mind, sweeping away all other thoughts: what would Chiara do?
She’d give him something to watch. Obviously.
Suddenly, all I want is to orgasm while the camera is on me.
For his sake, I hope it’s recording, because this is going to be quick.
The idea of him watching me as I lick his cum off the shower glass, giving him a full frontal of my breasts and sex as I pleasure myself is at the same time so naughty, forbidden, and utterly erotic that I feel the tightening in my core, the ripples of pleasure that would ride me there, the release bellowing in like a storm.
I lean with my free hand against the shower wall to steady myself as my hips grind in time with my fingers, and my heart is beating so fast in my chest, I feel it. The rise. The tsunami. The freedom.
This is freedom. I might be locked up for life in this compound, I might die tomorrow, but at least I’ve tasted this.
And I’ve given him something to remember me by.
At that thought, I lean in and lick the glass wall, where my husband’s cum has been waiting for me to do just this. I shatter on tasting him, licking at the spread he’s left me on purpose.
I ease down from my high, legs quivering, feeling like a fucking queen. I open the faucet, run it for a bit until warm water rains down. With a little wink to the camera, I shoot him a smile and turn my face into the spray.
I was a good girl, wasn’t I?