Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Tolya
Tolya’s Jet
The Caribbean sun greets us as we step off my private jet. The breeze thick with salt and citrus, curling through Eva's hair and tugging at the hem of her sundress. She's laughing at something that the stewardess said that I didn't catch, the sound light and free.
I can't stop watching her. I was transfixed as we left the airfield.
The villa sits on a bluff overlooking the sea, whitewashed stone and pale wood, the kind of place billionaires come to disappear. It's private. Isolated. Safe. The staff has already cleared out before our arrival. No one here but us.
And fuck, does it feel good.
"Careful, Tolya," she calls over her shoulder, adjusting her sunglasses as she walks backward toward the waiting car. "You're going to burn."
I squint at her, shielding my eyes. Even with the aviators on it’s bright, too bright. The sun in Chicago never hurt my eyes the way it does here.
"I don't burn."
She grins wickedly. "I think you do. This is the first time your skin has seen the sun since the fall of the Soviet Union. You're practically glowing."
I can't help the huff of laughter that escapes me. "Keep teasing me, wife, and I might forget this is a honeymoon."
"We wouldn't want that," she tosses back with a wink.
The moment we're inside, she kicks off her sandals and makes a beeline for the master suite, twirling like a dancer across the marble floors.
"This place is incredible!"
I lean against the doorframe, watching her toss open doors and run her hands over the linens. The sun pours in behind her, gilding every inch of her skin.
She’s radiant.
"Glad you approve," I say. “I take it you’ve never been to the Islands before?”
“I’ve barely left Chicago in all these years. Nico was always too busy to take me traveling anywhere.” She turns to face me, that wicked smile playing on her lips again. "Now, are you going to keep standing there brooding or are you going to come enjoy paradise with me?"
I shrug out of my jacket, tossing it onto a chair. "That depends. Are you planning on keeping that dress on much longer?"
Her brow arches.
She retreats to the bathroom to change as I take up position in a lounge chair beside the glimmering infinity pool just outside. Nothing like having options.
Left to my own devices for the moment I suddenly have half a mind to be annoyed with myself—sand in my shoes, the scent of salt thick in the air, and the knowledge that I had actual work piling up in Chicago—but all of it vanishes the second she steps out of the house in that fucking bikini.
Red. Barely covering her. Absolutely criminal. My mouth goes dry and my brain short-circuits. For once, I’m grateful for the aviators covering my eyes. She smirks as she approaches, she’d caught the way I went stock-still.
My mouth goes dry.
"Fuck me," I murmur.
“Cat got your tongue, Tolya?” she teases, her hips swaying slightly as she walks, sunglasses perched on her head, hair wind-tossed and sun-kissed.
She laughs bright and careless, like she hasn’t grown up inside the same twisted world I have.
“You’re not just Russian. You’re practically translucent,” she says, poking a finger at my chest where I’d dared to undo the top buttons of my linen shirt.
I caught her wrist in a loose grip and pulled her flush against me, enjoying the way her eyes widened.
“Careful, kotyonok,” I murmured, dipping my head close enough to brush my lips against her sun-warmed skin. “Mocking me has consequences.”
“Promises, promises,” she whispers, grinning all the while. She smirks, turning on her heel and strutting toward the pool.
"Later," she calls. "Right now, I'm swimming."
I last five minutes watching her swim, her gorgeous body sleek as she slips through the water uninhibited. Now, she’s in the pool, floating on her back, hair fanned out like ink in water. The wet bikini clinging to her curves in a way that makes my pulse thunder.
I stand up, rolling up the sleeves of my linen shirt. My slacks are already undone.
She catches the movement, eyes locking on mine.
"Can’t resist, huh?"
"No," I admit.
She swims to the edge, arms folding over the tile, chin resting on her hands as she looks up at me. "You look like an ad for Russian sunscreen."
"You think you're funny."
"I know I am."
I strip off the shirt, watch her eyes track the movement. Her smirk softens, a sensual smile replacing it as I wade into the pool. The water is warm, wrapping around me like silk, but it's nothing compared to the heat rolling off her as she swims through the water to meet me.
Our mouths crash together. Tongue and lips, desperation and delighted with the contact.
Her arms wrap around my shoulders and her legs latch around my waist underwater.
My hands sliding down the slick curve of her back, pulling the cord on the bikini to undo it and free her beautiful breasts for my pleasure.
We kiss like we’ve never kissed before. Like this is the last place on earth. Like nothing outside the water, nothing beyond us exists.
"Tolya," she gasps as I move, lifting her as I wade back out of the pool.
"Is this what you want?"
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation.
We barely make it to the lounge chair before I take her again. Her back arches, nails digging into my shoulders. And I don’t let her go until we are both satisfied and spent.
Later, we lie tangled in sun-warmed sheets in the villa’s oversized bed. My head resting on the pillows as Eva, propped up on an elbow beside me, traces lazy circles on my chest.
"This doesn’t feel real," she says.
"It is," I say. “For now.”
She leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "So this is what a honeymoon is supposed to feel like?"
I roll her beneath me again, grinning as her legs spread inviting me to settle between them once more.
“I guess so,” I acknowledge as I press the head of my cock into her once more. Gloating in the effect I have on her as her eyes roll back and her hands grip the sheets once more.
That night, we eat on the terrace, watching the sky bleed from orange to indigo over the ocean. She’s in a flowy dress, barefoot, sipping from a wine glass and laughing at my poor attempt to open a bottle of champagne.
"You’re hopeless," she teases, taking the bottle and popping the cork with a smirk.
We talk for hours. About nothing. About everything. Childhood memories. Favorite foods. Stupid movies. We laugh more than I can ever remember laughing in my entire life. And when she kisses me beneath the stars, I know there’s no going back.
Not for me. Not anymore. She’s my wife. And if this is what it means to be hers…
The days passed in a blur of stolen touches, laughter, and far too many moments where I forgot I wasn’t supposed to feel for anyone this deeply. Love is weakness, love is leverage, love is dangerous.
But she makes everything brighter, even when we were inside with the blinds drawn and her legs wrapped around my waist. By the middle of the week there isn’t a surface in that villa I haven’t taken her on.
I found myself addicted to the sound of her release, the breathy sighs she gave when I touched her just right, the wicked little smile she got when she knew exactly how undone I was beneath her fingers.
She’d lounge poolside in ridiculous sunglasses, a drink in her hand and her body stretched out like sin. I’d pretend to read reports on my tablet, but I never got past the first paragraph.
It became a game of sorts. She’d climb onto my lap without invitation, grind against me until I snapped and flipped her onto her back, made her moan into my neck as she clung to me.
She’d tease and whisper filthy things into my ear and then go silent and reverent when I took her apart, again and again.
When our final morning there dawned it was gray and overcast, much like my mood as reality settled over me. We had to go back to Chicago, back to all of our troubles, back to the underworld.
Eva threw her hair into a braid and wore leggings and a tank top, her cheeks flushed from too much sun and so many orgasms. I watched her silently as she packed.
“You’re quiet,” she said, zipping her duffel.
“Just contemplating,” I tell her. “The next few weeks are going to be…busy. And not in the way you and I like.”
The second I’d woken that morning, the weight of reality had settled over my shoulders. The smile she’d teased out of me the past few days was gone. The laughter had died.
Duty called and I had work to do.
Yaro was waiting when we touched down. The SUV idled nearby, blacked out, sleek, bulletproof. He leaned against the hood like a statue, arms crossed. Straightening stiffly to attention as we approached.
“Welcome home,” he said to Eva with an empty smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Nice tan.”
She laughs softly, glancing at me with a playful roll of her eyes. He takes her luggage from her and before stepping forward to shake my hand. His grip is tight, as our hands lock and he leans in, his voice a low whisper.
“We need to talk.”
And just like that, the honeymoon is over.