by Eve Black
And he’d show her just how much she meant to him…even if he couldn’t say the words.
With ease, he bent and lifted his wife into his arms.
So focused on his not dropping her, Mariana didn’t notice they’d arrived in their bedroom until Vitali dropped her on the bed. She bounced, then giggled—the sensations rioting through her mind were too heady, to surreal—everything was so surreal. She’d just given a man a blow job, and not just any man, her husband, the sexiest fucking man on the planet.
Her laughter died in her throat when she met her husband’s gaze. Hunger, ravenous and dangerous glittered in the sharp, green depths.
“My turn, tol’ko moya, and I have to warn you…I am starving for all that sweet, salty, delicious cum. I want to bathe my tongue in it,” he drawled, rolling his shoulders as if in preparation for an assault. When he cocked a wolfish smile at her, her heart stopped. And when he bent and knelt on the bed, her breath caught. And when he stalked up the bed on all fours, her mind exploded.
Shit, shit, shit!
She was undressed in a second. Her thighs opened instinctively, and her husband’s gaze laser-focused on that place no other man had seen. It was pulsing, aching, throbbing with each beat of her heart. Vitali leaned to one side, holding himself up with one toned, muscular arm, and with his other hand, he pushed aside her soaking wet panties and slid his finger between the folds of her sex. She arched off the bed.
She moaned, an animalistic sound wrenched from her throat.
A low chuckle escaped his chest, rumbling through the room and into her pussy. His finger followed; slick with her juices, his finger easily entered her clenching channel. She bore down on it, desperate for that full feeling his cock had given her.
“Vitali, dammit, you can’t tease me,” she grumbled, thrashing her head, her body catching fire as the finger inside her became two, then three.
“But teasing you is my pleasure…” he drawled, then leaned down, flicking his tongue over her clit. She almost screamed as the pleasure rocked through her. He did it again, then sucked on it, pulling the hard nub in between his lips. All the while, he thrust his fingers into her at a pace matched only by him in his frenzy the night before.
Mindless, she mewled, keening, moaning his name. Panting and dizzy from the flood of electricity and dazzling lights behind her eyes, Mariana looked down at the man between her legs. He was staring up at her, lust blazing in his eyes—and something else.
Building, building—the pleasure slowly rose from her core. “I’m going to—”
“Give it to me!” he roared, thrusting his fingers into her ever faster, harder, reaching deeper. With his mouth back on her, devouring her pussy, she succumbed in a blast of agony and bliss.
And as her orgasm rocked through her, stealing the breath from her lungs, one thought surfaced through the maelstrom in her mind: I love him. Shuddering, limp, she could only whimper when Vitali climbed his way up the bed and curled into her back, his naked chest pressed against her naked back.
Warm, replete, and exhausted, Mariana let sleep tug at her, pulling her under into the comfortable, wonderful darkness…but before her mind shut off completely, Vitali’s voice rumbled against her ear.
“Ya lyublyu tebya…”
15
“That was amazing!” she sang, clapping gleefully as she watched the fire dancers leave the circle where onlookers and tourists had gathered to see the street show.
Vitali circled her waist from behind, pulling her back into him and placing his chin on her head in an utterly intimate and familiar manner. It felt good to be held by him, especially in that easy, playful way he’d been doing all week. In six days, they’d explored the colorful and austere Kek Lok Si Temple, and climbed into the Batu Caves while dodging mischievous monkeys and their little hands. In Bangkok, they visited national palaces, tip toed—awestruck—through the many temples and places of worship, and she’d spent what felt like a fortune in Chatuchak Market on all the silky, dangly, glittery, pretty things. By the time she’d covered her arms in bangles and her shoulders with scarves, she’d finally had the grace to feel guilty about making Vitali pay for all of it. He laughed it off, saying that if she could spend his fortune in one day, he’d gladly make another fortune for her to spend the next day.
She laughed at his words, but something in them rang through her, like a truth that was just out of reach.
She loved all the sight-seeing, food tasting, and travelling, but when they weren’t exploring their destinations, they were exploring each other. That was one of her most favorite parts of their trip. Away from their businesses, the busyness, and the pressures of life, Vitali had lightened up, becoming more her friend and her lover than the sizzling yet chilly stranger she’d married. And the more she got to know him, the deeper the ache, the greater the fear. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew that the feeling growing in her chest had nothing to do with the spicy food—hell, she’d grown up using a habanero as a pacifier—and everything to do with how utterly taken she was with him. She cared about him, and the condition was only getting worse.
Not knowing if he felt the same—if he could ever feel the same—was making her sick with worry. What if, when their honeymoon was over, he went back to his billion-dollar corporation and sent her back to her lonely life in Chicago, only her new last name to keep her company? What if this was all just a fun fling for him, one he’d be more than happy to end once he had his fill of her…and Asia?
That’s not fair. No…she wasn’t being fair to Vitali. Not once had he given any indication that this was anything less than a man and his wife enjoying one another. He smiled, he laughed, he joked. And in those quiet moments, when the lights were out and they were lying side by side in the dark, he’d shared about his time in the orphanage, about his brother and their upbringing in a cold and heartless system. He shared about buying his first farm stand in Ivanovo, and how he’d been determined to make a life for himself, a life where he never had to worry about starving or freezing or being beaten and robbed. And there was more to the story, more he wasn’t telling. That was the part she most wanted to know, because not only had his life of scraping and battling for every bite of food honed him into a perfect specimen of manhood, it also sculpted him into the man who ruled over a billion-dollar empire from his cell phone.
The intimacy she’d wanted was developing between them…but she still couldn’t shake the creeping wariness that was stealing some of her joy. But she refused to let that stop her from living in the moment with him.
And now, watching the sunset over the crowds in Koh Tao, she was more deliriously happy than she’d ever known in her life. It was because of the man behind her, snuggling her into him where everyone could see. That was another thing about Vitali that she had learned over the week; he wasn’t ashamed of her, of showing affection toward her around curious and sometimes shocked eyes. She could imagine the picture they made; her the petite and curvy Latina, and him, the tall, broad, sexy Russian demi-god.
Vitali groaned into her hair. “You smell divine—is that the fragrance you bought in Chatuchak?” He chuckled. “One of the five.”
She snorted, not feeling the least bit guilty about it now, especially since he appreciated her purchases. “Why yes, it is,” she drawled, spinning in his arms to face him and throw her arms around his neck. She stood on her tip-toes and brushed a kiss over his smiling mouth.
He’d been doing that a lot lately; smiling. And she’d been smiling like a fool, too.
Just in that moment, within his arms and beneath the weight of her emotions, she remembered something he’d whispered as she was going to sleep one night…maybe sometime last week. She couldn’t be sure, and she really didn’t know what he’d said, only that what he’d uttered had felt…important.
“Ya lyublyu tebya…”
Vitali stiffened immediately, pulling away until her hands barely touched the hardness of his chest. She could feel his heart thundering beneath her fingertips
, and the look on his face was one of stark fear.
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice as flat as his lips.
Her heart plummeted into her toes, and a roiling-twisting began in her stomach. She swallowed the sick feeling rising into her throat. What had she done to ruin the mood this time?
“I don’t know what I said,” she replied honestly. “You said it, several nights ago, as I was falling asleep.”
She could see his Adam’s apple bobbing in a nervous manner, as though he were choking on her answer.
“Why? What does it mean?” she asked, and the sickness turned to the heat of anger in a split second. Would she ever understand this man and his mercurial moods? He’d swing from left to right, hot to cold, stiff to playful in the blink of an eye, and she was getting dizzy from all the changes.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vitali?” Mariana snapped, and he recoiled as if she’d slapped him. I should have!
“Nothing. I was just shocked to hear you say that.” This time, when he spoke, his voice was tight, his expression taut. “Let’s just forget about it.” Before she could tell him to kiss her ass, he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the dispersing crowds toward a taxi stand. He opened the door to the first taxi, sat down, and dragged her in after him.
“Stop pulling on me!” Mariana shook off Vitali’s arm. “And I wish you’d stop switching from fire to ice every five seconds. I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to say or how I’m supposed to act from moment to moment, and it’s driving me fucking nuts!” Panting, her rage boiling over, she clamped her mouth shut lest she say something she’d truly regret. Instead of completing her rant, she crossed her arms over her chest, and turned to peer out the window at the temples, huts, market stands, and colorfully dressed people whizzing by.
He didn’t bother saying another word until they were back in their hotel room, and the weight of what was left unsaid was hanging over them like a thundercloud ready to douse them in acid rain.
Plunging his fingers through his hair, he strode to the bar and helped himself to a glass of Scotch. He threw it back and grimaced as the burn hit his throat. She watched, waiting, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Mariana couldn’t help the feeling of dread mounting within her, the sense that something was about to happen that would rip her world to shreds. And she hated not being in control of her emotions, her thoughts, her own fucking life—for the first time since she graduated high school.
Vitali sucked in a deep breath, turned back toward her and pinned her with cold, dull, lifeless green eyes.
“I think it’s time we take you home,” he announced, and an invisible blade pierced her chest.
“Back to Moscow?” she asked, knowing full well what he would say but hoping she was wrong.
His brows furrowing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, perhaps trying to shut out the sight of her—to brace himself for what he had to say next.
“No. Back to Chicago,” he murmured, then opened his eyes. Two green shards of ice stared back at her. “This is over.”
16
“It hurts so much, brother,” the little voice sobbed, the sound lost in the darkness of the damp basement where their “uncle” had thrown them. “It hurts so bad, Vitali.”
Pulling the trembling body into his own, to try and offer some warmth—even if his own body was racked with cold—Vitali closed his eyes and screamed every curse word he knew into the echoing silence of his mind.
“I know it hurts, Dmitri. I hurt, too,” he muttered, sucking back a gasp at the chilly blast of air pushing in through the cracks in the cinderblock walls. “But we can’t just give up, not now that we’re so close.” Staring down at the threadbare blanket pulled up around their shoulders, Vitali let the anger that had been keeping him warm for two months spill over. “We’re going to get out of here, we’re going to find someplace where we don’t have to fight for our food. A place where I can put a coat around your shoulders. A place where I can put caviar and steak in your belly. A place where we never have to count on anyone but ourselves…”
Dmitri shuddered against him, burying his face in Vitali’s chest. “That sounds good, brother…” As Dimitri’s shallow breaths evened out, Vitali placed a cold hand on his brother’s pale cheek. At only five years old, Dmitri couldn’t possibly understand the true terror of what was coming, of what their “uncle” had planned for them. Some of the other orphans called the man Sobachiy Yedok, or Dog Eater, because he treated all the children in his home like dogs. Making them fight one another for scraps of week-old food, making them fight in matches where people paid to watch, betting on which boy would die first.
It was his fault he and Dmitri were there. He’d trusted the man with the kind face, the one with the fuzzy gray eyebrows, big toothy smile, and a handful of rubles. And a mouth full of lies. He’d promised to be their “uncle,” to take the place of the father they’d lost, and he’d almost convinced the headmistress of the orphanage to let him take the boys. But she’d offered Vitali the choice.
And he’d chosen wrong. Now he and Dmitri were nothing more than rabid pups, waiting for their master to chain them in the ring.
Closing his eyes and pulling his brother all the closer, he murmured into Dimitri’s ink black hair, “I swear to God I will never let another person hurt us.”
The antique analog clock on the mantle chimed the tenth hour—on the tenth day since he had dropped Mariana at the airport, and watched her climb those stairs to the jet door.
Vitali stared down at the lushly carpeted floor, his head clasped between his hands as he leaned over his knees, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. No…not the weight of the world…the weight of his mistakes.
Like ever contacting the Diamond Bridal Agency. Like ever making Mariana marry him in the first place. Like ever making love to her. Ever allowing her to slip past his defenses and make him feel things for her. Like allowing his fear of the unknown to sour that moment in Koh Tao, when she looked up at him with such warmth and emotion in her eyes and said: “I love you” in Russian.
Shuddering at the memory of what those three simple words had done to him, he closed his eyes and tried to banish the other memory—the one of Mariana’s face as she climbed the stairs to the jet and turned her back on him. The look of disappointment…betrayal…of hurt.
He’d hurt her, he’d known he would, and he didn’t know how to break things off with her without there being some pain. He’d never been good at relationships, and he was a fool to think that just because he wanted her so much upon first sight, things would be different with her.
That wasn’t the case. He still felt strangled by the fear of losing a part of himself, a part he’d protected so viciously in the past. A part of himself he didn’t know if he still possessed. Was it in there, behind the mile-high steel walls encasing his heart? Was anything still alive in there?
His thoughts jumped to that night, after the body melting sex, and lying next to Mariana, her body curled into his, his arms around her. It had felt so good. Perfect. He remembered thinking how right it felt to have her there. His wife. Mariana Sanchez-Pavlovich—she’d insisted on keeping her maiden name for professional purposes. His Mariana, the firecracker, the courtroom queen, the amazing and stunning and sensual and beautiful… And then he’d begun falling asleep, thinking of her, feeling her soft breathing, wanting her… He must’ve spoken those three little words as he drifted off.
The three little words he’d never thought to say to anyone, not even his own brother. But he’d said them to Mariana.
Sucking in a breath, he held it, allowing it to burn his lungs, fighting to regain even an ounce of his control, the same control he’d used to build his billion-dollar business.
A knock on the door of his hotel suite made him grunt. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anyone’s voice. He’d even chosen to stay in a hotel in Hong Kong instead of returning to his estate
in St. Petersburg because he couldn’t stand looking at all the faces of the people Mariana would have met, if he’d had the goddamn guts to keep her.
Cursing at his own thoughts, he shot to his feet and marched to the door, ready to throw whoever it was out of his fucking life. He pulled the door open and found a stranger there. He was dressed in a navy-blue uniform with a button-down shirt, knee-length shorts, and an emblem over his chest that read: Rocket Couriers.
“Mr. Vitali Pavlovich?” the man asked, and Vitali nodded. The man held out a bound envelope and a clipboard. “Please sign here.”
Confused and still hungover from last night’s pity party, he did as bid, taking the package and closing the door in the man’s face.
He walked to the couch where he’d been sitting, sleeping, moping, spinning out, and sat down again.
The envelope was from Moscow. From the registry office in Moscow. He was in Hong Kong, where his Asian headquarters were located. Who was sending him what from Russia?
A niggling, dreadful feeling skittered up his spine. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a thick packet of papers.
They were divorce papers.
Signed by Mariana Sanchez.
As realization slammed into him, he threw his head back and roared into the ceiling, every nerve in his body firing off, and every inch of his skin going taut. And despite the chaos ravaging his body, his mind cleared in a blink.
No! She was divorcing him—leaving him! Suddenly, everything within him went quiet, and the truth he’d been warring against finally smashed through that steel wall around his heart. The truth his subconscious had already acknowledged: “Ya lyublyu tebya…”
Staring down at the paper lodestone in his hands, a plan began to form in his mind.
