by Holly Bargo
“Back to your place, Iosif?” he asked as the groom untied his tie and pulled it free.
“Da. Spasibo.” Iosif unbuttoned his tight collar, rolled his head, and rubbed the tender skin over his Adam’s apple. He loathed collared shirts and ties; but, for Latasha, he’d wear them every day if doing so made her happy.
With cool competence, Bogdan smoothly pulled the long car into traffic and drove them back to Iosif’s small, tidy house. Latasha had never seen any of Maksim’s men do anything with less than cool competence, although each time she used her own skilled hands to treat their victims, she couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could be cool and competent while they were beating another human being half to death with their hands.
But she wouldn’t think of that now.
Today was her wedding day. Two years in the making, starting from the time she and Cecily moved in with Pyotr after leaving the crummy apartment she’d shared with Gia and Cecily. She’d moved in with Iosif after the threat to Gia had been eliminated.
“What are you thinking, moya lyubov?”
“Just that it’s been two years since I met you and, now, here we are,” she replied, giving him nothing less than honesty as she demanded nothing less from anyone else.
“You are happy, da?”
“Yeah. Yes, I am.” She averted her gaze and then looked back at him. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“You had your reasons, and I am a patient man.”
“You might have to be patient a little while longer,” she blurted and squirmed in her seat. “I’m nervous. Scared.”
Fire flared in Iosif’s dark eyes, but he controlled himself to a gentle touch and soft words. “I will give you nothing but pleasure. You need not fear.”
“I—”
“You trust me, da?” He stroked the back of his finger down the curve of her cheek and held her emerald gaze with his.
Latasha sighed. The jewel-tone eyes inherited from a father she’d never known welled up with tears. “I do trust you, da.”
Iosif exerted himself to keep his anxious bride at ease, to give her no reason whatsoever to think that he would break her trust. A controlled man, one whom many accused of having ice in his veins rather than blood, Iosif desperately wanted to make a life with this mouthy, forthright twig of a woman. He cared nothing for her mixed heritage, only seeing that the combination of a Black mother and white father had created a woman of stunning beauty from her curly mocha hair and cafe au lait skin to the big, big heart that beat beneath the slender, delicate ribcage. Where one might compare Gia and Cecily to iconic beauties of Hollywood’s Golden Age, his Latasha defied such categoric descriptions.
Too soon, not soon enough, the limousine rolled to a smooth stop in front of Iosif’s house. Their house, now. Bogdan opened the door, and Iosif extended a hand to help Latasha climb out without getting trapped by the long skirts of her wedding gown. She gave silent thanks for having had the good sense to ignore the temptation of a cathedral train. Trying to navigate with an extra yard or more of fabric dragging at her would have been awkward at best, embarrassing and humiliating at worst.
Iosif thanked Bogdan for driving, and the man returned to his seat behind the wheel. With hands clasped, they walked to the front door. Iosif unlocked the door and led Latasha inside, not subscribing to the silly tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold, since doing so would have made it impossible for him to protect her in case of an attack.
Latasha could not help glancing at the door of what used to be her bedroom as Iosif led her by the hand to his bedroom. Her nervous gulp sounded loud in the silence of the modest house. He glanced back at her, eyes heated, the skin taut across his cheekbones.
“Do you trust me?” he asked once again, his voice showing the strain of iron control. He badly, desperately wanted to ravish his bride, but she needed gentleness from a man who knew little of such things.
Latasha tore her gaze from the king-sized bed to meet her new husband’s eyes. She closed and opened her eyes in a slow blink as she visibly mustered her courage.
“Yes.”
Iosif gifted her with a small smile that he meant to express approval and reassurance. He wanted to curse as he lifted hands that trembled to frame her face.
“You’re nervous, too?” she whispered, eyes wide with incredulity.
“I have not touched a woman in over two years,” he confessed. Ever since helping Vitaly evacuate Latasha and Cecily from their dump of an apartment, he’d known that he’d found the woman for him, his woman. “I am... eager.”
The confession shocked Latasha and made her blood tingle. She hadn’t moved into Iosif’s house until she had graduated, having lived until then with Pyotr and Cecily. She’d never expected him to lead a chaste life, forsaking other women until she agreed to marry him. The men her brothers and childhood friends hung around with wouldn’t have denied themselves.
Pigs.
Her mouth opened and she stammered, “I… I…”
He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers and then said, “Shh. It was my choice.”
That second confession rocked her to her toes. She’d allowed him nothing more than kisses, and yet he had remained faithful to her.
“What did I do to deserve you Iosif?” she whispered, feeling unworthy.
Struggling to find the right words, Iosif’s accent thickened. “There is no ‘deserve.’ I give my heart to you.”
Latasha raised trembling hands to his face and stroked his lean cheeks, already shadowed with the stubble of his heavy beard. He heard the rasp of it against her palms.
“I should shave.”
“No, don’t,” she whispered. “I… I like it. It feels… real.”
“Will scratch your skin.” Such soft, pretty skin.
“Please, don’t. Not tonight.”
With a shuddering exhalation, he broke to her will. Latasha slid her hands to the back of his head, running her fingers over the sleek strands of his hair to the short ponytail at the nape of his neck. It only took a few tugs to set the long, inky strands free. She ran her fingers through his thick hair, finding herself surprised at its texture.
“Soft,” she murmured.
The quiet word drew Iosif back to her mouth. One big hand wrapped around the back of her head and held her steady as he kissed her, keeping the pressure light until she leaned into him. He deftly pulled the pins from her hair, letting down the elegant French twist and removing her crown and veil. The confection of tulle, faux pearls, wire, and plastic flew into a chair unheeded.
Latasha moaned softly as her groom’s soft lips moved along her jaw to nibble delicately on an earlobe. A few seconds later, her faux pearl earrings landed on the chair. He kissed down the column of her neck, relishing the way she tilted her head to allow him greater access. His hands, gently grasping her shoulders, slid around and slowly drew down the zipper of her wedding gown. Whether the zipper’s sound or a draft of cool air upon her skin alerted her to the seduction, Latasha didn’t know, but suddenly she gasped and stiffened.
“Pleasure,” he murmured as he reached through the gaping back of her dress to rub his warm hand down her back. “I give you only pleasure.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed her lips against his jaw and sighed into his ear. Iosif continued with the slow, sweet seduction of his bride, exerting steely control to avoid frightening her. He knew she had suffered from her first horrific experience and reminded himself to prepare her as though she were an untried virgin. For all intents and purposes, she was.
Latasha wasn’t sure how Iosif had managed it, but she stood wrapped in his arms wearing only her stockings and panties. How he’d divested her of her bra she had no idea, but the tender attention he devoted to the small mounds she called breasts made her delirious with pleasure.
So, this is what making love feels like.
And it was love. The stern, dangerous man she’d married treated her as though she were made of spun glass. Few di
d not fear him, but Latasha suddenly knew for an absolute certainty that she would never need to fear Iosif Drakoniv. Her hands moved to his shirt and encountered the opened collar.
She giggled as she unbuttoned the shirt, slender fingers moving with nimble speed. “It’s a good thing we’re taking a tropical honeymoon. I can’t imagine you enduring dressing up for dinner and having to wear a tie every night.”
She felt his smile against her skin as she made short work of his brocade vest and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Latasha slid her hands back up his torso, humming with pleasure as her fingers skimmed through crisp hair curling on satin skin stretched taut over hard muscle.
“God, you’re beautiful,” she murmured and leaned forward to press her mouth against one hard pectoral, earning a gasp of pleasure from him.
“Dotron'sya do menya,” he murmured, losing his command of English. He grasped one of her hands and drew it downward, settling it over the rigid length straining against his pants.
Latasha considered herself no stranger to human anatomy; she was a nurse, after all. But men coming into the emergency room didn’t usually sport erections. As her hand rubbed him through the layers of fabric, she marveled at his size. Iosif, taller than Vitaly and leaner than Pyotr, was hung like a horse.
Technically, she knew that the female body could accommodate the rampant monster that strained for freedom. But, really, she was certain it wouldn’t be comfortable.
Iosif quickly unfastened his trousers and shoved them down, peeling his underwear off with them. He moaned when his bride’s thumb swiped across the weeping, purplish head. The turgid length of him bobbed of its own volition. Surprised, Latasha snatched her hand back. Curious, she reached out and touched him again, stroking the heated shaft, and said, “It’s soft, like velvet.”
He wanted to howl, both with laughter at her surprise and with his own impatience.
“On bed,” he growled, unable to speak more softly, more gently, with her hands on his dick.
She looked into his eyes and smiled with the realization of her feminine power. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her in for a deep, drugging kiss that had her stumbling backward and tumbling onto the mattress. Like a predatory animal, he prowled after her. His inexorable strength parted her thighs and held her open to his gaze.
“Um, Iosif,” she stuttered, feeling a rosy blush of embarrassment. No one but her gynecologist ever saw her spread like that.
“Kak prekrasno,” he breathed.
Beautiful was not a term Latasha normally used in association with the feminine core of her body, but she found herself pleased that Iosif liked it.
He ran warm fingertips over the baby-smooth skin of her mound and then cupped the entire area. He glanced at her face, then back at her slick folds.
“Spa day with Olivia,” she murmured, wincing at the memory. “I am never doing that again.”
Iosif chuckled, then bent downward and licked the length of her slit. Latasha shrieked with surprise. Of course, she knew people did that. She read romance. She’d once watched a porno flick. But… wow… words failed her as Iosif settled in to feast upon her.
Latasha found herself clutching at her own breasts and reaching for Iosif’s hair as he lapped and sucked and did absolutely divine and magical things with his tongue, lips, and teeth. She squirmed and shivered. Moans and gasps erupted from her throat. Something coiled deep in her body and she could not help but strain to release it.
With a long groan, Iosif’s bride undulated beneath his hands as her honey poured from her body. The long, low sound reverberated sweetly in his ears even as her thighs squeezed around his head. When she relaxed and trembled helplessly with the aftershocks of her first orgasm, he began again. The second time around, he used his fingers. First, he slid one long finger into her body and murmured encouragement as her body clamped down on the intrusion. Gentle strokes relaxed her tight channel enough for him to dare a second finger and, eventually, a third. He brought her to another orgasm as he stretched her passage and lapped up her copious juices.
“Ochen' vlazhnyy,” he praised her body’s generous response.
Iosif crept up her body, lavishing her with kisses and caresses until his hips settled between the cradle of her thighs.
“Ty moy,” he claimed as he rolled his hips forward. “Ty moya s udovol'stviyem, moy lyubit.”
Latasha whispered, “Yes, yes,” as he murmured his possession of her, his care for her, even as he slowly sank into her hot, wet depths. She gasped as her body stretched around him, wincing a little at the discomfort. It wasn’t pain exactly, but neither was his invasion comfortable.
When he could sink no more deeply into the tight, warm sheath of her flesh, Iosif forced himself to hold still. He could see the worry in Latasha’s eyes, the signs of discomfort. He remained stationary to allow her body time to adjust to his occupation. Sweat beaded on his forehead, misted across his back and chest from the effort not to move.
Latasha lay still beneath her husband, letting herself just feel him buried inside her. She breathed slowly, deliberately relaxing her muscles until the discomfort gave way to an overwhelming urge to move, to feel the drag of his flesh inside hers. Her hips bucked beneath him, and he took it as permission to initiate a slow retreat and thrust rhythm that stimulated nerve endings she never knew she had. Latasha cried out as she moved to meet his strokes and found herself chasing a third orgasm. Her hands clutched at his upper arms and shoulders, fingertips digging in and short nails scratching his perspiring hide.
“Zafiksiruyte vashi lodyzhki pozadi menya,” he ordered.
She obeyed, finding that wrapping her slender legs around him opened her even further to his possession and allowed him to sink even more deeply into her body. She locked her ankles and held on for the ride as he muttered incoherently in Russian, and his hips rocked back and forth, faster and faster.
“Iosif!” she screamed as that third and most powerful orgasm crashed through her. The spasms of her sheath around his cock launched his own climax, and he grunted into the crook of her neck as his seed spurted in hot, thick jets.
Iosif’s trembling arms lost all strength and he collapsed heavily upon his bride. She grunted and lay still, her breathing shallow and rapid. After a few long seconds, he mustered the strength to roll off her. She whimpered as his softening cock slipped from her body and cool air wafted over her sweaty skin.
As soon as he removed his heavy weight from her, Latasha marveled at how she missed it. Contrary woman, she chided herself.
They lay there for a few minutes, Iosif’s hand splayed possessively over Latasha’s belly. She turned her head to face him and met his burning gaze. The fire in his eyes dampened at her slow, sweet smile.
“No need to think of England,” she murmured after a gusty sigh.
Catching the reference to the Victorian cliché of upholding one’s duty to one country while enduring a clumsy husband’s attentions, Iosif chuckled. The unexpected touch of humor eased any awkwardness that may have built between them. He reached over with his other hand and smoothed a sweat-dampened curl from her face.
“Is it usually this good?” she asked hesitantly as his hand slid down to stroke her breast. She found herself sighing and arching into his touch.
“Never before,” he replied, his normally smooth baritone husky and rough. He decided to take pride in having remembered to answer in English.
“You make love in Russian,” she commented with another sweet smile.
“You make me forget English,” he replied and drew her against him. “Spi, moya lyubov. Ty dolzhen otdokhnut.”
Latasha relaxed and snuggled in beside him as he drew the covers over their cooling bodies. She rubbed her thighs together, feeling the sticky wetness of their combined fluids coating her skin. Strangely, she found it reassuring not to feel an immediate need to clean the evidence of their passion from her body. She sighed as Iosif’s muscled arm draped over her, his hand cupping one breast
. Her hands wrapped around his arm, and she decided she felt safe and cared for with his big body curled around hers.
This, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, is what love feels like.
Chapter 2
Latasha woke alone. She frowned, thinking that something might be wrong, then rolled over and winced. As though connected to her mind, Iosif appeared in the doorway bearing a mug of coffee and wearing a pair of pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips. His damp hair hung loose, revealing that he’d already showered. In spite of her soreness, Latasha’s emerald eyes fixed on the pronounced slope of his Adonis muscle and she licked her lips. Damn, the man had a beautifully honed body!
Iosif grinned and walked to the bed. He sat down and handed her the mug. He would have liked nothing better than to sink into his bride’s body, but he knew she’d be tender. Latasha sat up and modestly pulling the sheet over her chest with one hand as she reached for the mug with the other.
“Thank you,” she whispered and took a sip, savoring the dark, rich flavor on her tongue.
Iosif ran a fingertip along the edge of the sheet and gently drew it down. Latasha’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled the objection.
“You’re beautiful, so beautiful. Let me admire you.”
Her mouth snapped closed as a blush spread over her face, neck and chest. Shyness demanded she avert her eyes. Desire demanded she meet his gaze. She squirmed, feeling her core go from sticky to slick.
“Never hide from me,” he continued, his hawk-eyed gaze missing no detail. “We are husband and wife now.”
Latasha lifted the mug and hid behind it as she took another sip of the nearly scalding liquid. Drinking also helped her avoid replying to him, a welcome delay because she didn’t know what to say. With slow movements so as not to startle her, Iosif took the mug from her hands and turned it to take a sip, carefully placing his lip to the exact same spot hers had touched.
God, that turned her on! And who said the taciturn, dour Russian wasn’t romantic?
