Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  Not claim what I felt had been mine all along?

  Her innocent, law-abiding life had been ruined, dragged into this business in a way I never wanted.

  So what was keeping me back now?

  And, why the hell was she trying to run into her apartment without me?

  I step into the apartment, watching Kat's shapely ass disappear into what I assume is her bedroom, and realize what she'd been doing. Blyad, my beautiful little Kat's apartment...is a fucking disaster.

  And that's putting it mildly.

  I'd never broken in, even though I'd considered it. I tried to keep my interest in her as removed as possible. But the guys I'd hired to watch out for her—they hadn't informed me she was living in basically a cardboard box that any sick fuck could break into with half a will and half a brain.

  I'd deal with them later.

  The apartment's so small, so tiny I could take three steps and be across the living room. That is, if I could take a step without breaking my neck. There's girly shit all over the floor, jeans and shoes and magazines. The "kitchen" is a typical New York, cheap-ass apartment "kitchen": three panels of linoleum, a miniature fridge, sink, and oven you couldn't even stuff a pizza box into.

  The counter space is the width of my hand.

  I take a deep breath and run my hands over my face. Jesus, she'd been killing herself at the restaurant, then coming home to this.

  I take a step—two—and I'm across the living room and peering into her bedroom. She's got a small bed that takes up most of the room. It also looks like it would break if I sat on it. It would definitely collapse if we were on it, together.

  The idea of lying next to her and her soft curves gets me hard, and I shift away from her and adjust myself. No use scaring her more than she's already been frightened. There's a little purple dresser that, unlike everything else in the place, is wiped clean. Every other surface is covered with more clothes, shoes, and books.

  "No closet, babe?" I say.

  A pretty blush spreads across her cheeks and down her neck.

  "I wasn't expecting company," she snaps. I find myself grinning.

  Kat glances at me.

  "What?" she says, looking more and more glum as she tries to organize her piles of shit into newer, smaller piles of shit.

  "We used to tease each other all the time," I say. "I forgot how easy it is to annoy you."

  Kat blushes and scowls even more. I must be more hard-up than I thought, because I find it cute as hell, whereas any other girl who'd give me attitude, well—fuck that. I don't need that shit in my life.

  And here I was, inviting attitude incarnate into my house. My life.

  My fucking marriage bed.

  I shouldn't be thinking about that, shouldn't be thinking about Kat in my bed and anything that might go on when those two things meet. She chooses that exact moment to turn away from me, bend over, and start stuffing her stuff into a plastic grocery bag on the floor.

  Her perfect, ample ass sways a little as she works. It's too much to resist.

  I should try not to touch her.

  It.

  Anything.

  But I spent years doing that, when she was too young. I looked out for her as best I could. I was such an ignorant kid back then, though.

  I wasn't a kid anymore. And while it may be ignorant as fuck about certain things, I know myself and I know the world I live in. I didn't want to drag her into it, but she was here.

  Now, being at my side was the safest place for her. I'd fucking make it so.

  But it would be hard not to touch her now.

  Almost as hard as she was making me.

  I take a step forward, then another. I'm right behind her when she realizes I'm close, and she freezes.

  I should back away.

  I should follow the plan I'd had in my mind: "marry" her, lock her in my high-rise apartment till all this shit blows over, and eventually…

  What?

  Allow her out? Fuck her? Get her pregnant?

  Move her to a private island once my other plans are complete, and make love all day?

  That last one actually didn’t sound so bad.

  But now that she was with me, near me, breathing in those quick, quivering little breaths that made me harder and harder because it's exactly how I imagined she'd sound when I made her come…

  Now locking her away seems an impossibility.

  I mean, I still planned on keeping her safe, keeping her contained—keeping her basically the fuck out of Brooklyn for the next few months—but keeping her in her own, separate bedroom seems suddenly insane.

  I'm not thinking clearly, but suddenly I don't fucking care.

  She's here. The girl is gone and this beautiful, exciting, tough but vulnerable woman remains.

  It's my job to keep her safe. To make her happy.

  And I'm gonna start right fucking now.

  I step close, closer, until the front of my body is pressed firmly against her backside. Kat stands, not moving away from me. Not moving toward me. I know she can feel me, my heat, feel how hard I am.

  I push in closer, her curves hugging me.

  "Gray?" Her voice is breathless. Hesitant. Excited?

  "Yeah?" I say. I curl my left arm around her and reach for the small plastic grocery bag she's stuffing clothes into. "Babes, what the hell are you doing?"

  "Packing some clothing for tonight?" she says.

  "In this?" I take the plastic bag from her hands. It's from a Chinese delivery joint. I know the place. It's cheap and it tastes like it.

  She shrugs. She's nervous as fuck, but she's not walking away.

  "You don't have any luggage? Or at least—I don't know, what the hell do women call 'em—a bag?"

  She shakes her head, and I watch her long, auburn hair dance across her shoulders as she moves. "I might have some kind of bag, somewhere."

  I refrain from pointing out that, if she hung up maybe one-third of the shit she owned, she could find her bag. But I don't really give a shit; tomorrow I'll buy her a new wardrobe. Whatever. What I'm upset about is how much she's been struggling, and I never even knew.

  And, truth be told, I'm distracted by how her breath hitches when I sidle even closer. What can I say? I'm only human.

  And damn, her ass feels good pressed against me. I'm about to go out of my mind, and I haven't even touched her with my hands, yet.

  I focus on the task at hand.

  "Kat, you can take anything you want from here, but you're gonna need more than just one night's worth. You're moving into my place. And that's final."

  I drop the bag on the bed and turn her around to face me. She's staring right at my chest, trying to ignore how close I am to her. I don't know if she's mad, embarrassed, or intimidated.

  It should occur to me that maybe she doesn't want me, not like I want her.

  There was only one way to find out.

  I gently take her face in my hands, tilt it up so she has to look at me, and say, "We're getting this fucking tension out of the way. Right now."

  Then I lean in, press my lips against hers, and take what's always been mine.

  9

  Kat

  Oh my God, Grayson is kissing me.

  For one second, I'm full of insecurities: the man of my dreams is kissing me and my place is a mess, my bedroom is a mess, I haven't exactly been dieting, and it's been many hours since I brushed my teeth.

  Also: is he still the man of my dreams?! Or is he a killer?

  Do I care?

  I should care.

  I'll start caring in a second.

  His lips are so full and surprisingly soft. He's firm but not demanding. He gently presses his lips to mine, holding me in place with the lightest of caresses. He slowly pulls back, just a hair's width, then barely bites my bottom lip. Then he kisses me again, running the tip of his tongue lightly across the place he'd just bitten.

  Then he pulls away, still holding my face firmly but somehow delicately—cradling me i
n his palms like I'm precious, like I could break, like I matter.

  All I can see are his gray eyes, that strong jaw, the scar, his full lips that tasted like mint—

  "Kat," he murmurs. It hits me that he used to sometimes called me "Kat" when we were little, but mostly Kate or Katie. All day he's called me Kat, Katya…or babes.

  I shouldn't like that nickname so much. My body shouldn't betray me and shiver with excitement just because he calls me a generic, stupid, ridiculous nickname that implies some sort of intimacy—

  "Babes," he says.

  Dammit. My body, the traitor, does it again.

  I shiver in his arms. He feels it, and if I thought his eyes were intense before, well holy hot damn. When I quiver in his arms, in his hands, it's suddenly like staring into molten steel.

  "Babes, get outta your head."

  "What?" I say and then he kisses me again.

  This time it starts soft but—how can I describe it? How can something be soft but rough at the same time? Slow but demanding. Insistent. Gentle but with a wave of violent longing just underneath the surface?

  It hits me that maybe I'm not just describing Gray.

  Is this how I feel? Is this what's going on inside of me?

  His lips press onto mine, and I can't help but open to him. I part my lips, just slightly—but it's enough. He slides his tongue inside me, just a bit, just a taste.

  I moan. I want more.

  When I make that sound, he growls back. God, we've barely touched and I feel like an animal already. We skipped right over words into growls, sighs, heavy breathing. Maybe this is what he meant by getting out of my head. Because I'm definitely not thinking right now. I'm just feeling, existing. He's warm and big and cradling me. My body is suddenly alive. I kiss him back, fiercely; we're at turns sweet and slow, then violent and hard. Like I can't press enough into him; like he can't touch enough of me.

  I could kiss him forever.

  He's so tall, so broad. I have to lean back like I'm looking up at the sky, just to meet his lips. He moves and one large hand cradles the back of my head, supporting me…and drawing me closer. His other arm wraps around my middle, and I realize he's angling me closer, pulling me into him, pushing deeper into me.

  And he's hard. Oh my God, he's hard everywhere. I can feel his hard-on pushing into my stomach, but instead of recoiling, I like it. I move closer. It's huge and terrifying and also awe-inspiring. Did I cause this? Does he get this way for everyone, or just for me?

  What would he say if he knew I'd never really dated? That I'm more familiar with my vibrator than any man?

  It doesn't matter. I'll never tell him. One month, two tops, and I'm out of here. I'll be the ghost now, just like Gray was for the past seven years…

  Then he lifts me up in his arms and I wrap my legs around his waist and my words, my thoughts, are gone like smoke. I grasp his shoulders, his arms. The silk of his suit slides under my fingers, but I make a fist and hang on. He must like that, because he growls again, and the sound resonates in my chest, my head, between my legs.

  There are people talking outside, somewhere down on the street. Laughter, shouting, a car horn blaring. But none of it exists, not here.

  In fact, my shitty apartment is disappearing.

  All I can feel is my body moving, writhing, contained in his arms. Trapped, and loving it. His tongue invades my mouth. His large, capable hands are cupping my ass, moving me closer, lifting me up and down so I ride the behemoth I feel between my legs. I press against it, suddenly wanting heat and pressure and friction between my legs. I moan into his mouth when I grind down on his ridiculously hard cock. But it feels so good. I move my hips faster, I bite him like he bit me—

  Gray pulls back suddenly, his chest heaving, his molten eyes staring at me.

  He looks shocked.

  Aroused.

  There's color on his cheeks, and I realize his dark blonde hair looks like he's just been wrestling with a woman between the sheets…

  And that woman is me.

  And then it hits me what we're doing. We're one inch away from my bed and I want him to throw me down on it. I want—if I'm honest with myself—I want everything. I want him to pull my jeans off, part my legs, bury himself inside me like I've imagined it over the years.

  But what he doesn't know is: imagining is about as far I've gotten in life. I've kissed men, dated, but never let anyone in.

  Because I've always wanted him. But what happens if I let him in? It won't just be sex. I'm already half in love with him as it is—or, half in love with a ghost.

  I have no idea who this man is. I have no idea what he does, or why he married me.

  All I know is he was forced into it and it's just a sham. I can't let myself lose control, because if we become intimate, if we act like husband and wife, once this ends I'll never get over it.

  "Stop," I gasp. I put my hand over my wildly beating heart.

  "Why?" Gray growls. He hoists me up higher, but I put my hand up. His entire body stills when I do. And I can't deny the small thrill of power in that: this intense, dangerous, gorgeous and giant man who could move mountains—he stills instantaneously, just because I held up my hand.

  I shouldn't like that, should I?

  But I love it.

  I struggle for a moment and he releases me, sliding me slowly down his body. I bite back a moan, because he feels so good. He grins, the cocky bastard. He knows what he's doing, tempting me, rubbing up on me.

  I need to nip the temptation in the bud. Because if it grows any bigger, I'll be trapped. Maybe forever this time.

  "Gray, I can't—I can't do this. This isn't real. I know you were forced into marrying me and I just can't." I shake my head and turn away, pick up the damn plastic bag. I can't tell him I loved him. Might still love him.

  I can't tell him how it's not just sex.

  I can't tell him I've never had sex.

  And I definitely can't tell him that soon, I'll be long gone.

  "It's real to me," Gray says.

  I turn around, my eyes wide.

  "What?" He can't be saying that he thinks this marriage is legitimate? That he wants to be married?

  Gray stands up. He doesn't look me in the eye when he says, "I take my vows seriously. I said I'd protect you. Your piece-of-shit father couldn't. I can."

  I nod, and try not to let my face crumble. Of course. This wasn't love. This was charity.

  Gray had always said he would try and protect me, but who wouldn't say that if you and your friend grew up as and an adult's own, personal punching bag?

  I didn't know if the man before me felt guilt. But he'd told me he was a man of his word. Maybe he was just trying to fulfill what he thought of as an old obligation.

  Yeah, we'd made out.

  Okay, we'd gotten married.

  But just because we'd stood in front of an altar and said a few words, it didn't really make this marriage real.

  Gray says he's here to protect me. But, more than ever, now I'll have to protect my heart.

  "What the fuck, babes? You look like your pet kitten just died." He glances around the room, suspicious. "Not that we could find it…"

  I snort. I forgot what a joy easy-going Gray was. "Did you just make a dead-kitten joke?"

  He shakes his head, deadpan. "Nyet. Dead kittens are very serious business."

  I laugh. I can't help it. And then he cracks a smile and laughs, too.

  And I realize that laughing, friendly Gray is just as dangerous as big, bad-ass, tattooed Gray. Maybe even more dangerous, as far as my heart is concerned.

  He paces impatiently, his big body filling my bedroom. "Kat, I'd love to stay here all night, looking for your kitty."

  "I don't actually have a cat, Gray."

  "I know." Gray grins, his eyes beautiful steel. "But I need to get you safe to my house. And then I've got a meeting later. Just leave this shit and I'll buy you a new wardrobe tomorrow."

  I stiffen. A meeting later? My pussy? Wh
at's he saying?

  And, he hates my clothes?

  I mean, I kind of do, too. They're cheap and threadbare, but they get the job done.

  I feel like my emotions have whiplash. We were just making out, and now he's ordering me around and telling me hates all my stuff?

  I take a deep breath. I know how to deal with bossy, arrogant bastards. I was raised with one. You simply put your head down, put your mental walls up, and get through the next 24 hours.

  "I don't need new clothes," I say, blindly stuffing a pile into one of my bags "And I'm not staying more than a couple days at your place."

  Gray opens his mouth to speak—and he looks pissed—but a hip-hop song is suddenly blaring from somewhere in the room. Gray stands up, digging his phone out of his back pocket.

  Gray scowls at me, or my clothes, or my entire apartment—I'm not sure. "I gotta take this," he says before stalking out of the room, muttering in Russian to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Right before he leaves, though, he leans back in the doorway and points at my floor: "Pack whatever you want, but you aren't coming back here. And that's final."

  He gives my floor, also known as my closet, one more pissed-off look. "And if you don't love it, leave it. I'm taking you shopping tomorrow. My wife deserves the best clothing money can buy."

  His wife?

  That's final?!

  What the hell have I said "I do" to?

  10

  Kat

  While Gray's on the phone, I hurriedly grabbed my toothbrush and razor, and a few of my favorite jeans and t-shirts. I've never really been a dress girl, because I've never really had an occasion to wear a dress. And though I've been working since grade school at my family's bar, it's not like I’d been earning millions of dollars.

  And now I know the bar hadn't actually been making any money. Or if it had, my dad had been snorting all our profits up his nose or losing it at the tracks.

  He'd given me a small paycheck every week, but I made most of my money in tips. And most of that went to rent, food, and me trying to save up for school.

  I was proud of everything I'd accomplished, but I was also seeing my apartment through Gray's eyes. He'd looked horrified. It shouldn't matter to me whether he liked my clothing, my bedroom, or any of my life choices. But the way he'd looked so angry and disgusted by everything—it was just one more reason to keep my distance from this man.