I grin at my friend Derek's description. He's one of the cooks, and he's been teaching me everything he knows. "Well, Elle, I think I finally have you beat on the drama front. I can't believe I'm actually going to say this out loud, but apparently my dad was in deep with the Soloniks. And—yeah—they own the bar now."
"Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say they own you, too." Elle's completely serious, now.
"It's Gray," I whisper. "Gray's back. He's in New York. And he is working for Viktor Solonik."
"That's it," Elle growls. "Emergency cocktails. Tonight. This afternoon, actually. I get off work at four. Ricky's, like usual?"
I have to laugh. Normally I'm the teetotaler who doesn't drink, and Elle can down a bottle of wine a night. But despite my raging hangover, drinks with my girl sound amazing. If anyone deserves to get wasted two nights in a row, I think it's me.
"Definitely," I say. It's only after Elle hangs up that I realize I have no idea where Gray is or if he's unlocked the door.
It's time to break out of the nicest prison I've ever seen.
But first I need to find my pants.
I pad out of Gray's bedroom, the hardwood floors smooth and shining beneath me feet. God, no wonder Gray looked disgusted at my apartment. His place is straight out of a magazine. Or a dream. I think the place has more square footage than the tiny house I grew up in.
I glance in the smaller, second bedroom. The sheets are messed up—did Gray sleep in there last night? Why would he have done that, and how the heck did I end up in his giant bed? My clothes aren't here, either.
"Gray?" I call down the long hallways.
But he's not in the main living room or the expansive cooks' kitchen. I stand in the kitchen for the first time, and it makes my mouth water—and not just because I'm suddenly ravenous. I trail a finger across the gleaming marble countertops. There's a KitchenAid, a Vitamix blender—crap, those things are like six-hundred dollars or more.
There are chef's knives in a big knife block, and my fingers itch to use them. I look under the cupboards and the pots and pans are straight out of a Williams-Sonoma wet dream.
Or my own dreams.
The thing I love most in the whole world, besides Elle of course, is cooking. I never had the money to go to chef's school, but if I had I could only dream of working at a restaurant with equipment like this. Gray has a six-range gas stove. It's huge and gorgeous—a beast, just like Gray. The porcelain-enameled spill basin is either cleaned lovingly by a maid with a toothbrush, or Gray hasn't done more than boil water on this bad boy.
I open the fridge. There's water, beer and milk. And some apples. That's it.
"Good grief," I mutter. The freezer isn't much better. I rifle through the assortment of frozen microwave meals and the two vodka bottles he's got stacked in there. Those are in addition to the fully stocked bar that I'd raided last night.
What a waste.
It hits me that if we really cared for each other—if this was a real marriage and I was a real bride—I could wake up every morning and cook. I open up his cupboards. He's killing me! No flour, no baking powder, no oats—just granola bars and protein powder.
"How the hell does he stay so big?" I wonder. I shouldn't care about him. He fucking put a guard outside my door and basically locked me away in his ivory (and camel, and fabulous neutrals) tower.
My stomach growls again. I'd ordered a pizza last night, eaten a couple slices then given the rest to Dacko. Oh right. That kid.
I tiptoe to the front door and look out the peephole. He's still standing there, arms crossed, leaning only slightly against the wall. Damn, did he stand there all night long? Gray either pays him a helluva lot, or commands a helluva lot of respect.
Or both.
I sigh. As furious as I was—am—with Gray, he was right. I could be someone's—I shiver at just the word—fuck toy.
I decide I'll have a nice, long talk with Gray today. Assure him I will follow his "rules" but that there's no reason why I can't leave the apartment. I mean, I'd be going to work with him!
And I needed to make money. Because however nice and sweet and hot Gray may be…I was tired of depending on men. First my mother, who fucked up our family business. And now Gray.
But how to make Gray shelve the guard-dog act?
I guess my acting that I just loooove being here. With him.
They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I'll go shopping—or order effing groceries in, if Gray still isn't home. Pick up some basics. The thought of cooking up jambalaya, or a pot roast in the stove, sounds divine. I'd get Gray all nice and happy and content and full and unsuspecting…
Ooh, he has a KitchenAid, too. I could work on my chocolate cake recipe. I shouldn't like the idea of feeding Gray cake so much. But I can imagine how much he'd love it, like he used to go crazy for sweet when we were growing up…
"Snap out it," I tell myself. Just because this is a perfectly appointed prison doesn't make it a prison, nonetheless. I walk back to the bedroom, trying not to love every single frickin' perfect detail in the place.
My clothes aren't in Gray's bedroom, either. However, I discover a room off the boudoir. Technically, one could call it a bathroom.
But good Lord, I could just as easily name it Paradise.
Gray's bathroom is about as big as my apartment's living room. Yes, there's a toilet and a sink, but that's about where the similarities end to any bathroom I'd ever seen before.
The sink is massive; if I lay atop it, it would be longer than me. Of course, it would be damn uncomfortable to rest on, as the giant, white-marble slab features two basins. A well-lit mirror stretches across the entire wall. There is a separate, private room for the toilet. And the shower isn't just a shower: it's in its own, giant alcove. You basically walk into a separate room just for showering, no doors, no curtains.
It probably has its own zip code.
There are four shower heads jutting out of the walls.
"What the hell," I say to all the gleaming appliances. Suddenly nothing sounds better than a blazing hot, overly excessive shower. Except, of course, for the enormous, blindingly white, freestanding bathtub that has its own alcove.
The tub is huge. Big enough for even Gray to spread out in. The image of a naked, wet Grayson messes with my head more than the remnants of last night's shots.
I'll decide to take a quick shower and not think about Gray standing in this tiled room, soaping up his gargantuan chest or arms…or other gargantuan body parts.
I pull my tee off and drop it on the floor, kick my panties against the wall, and make a face at myself in the mirror: I look like I've been kidnapped by the mob, for sure.
And then (after, admittedly, taking two minutes to figure out how to turn on the dang water), I am in heaven. I'm not saying this shower is a reason to stay married to Grayson, but good grief, it's tempting.
"Flipping rich people," I whisper, opening and sniffing one of Gray's bottles of shampoo. It smells divine, like bathing in mint and manliness all at once. I lather up and hum I'm Every Woman and step directly under one of the showerheads. There's hot water above me, on my back, steam filling the room. I can feel yesterday's stress being washed away.
"Oh, I could get used to this," I mutter, my eyes closed, throwing my head back and letting my hair stream down my naked back.
"Good," a deep voice says behind me.
14
Gray
Kat lets out a yelp and whirls around to face me. If I thought her ass looked great wet and naked, well, holy shit. For one second I see paradise—her full breasts, the gentle curve of her stomach and hips, the dark patch of hair between her legs. All of it wet and gleaming and waiting for me.
She stares at me in shock for one second, then whirls around, pressing her front side to the shower wall.
"Gray! What are you doing here?"
I can't help but smile. I also can't help but take a step forward, until I'm right behind her luscious, full body.
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"Well," I say, running my hands over her shoulders. "I live here."
"No, I mean, what are you doing in the shower. With me."
Her skin is so soft and so hot. I can't tell if she's on fire from the water flowing all around us, or if it's just me, reacting to her touch.
I can't stop myself. I trace the fine line of her shoulder, down her arm. She's pressed both hands up against the tiled wall, like she's trying to hide her breasts.
"I went out to get you coffee." I put my face into the crook of her shoulder, breathing in her clean, sweet scent mixed with my shampoo. She shivers. It's taking everything in me not to let myself taste her, see what her skin tastes like when it's wet and overheated.
Fuck it. I kiss her, once, slowly, in the sweet spot where her neck meets her shoulder. I open my mouth and suck, just slightly. She tastes fucking delicious.
"That's…nice," Kat says. Her body was locked and rigid, but at my touch she's loosening up. For a moment her head lolls slightly to the side, to give me more access. Then she remembers herself and straightens again. "The—the coffee is nice, I mean. But I think I'll save it for after my shower."
"Mmm." I don't say anything, just move my hands down her arms, then up to meet her hands where they're still locked against the wall. I slide my hands over hers; damn, she's so small, so fragile.
I press against her, finally letting my hard-on nestle into the sweet curve of her ass.
"Gray," Kat says. Her voice is slow, smoky. Steam swirls all around us, making the rest of the room—the rest of the world—fucking disappear.
"Yeah, babes?"
"What are you doing?"
She still hasn't moved. She's standing there, locked and quivering.
"Kissing my wife good morning." I curl my fingers so they lock with hers, then pull her back and away from the wall. Back and into my arms. Now her ass is right where I want it, tight against me. I wrap my arms down and around her, her breasts resting on my forearm, her head leaning back against my chest. From this angle, I can just see the side of her flushed face, her cheeks rosy and her long, dark hair curling in tendrils all over her body. And my body. One wet, black curl lands on my tattoo. I suddenly realize the ink matches her hair, exactly.
Kat swallows. She's breathing fast, and I can feel her heartbeat against my forearm. It's beating like she's just run a marathon.
I didn't think it was possible for me to get any fucking harder, but here I am. I could hammer nails with this shit.
"Gray, I don't think this is a good idea."
I freeze, though I can't quite bring myself to stop touching her, holding her.
"Why not?" I finally ask. My voice is thick with need.
Of course, I'd told myself the same thing, not five minutes before.
"I woke up in your bed, Gray. What the hell was that about?"
Last night, I'd discovered my sweet little wife, passed out next to a nearly empty bottle of vodka. She'd been wearing nothing but her little white T-shirt and simple white panties, a look which would now figure prominently in all my masturbatory fantasies for the rest of my life.
She'd left all the lights on.
I'd carefully tucked her in to the guest bed, turned off all the lights, and passed out around 4 a.m.
And then I'd heard the blood-curdling scream.
I didn't think I could move so fast, but I was in Kat's bedroom before I was fully awake, ready to fucking rip whatever was hurting her apart.
And then I realized it was all in her head. She was still half-asleep, having a night terror, screaming bloody murder. Dacko had come racing in to find me holding her shoulders and shouting her name. Her eyes were open but she wasn't awake.
She let me touch her, but would then look behind me and scream her head off.
I'd shouted at her to wake up, but Dacko, superstitious as fuck, had said, "Bad luck to wake a dreamer, pakhan."
So he'd gone back outside and I'd scooped her up, taken her into my bed. She'd finally calmed down, my arms wrapped around her, my heart aching because as much as I wanted to protect her from everything in this goddamn world…I was completely helpless at that moment.
"You had a bad dream," I say slowly. "A real bad one."
Kat bites that lush lower lip of hers. "Did I scream?"
I bury my face in her neck. She smells like my body wash, but the best part is just the sweet scent of her, underneath. "Yeah, babes. I couldn't get you to stop."
And then, she fucking pats my arm. She comforts me.
"Don't worry," she whispers. "It happens sometimes."
I squeeze tight until she groans and slaps me.
"Sorry," I say. "I don't like…not being able to make you happy."
"Oh, Gray." She finally leans back against me, the water beating down on us, a cloud of steam surrounding us.
I can't believe I'm holding her, finally fucking touching her. She's more beautiful than I'd imagined.
I'd watched her for hours last night.
A gentleman would have slept on the couch.
But I'm no gentleman.
Not that I touched her once I took her to my bed. But I did look. Listen to her slow, steady breathing. When she rolled into me in the middle of the night, I'd put my arm around her. I'd held her close.
I was hard as bricks the entire night. Around seven this morning, I'd gone out for a morning run along the Hudson, then picked up three kinds of coffee because I realized I didn't know how she took hers.
I'd come back into the silent apartment, and for a moment I'd panicked. Where was she? I went straight to the bedroom, but all I saw were rumpled sheets and an empty room.
Had she left me? Slipped past Dacko somehow?
Was she in danger?
Then I'd heard the shower. The utter relief, that she was still here. The sense of me being able to breathe again. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
It was undeniable.
I told myself she was fine, that I didn't need to check on her.
But still, I opened the bathroom door, the room full of steam, her, gorgeous curved, naked body appearing like a nymph out of the ether.
This isn't a good idea, I'd thought. And taken a step forward.
No, it's a great idea. It's the best idea I've ever had.
My big head warred with my little one. For a second. Then I'd stripped, leaving my workout clothes on the floor where Kat had tossed her t-shirt and little black panties.
God, she was a little messy thing.
I'd watched as she'd thrown her head back, her pink lips open, her cheeks tinged a beautiful shade of rose. I'd found myself walking toward her.
And now I could finally touch her. Feel her soft, wet skin.
See if I could make her even wetter.
"Why isn't this a good idea?" I ask again.
"Because we're not really married," she says. "And because—because this is all temporary. I don't even know where you've been. I don't know what you do. You show up, you beat people up, you walk me down the aisle…"
Kat turns in my arms, and suddenly I'm face-to-face with her beautiful green eyes. She's frowning.
It takes all I have not to look down at her tits.
"We know each other. We care about each other." Do not look at her breasts, do not look at her heaving chest. "And we are really fucking married."
Kat growls and puts her hands on her hips. Goddamn, the woman has curves for miles.
"We do not know each other! I mean, I can't believe you even said that. You don't know shit about me."
"We grew up together, don't give me that shit. And I know I want you," I growl. Okay, fuck, I look down. Her nipples are pink, pert, upright. And it isn't from the damn cold, because the room is blazing-hot.
So is she.
So am I.
"And I know you want me." I take a chance, take a step toward her.
She shivers, but meets my eyes. Licks her lips.
Fuck.
"So what?" Kat says. "Fine, I admit it. You
're hot. You're covered in—" She waves her hand up and down my body, clearly avoiding looking at my raging hard-on. "Tattoos. And muscles. And you have more abs than are probably legal. But I'm not having sex with you. I don't just sleep around."
"Good," I say, and I can't hold back any longer. My vows of keeping her at arm's length are fading into the mist. I can't even remember why I thought that was a good idea—how I even thought that would be possible. "Because if I found out you have a boyfriend, I'd have to kill him."
"Don't say shit like that, Gray." Kat shakes her head at me. "I can't tell if you're serious or not."
I take one more step, and we're pressed against each other.
"I'm dead serious," I tease. She must hear the smile in my voice, because she smiles up at me. "And aren't sleeping right now, sweetheart."
I press against her, our wet skin sticking, then sliding, then sticking together.
"I'm not having sex with you," Kat says.
"Fine." I tilt her face up toward me. I want to kiss every freckle on her beautiful face, her body. "I'll just wash your back. Maybe a few other places. Would that be so bad?"
Kat swallows. She wants me, I know it.
"I'm just scared," Kat whispers.
"Of what, babes?" I kiss her lightly on the edge of her lips, first the right side, then the left.
"You," she says.
I stare into her green eyes. "I'd never hurt you, Kat. On my honor, all I've ever wanted was to protect you."
"Right." She bites her lip again. "You always protected me, when we were little. But Gray—it's one thing for you to marry me to protect me. But it's another if we become intimate. I don't think—I'm not the kind of woman who can keep her heart separate from…things."
"Are you saying you don't want to have sex right now?" I pull her closer, her tits sliding against my chest. Her breath catches.
"I don't think it would be a good idea," she says.
"No problem," I say, dropping to my knees. "I'll just make you come. Two or three times."
15
Kat
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 8
