Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  Gray's behind me, and I realize that if he were to actually go through with his threat, we were in the perfect position for him to reach out, grab my hips with one hand, slowly pull my t-shirt up and out of the way…

  No. What the hell am I thinking? Why aren't I moving away from him?

  I am a grown-ass woman. I don't want a grown man to spank me like a little child.

  Then I feel his hand, more tentative and gentle than I would have expected, caress the side of my hip. I bite my lip.

  I will not moan. I will not moan. I will not make a sound.

  Gray's hand is heavier now, pushing into my hip, caressing it in circles with his large, flat palm.

  "I was thinking I would spank you as punishment. But you don't seem very scared. In fact, you haven't moved. " His voice goes low, a rough whisper even though it's just the two of us in the room. "Does my Kat want to try something new?"

  I'm breathing heavily. I'm frozen. His hand keeps moving, drawing rough circles on my skin, over and over and over again. But he's not doing anything.

  And it's driving me nuts.

  "Say it, Kat."

  "Say what?"

  "Ask me to spank you."

  "I'll do no such thing," I spit out.

  "Sweetheart, you're on all fours, panting, letting me pet you." I feel the bed give as he climbs onto it, and suddenly he's above me, weighing me down. His beard scratches against my ear and neck as he bends over me. "I bet if I ran a finger—or a tongue—down your sweet crack right now, you'd be wet as hell."

  I gulp. He's right, damn him. I press my legs together, trying to deny the growing heat blossoming deep within me.

  "Ask me for it, and I'll give you whatever you want," Gray croons into my ear.

  "Never." I don't know why I'm fighting him. I didn't even plan on spitting out the word never. I don't mean it—which terrifies me.

  I don't mean it at all.

  I don't want to run from Gray. I want to stay here—on this bed, in his life. The more I get to know him, the more I want him. Seven years' absence hasn't dimmed the flame between us; one spark and I think it will burst into an all-consuming fire.

  Gray laughs, a low, dark sound. "You fight me on everything, you know that, babes? That's all right. I'm a fighter, too. That's one reason we suit each other."

  I frown. He thinks we're alike? But we're nothing alike! We don't suit each other at all.

  I would tell him so, but he's crept a hand around me, and suddenly I'm covered. His weight on my back, though he's mostly holding himself up with his left arm. His right arm ghosting over my breasts, playing with my nipples…

  I will not moan. I will not moan. I hate him.

  I love—

  Oh! Gray slips his hand into my panties, coating himself in my wetness.

  "I knew it," he says. He sounds triumphant, and I feel him press his rock-hard cock against my ass. "You want me as much as I want you."

  "I don't." The words leave my mouth before I can even think about what I'm saying.

  "Sweet Kat, don't make yourself into a liar." He swirls his fingers through my folds, teasing my clit, but not pressing nearly hard enough. I can't help it, I buck against his hand, wanting more. When I demand a harder touch with my hips, he backs off, just lightly playing with my lips, the crease between my thigh and my core. I growl when he won't give me what I want, but Gray just laughs.

  I have a hard time steeling my heart against that sound.

  "I'll tell you what, love," he whispers in my ear, his fingers still twirling and teasing me. "You don't have to ask me to spank you. I'll gift you that."

  I make a scoffing sound. "Gift me with a spanking? That's insane."

  So why does it feel like fucking Christmas morning?

  "All you have to do is admit you were wrong not to answer your phone, and promise that you'll listen to me from now on."

  I shake my head, hitting the side of his face.

  "Fuck you," I growl.

  "That's the idea, babes."

  "I'm not apologizing. You can't tell me what to do."

  Suddenly I'm flipped over, on my back, staring up into the silver fire of his eyes.

  "Kat, I'm not fucking around. This is life or death. You're in danger. Danger. Why do you think I tell you to do the things I do? To protect you! Do you think I get off on just bossing you around?"

  "Yes," I say.

  Now there's a twinkle in those steel eyes.

  "Alright, maybe. I'll give you that." He slowly lowers himself onto my body, covering every inch of me with his hard heat. I involuntarily open my legs, relishing the feel of his cock pressing between my wet folds. When did he take off his pants? Holy shit, I realize he's naked.

  He's huge. He's naked. He's on top of me.

  Why am I wearing my shirt again?

  Gray kisses one cheek, then the other. "Now just tell me you'll obey me. In everything I say."

  "No," I whisper, before kissing him back.

  He takes control of the kiss. Slow. Gentle. "Alright, we'll try this. I'm going to spank you because you ignored me, and lied to me—but also because you want it so fucking bad you can't see straight."

  I swallow. I should hate this. I should hate him.

  I can't tear my gaze away from his eyes, his burnished hair, his lips so close to mine.

  "Because your ass is about the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, because I've been hard as iron thinking about it all night."

  He gives me a light kiss on the nose, then leans down and whispers in my ear, "But you can't come until you promise to listen to me. For your own fucking good, Katya."

  He pulls back from me, and I feel suddenly cold. He stands at the foot of the bed, his muscles flexing, his chest heaving. He's as ready to strike as the cobra tattoo on his arm.

  "Sit up and take your shirt off."

  I hesitate, and he slaps his palm against his hard thigh. It makes a hard, quick sound like what I imagine his hand on my ass will make.

  "Right now, you've earned ten slaps of my hand. Five for the voicemails you refused to listen to. Five for the texts you ignored. You ignore me now—"

  I'm not scared of him, but I jump up and pull my shirt over my head. I mean, I am scared—will it hurt? But I'm not scared of him.

  And then I look at Gray and stop thinking.

  I'm kneeling on a bed, wearing only my bra and panties. Gray looks like a pagan sex god, come to claim his virgin bride. His chest is wide, perfectly sculpted. His defined abs flow down to the slim but powerful line of his hips. His cock is huge, jutting up proudly toward the ceiling…toward me.

  I feel a familiar heat in my cheeks and I know I'm blushing. I guess I'm a willing sacrifice.

  "Beautiful," Gray says. He steps up to the bed, and runs a finger under my bra strap. "I'm going to take my beautiful little Kat shopping." He unhooks my bra with practiced fingers, pulling it slowly down my arms. "Buy her pretty little lacey shit, the kind I can rip right off."

  He helps me to stand up, balancing on the mattress, and pulls my panties down my legs. "Buy her ridiculously fucking expensive panties that she won't have much of a chance to wear."

  He grabs my ass, pulls me roughly forward, and kissed me between my legs. He pulls back, his left hand holding me solid, his eyes on me, his right hand snaking between my legs and up inside me.

  I groan.

  "Jesus, babes. You're so fucking tight."

  He starts moving his middle finger slowly in and out of me. I'm standing above him, feeling like I might float right to the ceiling if it wasn't for his hand, anchoring me at my hip.

  Gray is so tall that, even when I'm standing on the bed, his head is at my stomach. His kisses me there, working his finger faster and faster. Then he starts making a come-hither motion, and I throw back my head, crying out.

  "Oh God, that feels so—"

  I can't even speak. It's like he's fucking my g-spot, hard, hard and harder. I didn't know something so rough could feel so fucking divine.


  "Gray, I can't stand up for this," I moan. My knees are buckled, but he puts an arm around my waist, gently sliding me to my knees while he continues his delicious assault on that tiny spot inside me. I'm getting wetter and wetter, and I realize he's switched to two fingers now.

  Holy shit. I think I'm going to come just from him—

  He stops. Pulls out. Smiles at me and says, "Remember, babes, you don't get to come until you promise to listen to me."

  "You fucking bastard!"

  He smirks. "You got the bastard part right. We'll get to the fucking soon enough."

  Then he whips me back around, on all fours. He caresses the inside of my thighs, which are embarrassingly wet. My God, I am dripping.

  Then there's a moment of stillness—me on all fours, his left hand holding my hip—and then he slaps the hell out of my ass.

  I scream. "You bastard! That hurt!"

  He doesn't answer, just spanks me again, though this time on my left side. He switches hands, his right hand on my back, and his left hand hits me a third time—lower, where my thighs and my ass meet.

  "Mmm, your skin turns a lovely shade of pink, little wife."

  I groan. I'm so twisted, but I think I'm getting wetter.

  He keeps going.

  "Four, five, six." He counts as he hits me—but it's not hitting. Is there any other word? It was rough, it stung, but then as soon as he touched one area, he'd move on. His other hand would sooth where he'd just slapped me.

  And everywhere he'd touched, after a jolt of pain that had me lurching and crying out, would even out into a delicious heat.

  I was on fire.

  "Someday I'll fuck you as I spank you," Gray says, his weight suddenly on the bed.

  "Nine, my love." I feel him get in position, his cock at my entrance, coating itself in my juices, teasing me. He pushes just slightly, but I'm so tight—can he tell I've never had a man anywhere near there?—that he doesn't get very far.

  He doesn't seem to care, because he just lays his massive cock on my ass. Then his reaches around, thrusting against me while he fingers my clit. I'm so wet and turned on that I immediately, shamelessly begin thrusting against him. Oh God, one more second and I'll burst into flames—

  He stops touching me.

  "You asshole!" I cry.

  "You want to play there, too, my love? Someday, someday."

  I shake my head, and then he's between my legs, mimicking intercourse but with his hand, somehow touching my g-spot and my clit at the same time. I'm enveloped in his scent, the cloves and cardamom and tobacco of his body wash, the scent of his skin, the night air still clinging to him.

  The sounds of my own wetness fill the room, and my panting.

  "Tell me you'll listen to me," Gray growls, his fingers moving faster. I'm close. So close.

  "Tell me you'll listen to me. Tell me your husband is always right."

  I could cry, I could beg, I can't stop moving against him. So close, so close, his cock so hot and heavy against my back, his entire body taking me over—

  "You might be right," I moan.

  He withdraws his hands from between my legs, moves them up to pull and tug on my nipples. That should hurt, too, but instead I'm crying out like I'll come just from that.

  "Not good enough, darling."

  "Please make me come, Gray. Please."

  I can feel more than hear his laughter against my neck, my back.

  "Goddamn, I love hearing those words on your lips. But they're not the words I want right now." He thrusts hard against me—is he getting off on this?! But the idea of his come, shooting out across my ass and back is such a turn-on. I moan.

  "I'll listen, I'll listen, I'll listen," I cry out. "I'll listen to you!"

  "Tell me you trust me." His voice sounds so tight, like's he's as worked-up and on the edge as I am.

  "I trust you, Gray!"

  I barely get the words out before he attacks my clit, thrusting against me, fucking me from the outside while his fingers fuck me from the inside. I fly apart—over the edge—my orgasm so intense I see stars. I fall to the bed, and Gray keeps pumping his fingers inside of me, aftershocks of pleasure torturing my body.

  Then Gray comes. I hear him grunt, feel the one second of hot come before it cools, spread across my back. Hear him say my name, like a prayer to a goddess.

  "Katya, Katya, Katya."

  This time I don't fight him when he takes me to his room, and puts me in his bed.

  21

  Kat

  I trust you.

  The next day, I wake up in Gray's arms, my words from the night before ringing in my ears.

  I trust you.

  As Gray showers and gets ready to leave for the day, he tells me he trusts me, too. No bodyguards, no following me. My heart soars—and then plummets.

  Because the only thing I want to do requires me to break Gray's trust, implicitly: I need to get to the bar and get my birth certificate. Even though last night, in his arms, I never wanted to leave him, I have to be smart. We've only been together two days.

  I laugh, remembering our shotgun wedding. We are literally in the honeymoon phase.

  I needed to remember that he left me once. That he works for a psychotic Russian killer.

  That he himself has probably killed people.

  It just doesn't hurt to be prepared. I should have a passport, no matter what.

  Still, my heart beats faster when Gray comes out into the kitchen. He's wearing a black t-shirt and jeans and looks impossibly beautiful. He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around me, and I lean back into him.

  Don't trust him, don't trust him, don't give your heart away. In the cold light of day, I'm trying to talk some sense into myself.

  He kisses my cheek and it feels so damn good.

  "You made me breakfast, babes?" Another kiss. "What is it?"

  I laugh. He sounds incredulous. "It's just scrambled eggs with cheese. Well, and a little Half and Half for richness." I fill a plate with eggs and thick, buttered toast, and watch him dig in. He eats like a starving man.

  I find myself just standing in the kitchen, holding my cup of warm coffee, smiling because I get to watch him eat.

  Jesus. I am in trouble. Because I thought Gray would trap me with locked doors and bodyguards.

  But it's my own damn heart that's going to bind me here.

  Gray looks up, catches my eye, and winks.

  "Barefoot in the kitchen, babes. Makes me want to put some babies in you."

  I almost drop my cup. Yep. That's a sign—as much as his words make suddenly tingle from head to toe—I cannot get pregnant and have a mafia warlord's baby.

  Or whatever his official title is.

  "Eat your eggs," I say, turning around. I suddenly have the need to clean all of the pans. Anything so I don't look at him.

  He comes up behind me. Another scratchy kiss.

  "I've gotta go. Duty calls."

  "Mafia warlords have to work on Saturdays? Sucks to be you. You guys should form a union or something."

  Gray laughs. "I actually won't be at the bar until later. Got some…errands. And then very later, I'll be back here." He leans into me, snuggling.

  Mafia warlord snuggles. Fucking hell. They're the best.

  "Wait for me in my bed tonight?"

  I nod, then turn around and kiss him goodbye.

  I'm about to go break his trust into a million pieces.

  I take the subway to Brooklyn. My mother's parents opened O'Malley's Irish Tavern when they immigrated to the U.S. I have vague memories of my grandfather polishing the bar, and feeding me piles of maraschino cherries behind my mother's back.

  The memories of my mother, sadly, are just as vague. She passed away when I was eight. Cancer. My eyes tear up as I walk down the worn sidewalks in Williamsburg. This used to be a rough neighborhood, back when my mother would pick me up from school and walk me to the family bar.

  I have memories of holding her hand, dappled sunlight peeking through the
trees, her long brown hair flying in the wind as she looked back and smiled at me.

  I remember the feeling of holding her hand more than I can remember the details of her face.

  I take a deep breath, pass a group of loitering hipsters, and make my way toward the bar. After my mother died—followed a few years later by my grandparents—my father lost his way. Or his will to live. I don't know what went wrong. But he let the bar go to shit—along with his relationship with his daughter.

  My dad had blamed the U.S. government, the state government, the city, gentrification, the President and about fifty other people for O'Malley's demise. Now I know it was just him. He probably wasn't just skimming off the top. He was probably taking large chunks of profit and blowing them up his nose.

  I've worked here since I was a teenager, when I'd bus tables and wash dishes after school, then do my homework in the basement office. By the end of high school, I was cooking in the kitchens, though none of it was glamorous. Burgers, fries, cheese sticks and fried pickles mostly. But I'd loved it, even when Elle would wrinkle her nose and tell me I smelled like French fries the next day in class.

  The bar is on the corner, with remnants of brick walkways peeking out from underneath the blacktop in the street. The sidewalks are all red brick, and once you get inside, the wood floors and beams are all original and probably close to a hundred years old.

  I walk in and smile, looking at the cheesy but cute framed photos of Irish kids and the Irish flag hanging on the wall.

  Then I look at the customers.

  Normally we'd have a few regulars and a whole lot of hipsters, who'd been gentrifying Williamsburg at a lightning pace.

  Today the place is packed. With Russians.

  Lots and lots of huge Russian men.

  Gloria's behind the bar. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I sneak up to talk to her.

  "Well, congratulations?" Gloria's fifty, looks sixty, and due to her heavy smoking and drinking, sounds seventy.

  She's got the attitude of a twenty-year-old, however.

  I hug her and shake my head. "How are you?"

  "Honey, I've seen the size of your husband. How are you? I'm surprised you're not walking bow-legged!"