GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3)

by A. Zavarelli

  41

  Talia

  Life with Alexei is a pattern.

  Never a straight line. Always a series of highs and lows as we get to know each other. Discover more of each other.

  I learn new things about him every day.

  Everything he does is done with precision. Carefully considered and weighed out before he decides. A simple trip from his home often takes him several days to prepare.

  I know it is because the world has been a cold and cruel place to him. He doesn’t like to feel vulnerable. But he is. He is especially vulnerable when he leaves the house. Always worrying that his secret will be discovered.

  His mind must be switched on all the time. He muttered to me once, under his breath, that I had become a distraction for him at the dinner parties. It worries him. But he likes it too.

  I like being his distraction.

  Which is why I often find myself in his office, in the middle of the day, like I am right now. He likes the way I look on the outside. And he accepts that I’m a whole lot of fucked up on the inside.

  But I make myself pretty for him. Every day. In these designer clothes that don’t belong on the likes of me. And then he dirties me up with his eyes and his hands and his cock.

  When he sees me today though, he seems distracted by something else. And I don’t like it at all. I want to be the center of his world. I want to be so much more than his wife in name and his fuck toy in the bedroom. Want is a dangerous thing.

  Still, I walk around behind him and touch his shoulders. He tilts his head back against the chair to look up at me, and I lean down and kiss him. My fingers move over the sensitive flesh of his neck, hoping to infuse myself with some of the cologne he wears.

  I like to smell of him. I like to rub my body all over him.

  “You are teaching me bad habits, Solnyshko,” he tells me.

  “How so?” I ask innocently.

  He turns around and tugs me into his lap, burying his face in my neck and inhaling me. I try to kiss him. To get him going because I know he won’t stop once I do. But he doesn’t let me get that far. He grabs my hands and keeps them trapped between us. Then he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against his chest.

  And then he just looks at me. For too long.

  This is the thing I don’t like. And I’ve noticed it happening more and more lately. It is intimate, having someone’s eyes on you with no intention of doing anything other than looking. Seeing you.

  “I want you,” I tell him.

  His hand crawls up my back and reaches for my hair, tangling it in his fist and pulling it tight so that I can’t move my head.

  “You want me to do dirty things to you,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “What if I just want to look at you?” he asks.

  “I don’t like it,” I answer.

  “I don’t care,” he replies.

  It’s obvious he’s going to do whatever he wants. So I just wait, trying to hide by burying my face against his chest. He plays with my hair, and even though he is hard for me, he doesn’t do anything else.

  It confuses me. This type of intimacy from him. One minute he wants all of me. And the next, he backs away. Never letting himself get too close. I just try not to think about it. But when he holds me like this, it’s hard not to. To ask him things that I shouldn’t even be thinking.

  Like if he cares.

  Like if there will ever be more.

  Instead, I ask him other things. Questions that give me small pieces of him. The only thing I can ever really have. Stolen moments. Pieces of his life and his heart. That’s all he has to offer. And I don’t have anything to offer him. Except for my broken thoughts and demented soul, stitched together by my frequent bouts of insanity.

  “Magda thinks that we are alike,” I tell him on a whim.

  He is quiet, contemplative. His eyes moving over my face again. His hands holding me close.

  “Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” he answers.

  He doesn’t elaborate, and I can tell he doesn’t want to. So I ask him something else.

  “Can you teach me something in sign language?”

  He blinks at me, and this makes him smile. “I do not know sign language,” he tells me. “So no, probably not.”

  “Oh. Well shouldn’t you though?”

  He just shrugs. “I never learned. I was young when I lost my hearing. The circumstances did not allow for learning. So I learned the only way I could.”

  “To read people.”

  He nods, and I touch his face.

  “I wish I could read you sometimes.”

  “All you ever have to do is ask me,” he says.

  I want to. We both know that I want to. But I don’t. Because I am scared. And I think, Alexei is too.

  “I kind of like it,” I tell him instead. “That we touch each other to communicate. You touch me a lot.”

  “I like it too,” he admits.

  But he doesn’t have to tell me. I feel how much he likes it beneath my ass on his lap. The biggest turn on between us is him knowing that I accept him and me knowing the same.

  “It’s strange,” I tell him honestly.

  “What is?” he asks.

  “That you can’t hear,” I answer. “And yet, you are the only person who has ever really listened to me.”

  “I will always see you, Solnyshko,” he tells me. “Always.”

  “You make me feel,” I whisper.

  The words are both an accusation and a confession.

  But Alexei does not retreat or shy away. If anything, he indulges in me further and I know the time for cuddling and intimacy is now over. He lifts up my dress and discards it, leaving me in only a bra and panties. But like they often do now, his hands move to my belly first.

  “How is my baby?” he asks.

  “Big,” I tell him. “Like his father already.”

  Alexei smiles at me. And it’s beautiful, that smile of his.

  “I think it’s a boy too,” he answers. “I would like that.”

  And then he kisses me. It’s soft and sweet for about two minutes before he gets to the good stuff. The really good stuff. His hands all over me. Sliding in and cupping my breasts beneath the lace of my bra. And in my panties. His fingers inside of me.

  The entire time, his mouth is on mine. We kiss a lot. And I like it. I might even love it. Sometimes, it’s a slow burn. And sometimes, like right now, I’m consumed by the madness of it altogether. I feel it happening. The falling. Falling for him.

  I know what he says. That he doesn’t care. But this isn’t just fucking anymore. This is him, whispering something in my ear and me providing anything he asks. We both get off on it. Any man can fuck me. But Alexei fucks my mind. My heart. My soul.

  He lights me up and burns me down.

  Every single time.

  I want to tell him so, right now. I want to be honest. But inside, I know I need to push those thoughts away.

  “Be dirty with me,” I tell him.

  “Get down on your knees,” is his reply.

  I do. He grabs a handful of my hair and rubs my face against the heat beneath his trousers. My fingers dig into his thighs and my breath quickens as he unbuckles himself.

  “Be a good girl,” he says as he grips his cock in his palm. “And beg for it.”

  This is new. And I like it. I like it even more when I look up and see him anxious for me to say the words. To tell him how much I want him. And in his eyes, I can see how much he wants to believe it. I will make him believe. Because it’s true.

  “Lyoshka,” I tell him as I reach out and take his cock in my hand. “You are my husband. You belong to me. And nobody else. You can’t ever do this with anyone else.”

  “I am a Vor,” he answers. “I will do what I like.”

  I glare at him, and his eyes fire with satisfaction.

  “Now quit pouting and suck my cock.”

  I do. I push him all the way into the back of
my throat and he groans. Hard. He loves it, but he can’t bring himself to admit how much.

  “Do better,” he goads me.

  I do even better. I suck him so hard he nearly blows his load in the first few minutes. But I know Alexei would never allow that to happen. So instead, he grabs me by the hair and yanks me up.

  “Do you feel the need to please me?” he asks.

  I feel vulnerable under his scrutiny. He already knows the answer. I don’t know why he makes me say it.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I want to please you.”

  He brings his lips to my ear and murmurs between kisses. “You always do, Solnyshko.”

  I tip my head back and allow him access to my throat, which he kisses tenderly.

  “Please me now,” he directs me. “By bending over the desk and spreading your legs for me.”

  I do what he says. He pulls aside my panties and fingers me while his other hand comes down on my ass. Hard. I make a noise, and I know he can’t hear it, but he feels how much I like this. How much I like him like this.

  He smacks me again on the other ass cheek, and then pulls them apart roughly with his hand, kneading the flesh beneath his fingers. And then he backs away, leaving me cold and annoyed.

  “Sit on the desk and play with yourself,” he tells me. “I want to watch.”

  When I turn around again, he’s in his chair. Stroking his cock slowly and deliberately. Watching as I do what he says.

  “Make yourself come,” he says. “And do it fast. Or I’m not going to fuck you.”

  Again, I’m doing what he asks. Like a puppet. Like he owns me. But when I look at him, I know he does.

  I hate it when he does this. When he takes away what I want from him the most. It isn’t the same when I have to do it myself. But I make myself come anyway, just watching him stroke himself.

  “Now fuck me,” I beg him.

  “Give me three reasons,” he answers. “Tell me what you’ve done to deserve it.”

  “Because you like it,” I tell him. “And I’ll make you come.”

  “I could come like this,” he says.

  “But you like it better inside of me.”

  He smiles.

  “And what else?”

  “I’ll let you work for the rest of the day without distracting you.”

  He makes me wait for an answer. But his eyes are on me. And I know he’s going to give in. He just likes to torment me. Make me beg for this. For him.

  “Come here,” he tells me finally. “And sit on my cock.”

  I do it. Without an ounce of remorse or shame. He watches and then instructs me to ride him. Which I also do. His hands remain at his sides, his eyes closed, and it frustrates me.

  “You aren’t touching me,” I speak into his right ear. “Or looking at me.”

  “Did you want me to?” he asks. “Or do you want the master fucking his slave?”

  And I know now that he’s trying to prove a point. About my remark earlier.

  He tangles my hair in his fist and draws me closer, his mouth so close to mine I can almost taste him.

  “I will look at my wife whenever I please,” he tells me. “And don’t ever tell me otherwise, Solnyshko. You will be intimate with me. And you will never hide from me.”

  His words are harsh, but his kiss is soft. And he gives me what I need. His hands on my body. His warmth and his sounds and his pleasure. He comes inside of me on a sigh, and remains there for a long time, holding me in his arms.

  Neither one of us moves, and I know something is changing between us. Evolving. Growing. But I’m afraid to ask what it is. And Alexei doesn’t mention it either.

  He simply holds me.

  And for right now, it is enough.

  42

  Talia

  Two months have come and passed. Our guests have gone, and I am grateful. Apart from the noise I would hear upstairs, I didn’t see much of them. But whatever was happening ended up occupying a lot of Alexei’s time. I’m happy to have the house back to just the four of us.

  Alexei and I, Franco and Magda. And soon another little Nikolaev.

  It’s surreal.

  I had a scan this morning, and I am farther along than either of us suspected. Alexei sat through the whole process, quiet and steadfast at my side. We are having a boy. And when he found out, he smiled.

  It was a beautiful thing.

  The intensity between us is changing every day. The barriers dissolving more and more. And the question always lingering in the back of my mind. That maybe this time is different. That maybe this time, I can trust.

  Alexei’s days are still his own. Spent working in his office. But at night, we dine together. And go to bed together. And he holds me. Sometimes it’s about sex. But sometimes, it’s just about us.

  The sadness has slowly ebbed away over time. It does not disappear completely. It never does. There are still bad days. Days when the memories haunt me. When the pain feels unforgiving and relentless. But I am learning how to process it.

  Changing old patterns and thoughts does not come easily. I still struggle with my deep-rooted fears every day. I worry that this is just a dream. And that soon, I will wake up at Arman’s again.

  Alexei has not brought him up. Nor have I.

  For now, I am giving him something that I swore I would never give again. My trust.

  I am trusting him not to destroy me. I am trusting that if I work hard on my own demons, so will he. Because we have no choice. We have to be better than we were. For our child. And for ourselves.

  I spend my days fighting. Fighting to overcome my fears and learning the things that I never had a chance to. Magda teaches me something every day. She teaches me how to cook, to sew, and even how to sing Russian lullabies.

  I’m slowly learning the language. So that I can communicate with Alexei in that way. As well as our baby, who will speak both languages.

  I spend time with Tanaka, at least once a week. She seems sad at times, locked inside of her own head. She does not speak about her and Nikolai. I only know that when she is here with me, she is happy. We have become close friends.

  And more and more, I think about Mack.

  I think about seeing her. And hoping that there is still some chance to recover our friendship too.

  Soon, I think.

  I will contact her soon.

  My life has completely changed in so little time. I went from having nothing, to having everything. And it scares me almost all of the time. I think of my baby and wonder what Alexei will be like with his son. I know he will be a good father. But I also know he is nervous. He worries about letting us down.

  I see that fear bloom more as my belly grows larger. I see it when he spends time in the nursery, examining the things I bought. And often, I see it late at night. When he is inside of me and looking into my eyes.

  I don’t try to reassure him. Because like me, Alexei needs to figure this out on his own. My words will not ease his worries, just as his words won’t always ease mine.

  Today, when I pass by his office, he is staring at the chess board on his desk. But Franco is nowhere to be found. Only Alexei, deep in his own thoughts.

  I watch him for a while, in the silence. In his element, his brain working in a way that I will never understand. I watch the way his eyes calculate all of the moves, his hand brushing over his jaw. He is so incredibly handsome. My heart is beating too hard, too fast. I ache for him in ways that are not familiar to me. I ache for his words, his touches, his eyes on me.

  When I have those things, nothing else in the world exists. He always leaves me longing for more.

  “You could say hello,” Franco says from behind me.

  I startle at his presence, curious how long he was standing there. Watching me, watching my husband.

  “Why don’t you join us,” he suggests. “Somebody besides me should see the man’s chess skills.”

  I hesitate, but Franco ushers me inside before I can come up with any excuses. Wh
en Alexei sees me, he gives me a curious look.

  I was bored this morning, so I spent extra time playing around with my makeup. Smoking my eyes and trying out a new lipstick.

  “You look different,” he notes.

  I boldly take a seat on his desk and swing my legs off the side, meeting his gaze. “And you like it.”

  He smiles, and so does Franco. And then they turn their attention to the game that never seems to end.

  “Franco tells me you have some mad skills,” I note.

  Alexei waves off the suggestion. “He always lets me win.”

  “I never let you do anything,” Franco grunts.

  “Can you teach me?” I ask.

  Alexei seems surprised by my request. He reaches for my calf and feathers his fingers over my skin, tickling and massaging me.

  “I cannot teach you, but you can learn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just watch, Solnyshko.”

  So I do. But I keep getting distracted from the game by the man playing it. His hand is still on my leg, my feet now resting on his thighs.

  Alexei is giving and caring and warm. But he is also his own island. He does not accept these things from anybody else.

  “What about that one?” I ask him, pointing at the cracked chess piece sitting atop his desk. The one that I know has absolutely nothing to do with this game and everything to do with something else.

  He looks at the piece and then back to me. Franco keeps his focus on the game, and I’m glad.

  “That is from the first time I ever beat my father at the game,” he tells me. “Or rather, the first time I ever allowed myself to.”

  I reach out for it hesitantly, examining it between my fingers. It is odd that he has kept it all these years. But it is significant to him.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “My mother told me I should always allow him to win,” Alexei answers. “And I did. Until he told me I was not a worthy opponent.”

  “It’s cracked,” I remark.

  “It is,” he replies.

  There is nothing else said, but it answers my question. Alexei’s father was enraged by this. And for some reason, it pleases him. I suspect that Sergei has always been insecure over his son. But I also suspect it has nothing to do with his hearing and everything to do with his intelligence.