by Nicole Fox
Except, this time, she isn’t putting a cream puff in her mouth.
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t look at her. If I look at her, it will be over too fast. I’ve never seen a woman who is as effortlessly sexy. Eve doesn’t even seem to try. Whether she is in jeans and a t-shirt or lacy pajamas, I want to rip her out of her clothes and have my way with her.
When my breathing begins to get heavy, Eve pulls away and presses her palms into my chest. She pushes me back onto the bed, grabs a condom from the bedside drawer, and then crawls over me, straddling my hips with her knees on either side. Achingly slow, she rolls it down my length with shaky fingers and then positions me at her opening. Then, she slides onto me. Every inch is heaven. When she rocks her hips, I bite back a moan.
I don’t do submissive. I don’t let a woman take control in the bedroom. Yet, that is exactly what I’m doing with Eve. I grip the curve of her hips in my hands, but she does all the work.
I study her face—the crease between her eyebrows and the small ‘o’ of her pouty lips—as she finds a rhythm. Her eyes flutter closed and her head tips back, and I barely hold it together as she falls apart on top of me. Her legs quiver and her flat stomach clenches, soft moans slipping from her lips. Finally, she falls forward onto my chest, breathing heavily.
After letting her recover for a minute, I roll her off of me and stand at the edge of the bed. Her legs are silk in my hands, and I throw each of her legs over one of my shoulders. She covers herself with her hands, but I want to see all of her. So, I grab her hands in each of mine and push into her.
Seeing her laid out in front of me, reacting to my thrusts, is more than I can handle, and within a few minutes, I’m breathless and on the edge. Even though she just found her own relief, the telltale crease has reappeared between her eyes, and Eve is whispering for me to not stop, to never stop.
Just as her body clenches, I topple over the edge, and we fall together.
After cleaning up, Eve slides her arms into my button down, burrows under my blankets, and falls asleep in my bed. The sight is so extraordinarily ordinary that I can’t help but watch her. The way her breaths come deep and even. The way her eyelashes flutter as she dreams. She is so beautiful, and I can’t believe she is in my bed.
A month ago, I never would have believed it if someone had told me this would happen. I wouldn’t have believed it if they told me I’d let a woman sleep all night in bed. Let alone, my wife. Eve Furino—nay, Volkov—surprised me. She snuck up on me in a way I didn’t expect, and I’m still not sure how to handle her. My father is worried she is changing me, making me vulnerable. And perhaps, she is, but I’m not sure it is a bad thing. It certainly doesn’t feel like a bad thing, regardless of how strange it feels.
When my phone vibrates on the nightstand, I grab it quickly before it can wake her. Then, I slide out of bed, grab a pair of pants and a t-shirt from my dresser, and slip out of the room. The mansion is quiet, but as I walk down the long hallways, moving towards the opposite wing, I can hear life within the walls. When I open the basement door, I hear the sound of pleading, begging.
Gabriel meets me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Is he ready?” I ask.
Gabriel nods and gestures to a room on the right.
The basement isn’t a dungeon exactly, but that is what the soldiers call it. There are a series of private meeting rooms on one side with a small kitchen and bathroom for the soldiers, but the other side is meant for enemies. Concrete, lifeless rooms with no windows. Reece Moynihan is in the middle of one of these rooms, his hands handcuffed behind his back, his nose bleeding.
“Your guys treated me like shit,” he spits, a light spray of blood accompanying his words.
I look to the soldiers on either side of him. One of them has a black eye and the other is cradling his arm in a funny way.
“It looks like you returned the favor,” I say, dismissing the two guards with a wave. They scurry to the edges of the room, though don’t lower their weapons. “Did you put up a fight?”
“I was ambushed in my home. I’m in my fucking pajamas,” he says, picking up one foot to showcase his navy-blue flannel pants and matching slippers. “Of course, I put up a fight.”
“Then, whatever pain you are in is your own fault.” I slide my KA-BAR out of my waistband, and Reece’s eyes widen. “Not to mention, I know you had a hand in the attack that ruined my wedding and killed some of my men.”
“I wasn’t there!” he shouts, shaking his head. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t lie to me, Reece. It’s embarrassing for both of us.” I twist the KA-BAR in the air, slicing the blade slowly through the air in front of him. His eyes follow the movement with terrified vigilance. “You are the Irish mob’s top enforcer. Do you truly mean to suggest you knew nothing about the attack? Because, if that is true, it means you are shit at your job. It means you do not know what is happening under your own nose. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
He stutters around an answer, unsure whether he should tell the truth or sacrifice his pride. A smart man would claim to be a worm, a nobody. He would say anything to save his life. But Reece Moynihan is not a smart man.
I lunge forward before he can formulate an answer, the blade pressing dangerously against the delicate skin of his neck. He yelps and then tries to shy away from the blade, scooting back as far as he can in his chair. I don’t want to hear his lies anyway.
“What do you know about the day of the wedding?”
His eyes are wide, his throat bobbing dangerously close to the sharp edge of my blade as he talks. “I know,” he says, gulping in fear, “that you couldn’t get a bride without forcing a woman to marry you.”
A smile spreads across his face for a fraction of a second before I slide the blade across his neck. Blood immediately spills from the cut, but it isn’t deep enough to damage his esophagus or inhibit his breathing. Just enough to let him know what awaits him if he isn’t useful to me.
“I was kidding,” he says, pushing uselessly off the floor like he can slide his chair away from me. It is bolted into the ground.
“And I’m not laughing,” I say, standing tall and pacing in front of him. “Tell me what you know.”
“Three guys shot at your guests.” He shrugs. “That’s it. That’s all I know.”
I pace back and forth in front of him a few times, watching as he becomes more tense with every silent second that passes. Then, when I cross in front of him the fourth time, I swing my arm up and down, plunging the blade through his thigh.
His screams echo off the concrete walls and blood spills from the wound, coating his pajama pants and gathering in his shoe.
“Stop lying to me, Reece.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not lying. I don’t—”
I swing the blade back and plunge it into his other thigh. His screams are shrill and piercing, and I want to cover my ears, but I resist.
“My wife is asleep upstairs. I’d appreciate if you didn’t wake her,” I say, holding the bloody knife behind my back and continuing my pacing.
His screams fade to a whimper and, finally, a breathy moan. His voice is little more than a rasp when he begins to talk. “Yours isn’t the only bed she’s been in.”
I roll my eyes and tilt my head back as if asking God what I did to deserve to be here with such a stupid man. “I’m aware I didn’t marry a virgin. She made that apparent our first night together.”
The memory of Eve’s skin under my hands and her body laid out before me makes me even more eager to get upstairs. If Reece knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t bring her up. I’m tempted to kill him just so I can leave.
“And were you also aware you weren’t her first fiancé?”
My stomach drops.
I turn towards him, and by the look on his face, he knows that he hit his mark. Reece wanted a response out of me, and I gave it to him.
He doesn’t need me to answer. “
I didn’t think so,” he says, smiling despite the blood bubbling from his wounds. His face is paler than it was a few minutes before, but he is in surprisingly high spirits.
I should ignore him and ask more about the wedding—who planned it, how did they get in, and what was the motivation—but I can’t. Eve never told me about a previous engagement. So, how does Reece know about it?
“Why should I believe you?”
He grins and shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t, but I am telling the truth. Your wife was promised to another man.”
My hand tightens around the blade of the knife. “Who?”
“You could always ask her yourself.” He leans back in his chair, trying to look casual, but in his pale, bloody state, the position makes him look like he is fading quickly. “I’m happy to wait here while you two hash it out.”
I take one large step towards him and thrust the blade tip beneath his chin, tilting his face up to mine. “Who?”
His eyes go wide, but the smile doesn’t slip. “Our gunrunner.”
“The Irish gunrunner?” Suspicion raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I need time to process this. I don’t know what any of it means.
Reece nods. “That’s what he told me, anyway. And a lot of the other guys.”
“What did he say?” The words are almost lost to a growl, but Reece seems to understand me.
“Nothing much,” he says with a shrug. “He told us they were engaged, her father arranged it, and…she had the tightest pussy he’d ever—”
My blade is in his heart before he can finish the thought. His mouth continues to move, as though his lips haven’t yet received the message that there is a knife sticking from his chest, but no words come out. The amusement in his eyes fades to disbelief, and his head falls back on the chair, rolling on his neck.
I shouldn’t have done that. I know it. The soldiers, standing stiff and silent along the walls of the room, know it, too. I fucked up.
“What do you know about the wedding?” I ask Reece fruitlessly, trying to sound calm, but my heart is thundering against my chest, and I can’t hear anything but the rush of my own blood in my ears. “Who planned it?”
Reece looks at me, but his eyes are glassy, unfocused. Blood is pulsing from his wound, the pulses growing further and further apart. The puddle at his feet is growing, and I know he doesn’t have long. Less than a minute.
I tell the soldiers to clean up as I turn and leave. Bloody footprints trail me down the hallway and up the stairs, but I barely pay attention. My thoughts are on Eve.
Who was she engaged to? And why? Reece said her father arranged it, but what does that mean? Did she have no say in it or was she in on the plan? I’d assumed she had no part in the attack at our wedding, but was that the truth or simply what she wanted me to think? I can hear my father’s voice in my head. I know exactly what he’d say if he were here. Sounds like your wife has a habit of seducing high-ranking members of enemy mob families. You have been manipulated, my son.
I had been so eager to go back upstairs and crawl into bed, but now I can’t imagine lying beside Eve with so many questions swirling around in my head. So, I grab my keys from the kitchen and leave with no idea of where I’m going.
17
Eve
I looked for Luka when I woke up in the morning, but he wasn’t there. I thought maybe he’d left early in the morning to take care of some work, but there was no note or phone call or message. By the afternoon, I’m worried enough that I start asking the housekeepers doing their work around the house and the groundskeepers mowing the lawn whether they’ve seen him or know where he may have gone. They all look at me like I’m crazy and insist they know nothing. I didn’t really expect them to, but I’m disappointed all the same.
Could the honeymoon phase be over so quickly? Before getting married, I’d expected life with Luka to be cold and passionless and lonely, but he’d surprised me. Our first night together was one of the best nights of my entire life, and our second night together was no different. Beneath his frowns and thick muscle, Luka has a loving, more gentle side. And for a moment, I thought I was bringing that out in him.
But when his absence turns from one day into two and then three, I have to wonder where things went wrong. What I did wrong.
By day three, I’m lonely and bored and, despite my anger at him for abandoning me without any notice, I miss him. I’ve been sleeping in his bed every night, wrapped up in his scent, and I collapse on the bed again. Even though he hasn’t slept there in three days, the cedar and bourbon smell of him is embedded in the sheets. Someone should make it into a body wash because I want to bathe in it.
I burrow beneath the warm covers and close my eyes. I want to see Luka for many reasons, but – surrounded by the smell of him and in his bed – one very important reason rises to the surface. I want him.
I want his large hands gripping my body. I want his weight pressing down on me. I want his bright green eyes devouring every inch of my skin like he can’t get enough.
Giving in to my need, I press a flat palm down across my stomach, remembering the way Luka’s hand travelled the same path, and slip my fingers beneath the elastic of my panties. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to imagine it is him. His hand instead of mine. His breath warm on the shell of my ear, whispering naughty little nothings to me. There is a tingle deep inside of me, a small spark of flame that I intend to fan. I slide my finger down, my legs falling open to grant myself better access, and draw a circle over my sensitive nub. My body clenches from the shockwave, but I do it again and again, bucking my hips gently into the motion. I bite my lower lip, tip my head back, and release a soft moan.
Luka would kiss my neck, nip at my collarbone, and swirl his tongue over my nipples if he was here. He would make this so much better, but that isn’t enough reason to stop. I move my hand faster and faster, my body arching into the ache, into the need. My breathing is growing more ragged, heat moving into my cheeks, and I can feel the release lurking just over the edge. I just…need…another…second—
There is a knock at Luka’s door, and my hand flies out of my pants. I scrambled out from under the covers and sit upright just as the door opens.
“Mrs. Volkov?” A housekeeper pokes her head around the doorframe.
The name is still unfamiliar to me, and for a moment I think she must be looking for someone else, but then I realize she means me. “Yes?”
“Mr. Volkov called, and he would like you to prepare a dinner for four tonight,” she says.
“Mr. Volkov?” I ask, almost throwing back the covers to stand up and talk to her before I remember my pants are unbuttoned and halfway down around my thighs.
“Luka,” she clarifies.
I want to ask her what all he said and whether he sounded okay, but I’m embarrassed he hasn’t contacted me. I’m embarrassed that we’ve been married for five days, and I haven’t seen him in three. So, I just nod and thank her.
She leaves, but the promise of an orgasm has faded, and the idea is embarrassing now. I’m a newlywed. I’m not supposed to be resorting to an afternoon delight with my own hand. So, I pull up my pants, crawl out of bed, and pad down to the kitchen. At least cooking will offer some distraction.
By the time I’m turning the tiramisu out on a dessert platter and pulling the osso buco from the oven, I feel better than I have in days. Cooking has always been an escape from me, but when I didn’t know where Luka was or when I’d see him again, it was hard for me to find the energy. Instead of cooking, I ate cold sandwiches and cereal. So, feeling the warmth from the stove top and having a dirty apron around my neck feels like I’m finally awake after days of being asleep.
As soon as the doorbell rings, however, the happiness fades into dread.
There has to be a reason Luka disappeared. He must be upset about something, and I have no idea what it could be. More than that, I don’t want to hash it out in front of whatever guests he decided to invite.
Dinner for four. Wh
o could he be bringing home?
I take off the apron, folding it into a square and dropping it on the counter, and then smooth out the wrinkles in the maroon dress I pulled from the closet. It is tighter than I’d choose for a dinner party, but it was one of the few dresses that didn’t reveal a startling amount of cleavage. And as soon as I answer the door, I’m relieved I opted for modesty. Luka’s father, Ivan Volkov, is standing on the other side of the door. His wife, Katerina, standing next to him.
“Hi,” I say, too shocked to come up with a more formal greeting.
Katerina is kind and steps forward to give me a hug, but Ivan offers little more than a smirk as he passes and hangs his coat behind the door.
“Luka isn’t here yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I say, trying to sound as if I have any idea where he might be.
“Luka will be coming shortly,” Ivan says. Of course, he knows where Luka is. He may have kept his location from me, but he wouldn’t keep his father in the dark. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “But we should get started without him. We have a lot to talk about.”
I fret over these words as the food is dished out and everyone begins to eat. Luka’s empty seat and plate plague me, making it hard for me to focus on anything else. Katerina raves about the food, telling me it is better than something she could find in a restaurant, but Ivan stays quiet. I’m sure, like me, he is remembering how we met at The Floating Crown. He hated the food I served him then, but if his empty plate and second serving tells me anything, he is more pleased with my take on veal.
I’m halfway through my tiramisu when the front door opens, and I hear the familiar sound of Luka’s footsteps on the marble floor. I sit up straighter, trying not to look as eager as I feel, but my eyes search for him anyway. When he finally appears in the doorway, I almost sigh at the sight of him.
His dark hair is shiny and disheveled like he has been running his hands through it, but his short-sleeved black button down fits him perfectly, highlighting the broad sweep of his shoulders, and his black pants are perfectly tailored. I feel like a mess, moments away from falling apart without him around, and he looks perfect as ever. I’m not sure what to make of it.
