by Alisha Rai
The same emotion he occasionally experienced, though he buried it, replacing it with arrogance. With new suits. With fancy gadgets.
Fear.
Fear that he was faking it, that he wouldn't be able to live up to the image of the man he projected to the world. Fear that he would regress back to what he had been.
No, he didn’t like having anything in common with this man who had fathered him.
Wyatt swallowed his sneer and gave a short nod. “Good.” He glanced at the small alcove where Ellie was dutifully playing an ancient Pac-Man game. He was on such a roll, speaking without thinking, he continued on with it. “I would like to see her.”
“Sam and I already spoke about this,” Carol said, her earlier friendliness cooled. “If you wish to have an occasional visit, supervised, that would be fine. But you won't be permitted to express your issues with your father or me to her. We won't have a source of negativity in this family.”
Fair enough, and far more generous than he'd expected. “You'll have to be the one to supervise,” he informed Carol. “Not him.”
“That sounds fine,” his father responded humbly.
No more. He couldn’t sit here anymore. Eager to move, Wyatt nodded and stood. His hand automatically went to button his jacket before he realized he had dressed casually today. “Very well. Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch.”
He raised his hand to Ellie, who had whipped around at the screeching sound of his chair on the concrete. She abandoned her game and came darting back to them. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes,” he managed.
Her little face fell. “Oh.”
Tatiana spoke to Carol and Sam, her tone saccharine sweet now. “Could Ellie come visit before you leave?”
The older couple exchanged a look, and Carol nodded. “I can bring her tomorrow evening.”
Tatiana beamed at them. “That sounds wonderful.” She fished in her purse. “Um, hang on, I know I have one in here.” She pulled out a handful of mints, a stick of gum, a lipstick, a broken earring and a pen before finding a tiny stack of tattered business cards. Peeling one off, she handed it to Carol. “That’s my cell number. We can go to the pool maybe, or have dinner. Get to know each other.”
Tatiana would have the other woman eating out of her palm by the end of the day, he suspected. It would help to smooth over his faux pas of questioning her parenting skills today.
He caught the shadow of a bored grimace on Ellie’s face. He awkwardly patted her shoulder. “If you want, you can see my security setup. I’ll show you how we catch card counters.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Okay.”
He didn’t hug her. Maybe he would one day embrace this tiny scrap that shared his genetic material. Not today.
After a final nod to his father and Carol, he and Tatiana left the pool.
He made it to the car, and without a word, Tatiana took his keys and pushed him into the passenger seat. His hands were shaking, he realized. No. Not just his hands. His entire body, deep tremors that wracked him from head to toe.
“Oh, Wyatt,” Tatiana murmured, and then her hands were framing his face, worried green eyes looking into his. “It's okay, honey. We're going home.” She gave him a quick kiss before settling into the driver’s seat and starting his car.
Home. The word stayed with him, his mantra, as they drove the short distance back to Quest. Whenever he saw the soaring building that was his casino, his chest filled with pride and excitement. He’d done that. He'd turned a rundown, forgotten establishment into one of the greatest well-known secrets in the world.
It was the first place that had ever belonged to him, but it hadn't been home. Not until Tatiana had come into it.
He glanced at the woman sitting next to him, a frown knitting her brow. Fate had brought her to his doorstep, rocking his careful plans, messing up his life, turning it upside down. Turning him into a creature of impulse instead of one of logic.
Making him happy.
They pulled up to the back entrance, and Tatiana stopped the car, coming around to open his door. She hustled him inside and through to the elevator.
She pressed the button for the top floor, and he reached forward and placed his hand over her ass, weighing and measuring the firm roundness. She froze.
“Wyatt,” she said, her lips barely moving. “Cameras.”
Goddamn cameras. Couldn't a man fuck his woman in his own elevator, for crying out loud?
Nonetheless, he gave her ass a squeeze before letting go. His palm burned, a welcome reprieve from the numbness that otherwise encased him.
He wanted to bury himself inside her, forget this iciness. Another shiver wracked him. Her arm was there around him almost instantly. So much smaller than him, yet her concern propped him up. “Hang in there.”
Somehow he managed to stagger to their suite. And then they were in his bedroom, and she was removing his clothes. He wanted to be charming, to be smooth. Or alternatively, do what he did whenever bad memories threatened to overwhelm him—grab her, toss her up against a wall, and fuck her.
He couldn't though. Submissiveness wasn’t something he enjoyed on him, but he had no other choice.
She knelt to get his pants off, and he stepped out of them, dumb and mute as she manhandled him into the bathroom. “Already showered,” he managed through numb lips.
“I know. I think we need to be warmed up.” She pushed him into the shower and turned the heads on. How many times had they been in this shower together now? A hundred?
She cleaned herself, and then it was his turn. She lathered up the soap and washed his chest and belly, her hands making circular motions. She ran the washcloth up over his chest and down his arms, lifting each one to wash the sensitive underarm area. Her hands slicked over his side, before descending to her knees. She avoided his cock, which was a feat since it was staring her straight in the face. Instead, she washed his thighs and calves, all the way to his feet.
She signaled for him to turn around with a tap on his thigh, and he dumbly obeyed, facing away from her. She started at the top again, moving the sudsy towel side to side across his shoulders and his spine.
His gaze focused on the shampoo bottles on the marble shelf. One was his, a standard two-in-one, a brand he'd been using since he was thirteen. There were two other pink bottles from the high-end salon downstairs, meant for a woman. “Why do you always use mine?”
“What?”
“You used to hate my shampoo when we were younger.” He braced his hand against the tiled wall. Her hand was ghosting over his buttocks. “Remember? But you only use your own when we're at your place. When we're here, you always use mine.”
She was silent for a beat, but then she responded. “I like to smell like you.” Her teeth closed on the flesh of his ass in a delicate bite. A tease. A mark of ownership. “And it reminds me of who you were. And who you are now. I like— I love both of those people.”
“Who am I?”
“I’ve been thinking about that ever since you spilled all that nonsense last night about how I don’t know you. So silly. The world may swallow this rich and cold image, but I don’t. You’re warm, and you let me get away with murder, all while pretending you’re in charge, because that’s what I like. I'd even say you let me manipulate you, but there isn’t a doormat bone in your body. I might occasionally despair over that, but it’s good in the long run. You like the toys money buys you, but deep down you’re in this for the challenge and little else.” She pressed a kiss over the flesh she’d bitten. “That’s who you are. I’m getting a pretty decent deal.”
He shuddered and turned around to look at her. Her eyes met his evenly. Never a supplicant, this woman. Not even on her knees. He leaned back, the tile cold on his back. She grasped his hands, lacing his fingers with hers. Her tongue lapped at his hardening cock, tasting him.
He shuddered and tightened his fingers around hers. She responded to the subtle plea by opening her mouth wide and engulfing the head of his coc
k, swallowing half of him. He thrust forward, always dying for more contact, more warmth, but she backed away.
Her honey-blonde hair was wet from the water, her green eyes shadowed. “Let me,” she said quietly.
He couldn't refuse her. Not now, and not ever.
Wyatt let her. Let her take charge and command him, let her control him the way she let him pretend to control her. Under everything, it was always this, wasn’t it? He was always hers.
He didn't know how much time passed with his body silently straining as she sucked on him lazily. It could have been minutes or days or weeks, with the steam swirling around him and her mouth ruling his life. All he knew was that she pulled away as he was grinding his head into the tile behind him, struggling not to come.
She stood, somber, and turned off the water, holding her hand out to him. “Come on.”
The warmth was gone, and he'd do anything to return to it. He followed her docilely and let her towel off her body and then his, shuddering when she swiped the rough terrycloth over his cock.
Christ. She was going to kill him for sure.
As much as his cock was dying to get back inside her, he knew it would be best to wait. Wait, and he would be rewarded. Wait, and she would give him everything.
He followed her to the bedroom and waited as she pulled back the comforter. After lying down on the white sheets, she motioned to him. It was all he needed. He covered her and made a space for himself between her legs.
He buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of her and him mingling together.
“Now?” he asked, humble.
She scraped her nails down his back. “Yes.”
He sank inside one inch, then two. She closed her eyes, and he stopped, needing that connection. “No. Look at me.”
Her eyes sprang open, and their gazes locked.
So familiar. He sank in a couple more inches. She was tight, like she always was. As tight as that first night, all those years ago, when he sank inside of her. When he'd looked into her eyes and felt the coldness recede, like he was coming home.
Akira had been right. He was the lucky bitch.
He dipped his head until his forehead rested against hers and his body forged into her. “How do you want it?”
“However you want it.”
He shook his head. “No. Tell me.”
Her hands clenched into the muscles of his ass. “Deep and slow.”
He nodded, honored, and gave her exactly what she wanted, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, helped by the lubrication of their bodies. Her pussy resisted the thick head of his cock on each downward drive. She made him work for it, and he was happy to accommodate.
Wyatt had been ready to blow a few minutes ago, but he controlled himself now, taking care to give it to her right, judging by her breathy moans. He wanted to fuck her like this forever, but his body took over his best intentions, and soon he was hammering into her as she mewled and cried out beneath him. Her nails scored him. He grasped her hands, and this time he was the one to hold her down, giving her something to struggle against.
Words broke free from his mouth, needy, grasping. “You’re mine.”
Her lashes fluttered open, her eyes dazed and filled with pleasure. “Yes.”
He worked his cock over her sweet spot until her face went slack with pleasure. “Always. Say it.”
“Always,” she gasped, her cunt tightening on him as she came in a rush. He worked himself deep and held himself there. Call him primitive, but he loved the way it felt when he came inside her, when he knew that if she arose from the bed right after, some of his semen would trickle out of her.
So fucking hot. His ass clenched, and he spurted in her again, filling her completely.
When he was done, he rested his head on her shoulder. She was wrapped around him like a monkey, arms and legs tight. He shifted them to their sides so he could do the same to her.
“Do you remember when we first met?” she asked.
“You dropped your books at my feet.”
“Do you remember what you said to me?”
Mystified as to why she was bringing this up now, he shrugged.
“I thought you would make fun of me or sneer. You were older than me, and every girl at that school thought you were the hottest thing on two legs. You said, 'Don't worry about it. It happens,' and you then helped me pick them up.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “It was a small kindness, but you won me over right then and there. There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing twisted. You were a good man then, and you’re a better man now.”
He rested his forehead against hers and breathed deep, exhaling the bitterness and anger.
She continued, her voice soft. “You judge yourself too harshly. And though I think you have a healthy sense of self-esteem generally, you are blind when it comes to this. Living with a dysfunctional parent may have left scars, but it didn't make you dysfunctional, too. Look at you. Look at what you've become.”
He scoffed, disregarding the hotel they lived in, the millions of dollars changing hands as they spoke. “That's work.”
“No.” Her lips tilted up. “There's me. I'm a prize, baby, and you've won me over twice in this lifetime.” She stroked her hand over his cheek and said very seriously, “That should give you an idea of how amazing you are, if nothing else.”
A hoarse laugh escaped him. “You are indeed a prize, Belikov.”
She found the perfect spot to rest her head, under the hollow of his throat. “Oh, Caine. You have no idea.”
Yes. If she left him, he would survive. But God would he grieve for this.
Dumbass, she would say. You’re so worried about me leaving you, you can’t even fully enjoy that we’re together now.
No more.
Simple words. The moment was important. It should be marked by a speech, or a grand gesture. Tatiana loved grand gestures.
He didn’t have the energy. Shrugging off his insecurity and deep-seated fear was exhausting. Embracing a tentative future, terrifying.
He could give her something, though. “I love you, you know,” he said. He hadn't said it to her, not even after she had told him. What a ridiculous oversight.
She kissed him on his shoulder. “I know. Of course you do.”
Chapter Eleven
Wyatt opened gritty, tired eyes and stared at the late-afternoon sun peeking through pulled drapes. Jesus. How long had he been asleep? He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept during the day.
Then again, he’d had a rough couple of days.
He rose on his elbows and pushed aside the comforter Tatiana must have covered him with. He would rather be covered with her.
Finding her was the first step to achieve that goal. He stood, his legs a little wobbly after his long nap. He swiped his jeans up off the floor and donned them, zipping them up as he made his way out of the bedroom.
He followed the faint noise of silverware to the dining room, stopping when he spotted Tatiana. Her hair was blown out, and she was wearing makeup. But the most unusual part of her outfit was her dress. The emerald-green frock teased his memory. A halter bodice made up the top, with the skirt consisting of strips of fabric that played peekaboo with her skin.
Their first night together. During this decade. She'd worn this dress.
He cocked his head. As he recalled it, he'd destroyed the dress, so this must be a replacement.
She straightened a place setting and noticed him. Nervousness flitted across her face before she beamed a smile. “Hey.” She came over and kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”
“More like good evening.”
“You needed the sleep.” She busied herself straightening his hair, which was cut so short, he hardly needed it.
He glanced at the dress and then the table, which was set with china. The candles in the center were lit, despite the sunshine from outside. “Am I...underdressed? For something?”
“For dinner. An early dinne
r. And no.” Her busy hands went to her skirt, and she twitched a strip of material in place. “I wanted to wear this.”
Okay. “Oh.”
“I made us dinner.”
“You did?”
She pouted. “Don’t sound so shocked. I can cook, you know.”
Her gentle tease made him smile. “I know. It’s just that you never do.” He walked closer with her and surveyed the table. “Ah. That looks like breakfast.”
“I was preoccupied. I didn’t want to concentrate on some complicated recipe. This is easy, and you like it.”
“I do like it.” He looked at his bare chest. “Maybe I should put on a shirt.”
“No, no, sit.” She indicated a chair. “I don’t mind the view.”
He sat down and watched, bemused, as she served him fluffy eggs and crisp bacon before serving herself and settling at his right.
“Eat,” she said. There was a nervous lilt to her voice that put him on edge.
They needed to talk about everything, he knew that. As much as he’d benefited from getting these things off his chest, he wasn’t looking forward to another emotional bloodletting. The scrambled eggs tasted like dust in his mouth. He swallowed, eager to get this over with. “Tatiana, perhaps we should discuss...”
“Oh, fuck it.” She put down her fork and looked at him, earnest but apprehensive. “I know I'm not doing this right. It should be a dinner, not a breakfast, and it should be after, not before, but I can't wait. This is too much.” She picked up a folded piece of paper from next to her plate and slipped out of her chair. After a moment of consideration, she got down on a knee and fumbled the piece of paper open. “This should be a ring,” she muttered. A flush lit her cheeks. “But I didn't want to wait to cast it.” She smoothed the paper over his lap and peered at him expectantly.
Wyatt picked up the piece of paper, aware his hand was shaking. Though it was only a drawing, he knew the ring would be magnificent when she created it. He wasn't much for jewelry, but he could see this piece on his finger for the rest of his days.
