Andrei almost smiles for a moment, then simply nods and heads out of the room, leaving me alone yet again. I sit chewing my lip thoughtfully for a couple minutes, just staring down at the tray on my lap and wondering what I should do. I know it isn’t my place to question my husband. I am his wife, and I must accept whatever he does or does not do with quiet humility and understanding. After all, I belong to him. I am just one small aspect of his life, one tool to make his life easier — not to interrogate him about what he does when he’s not with me.
A horrible thought appears in the forefront of my mind: what if it’s another woman?
But something tells me that can’t be true; Andrei seems completely absorbed in our life together whenever he is with me. Surely if there was someone else, I would be able to tell. He would be distant, uncommunicative. At least, I assume I would know.
I want so badly to feel better about everything, to banish these dark suspicions and simply enjoy being with my husband again. After all, the vast majority of our time together is utterly blissful, even if I am still nervous and a little insecure around him. But he makes me feel cared for, taken care of, in a way I never dreamed possible. I sigh and set the tray aside carefully. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I let my chin rest on my knees as I sip my green tea and stare out the window. The sun is rising slowly, gradually bathing the Big Apple with morning light. I smile involuntarily, a sensation of fondness coming over me. I’ve really begun to love this city, despite its hidden dangers and pitfalls. Just like my husband.
I hear the squeak of the shower knobs being turned from across the apartment and then the comforting sound of the water pelting the walls and floors. I look down at myself. I’m wearing a lacy, powder-blue chiffon nightie and knee-high cream-colored socks, my hair plaited into braids over both shoulders. I have really learned to take some pride in expressing my spirit through my appearance. I suppose that makes me vain, and vanity is a mortal sin. But I can’t help it — having someone like Andrei to remind me that I’m beautiful every day makes it difficult not to start liking myself a bit more. Back home, I never felt beautiful. I felt proper, decent, wholesome, well-presented, sometimes even pleasant-looking. But it was all about how thoroughly I could blend in with the rest of the women in the community. I had to wear the blandest clothes, the dullest colors, to numb my sex appeal and make me ‘respectable.’
Over the past month, I have totally revamped my look to include bright colors, textures, prints, and styles I would have never even looked at back upstate. I know my wardrobe now would have me labeled a dirty Jezebel. A whore. A temptress.
But Andrei likes what I wear. And more importantly, as he’d encourage me to think: I like it.
I get out of bed and look at myself in the mirror across the bedroom, flicking on the light as I walk over. I look myself up and down, allowing my eyes to linger on the curve of my hip, the swell of my breasts. I never used to look at my naked body this way, seeing every inch of my flesh as dirty and unwholesome, an ugly thing to be covered with conservative clothing and hid away from the world. It is surprising to see that I like what’s reflected in front of me.
Andrei has done so much for me, changing my entire perspective. I feel a sudden rush of appreciation and affection for him, and I immediately wish he was beside me so I could run to his arms and hold him close. Then it hits me: the overwhelming desire.
Something tingles all the way up from my toes to the top of my head. I have an idea.
I strip out of my nightie and socks, padding out of the room totally naked. To my surprise, the curtains across the massive living room window have been drawn, leaving me literally exposed before the whole city of New York. But instead of cowing me, of forcing me to hide, I feel strangely invigorated. I walk proudly into the bathroom, blinking in the steamy, aromatic fog. I am immediately enveloped by the warm, damp air.
“Andrei,” I call out, fiddling with one of my braids a little nervously.
He looks over and does a double take, a flicker of desire passing through his dark eyes. His body is glistening under the hot stream of water, all sinewy muscle and taut flesh. I lick my lips without even thinking about it. I know exactly what I want — although I don’t quite know how to do it. I want to make him feel as blissful as he makes me feel. In the past month we have had sex a few times, always gentle and slow, with Andrei treating me like a delicate object, something fragile which might shatter at any moment. He’s made me come so many times with his skillful tongue and talented fingers, never demanding anything I didn’t offer willingly.
I want to make him feel that way.
“Cassie,” says my husband, leaning out of the stream of water to look at me more clearly.
“I have a question…” I begin, looking down at the stony floor, blushing.
“Yes?”
I look back up at him through a thick veil of eyelashes, biting my lip demurely.
“Can I join you?”
Andrei’s eyebrows lift and he considers me for a moment, trying to determine whether I am being serious or not. But I am, one-hundred percent.
“Of course,” he replies, moving over to make room for me. “Let me know if the water is too hot for you.”
“Hot is good,” I hear myself say. My heart pounding, I walk over and step into the shower stall, which is massive enough to hold far more than just two people. I slide in next to Andrei, who lets me stand under the water. I close my eyes and ease into the heat, sighing contentedly as the water warms my skin.
“What would you like to do today?” Andrei asks, and his tone betrays the fact that he is struggling to keep his voice even as it is thick with need.
I turn to him and hesitantly place my hands on his hard, muscular chest, looking up into his dark eyes. He blinks down at me in uncertainty, suddenly going almost rigid, as though paralyzed by my touch.
“You,” I answer, shocked at my own audacity. It was such a filthy thing to say!
“Cassie…” he begins, his voice trailing off.
I press against him, the whole length of my body aligned with his. I can feel his manhood against my hip and thigh, starting to harden with just the slightest touch of my skin. The sensation gives me a heady confidence, as his shaft responds so positively to my movements. I lean in and press a soft, tender kiss into the center of his chest before letting my hand fall to the stiffening member between his strong thighs.
As my fingertips lightly graze its flushed crown, Andrei sucks in a sharp breath, obviously struggling to contain himself. I have never acted so boldly with him before, never taken the reins or the initiative in such a way. I know he is totally blindsided — and I like it.
“Do you want me to touch you there?” I purr, batting my eyelashes as I gaze longingly up into his eyes.
His lips part to allow a strangled, whispered, “Yes.”
I gently wrap my fingers around his manhood and start to stroke it up and down, feeling the hot, silky skin smooth under my fingertips and palm. His size is still incredible to me, and I love the feeling of his massive length straining in my hand. He is so hard now, and I feel gratified in the knowledge that I made it this way.
As I stroke him a little tighter and faster, Andrei closes his eyes and leans slightly into my touch, licking his lips and moaning softly, his voice deep and gravelly. The low hum of his groans makes me wet in a place not even the shower water can reach. I want to make him feel so good — I have to show him how intensely I appreciate and crave him.
“Does that feel good?” I ask quietly, my own nipples stiffening as my breasts brush against my husband’s strong chest.
“Da, kotyonok,” he murmurs, nodding with his eyes closed in pleasure.
“I want to give you what you’ve given me,” I tell him, standing on my tiptoes and kissing a slow, tantalizing trail along his collarbone.
Unable to resist any longer, I bend down to rest on my knees, looking up at Andrei to make sure he is okay with what I am planning to do. He’s staring down at me w
ith his dark eyes imploring, questioning now. But he doesn’t tell me to stop. In fact, one of his hands comes down to stroke my head as I look up at him lovingly. Then he grabs one of my now-soaked braids and gently tugs on it, bringing my face closer to his crotch.
He wants it, too.
Uncertain but totally determined, I lean forward, close my eyes, and take his member in both my hands as I softly lick his crown. When I look up, Andrei is still watching me with his lips parted, breathing shallowly as though almost holding his breath, waiting for me to go on.
So I do.
Opening my mouth as wide as I can, I take as much of his massive shaft between my lips as possible, stretching my cheeks and letting my tongue flick along the underside of his member. I begin to suck him, bobbing slowly up and down on his shaft, groaning into the sensation of having yet another one of my orifices filled with my husband’s glorious manhood. I am so wet now, my body clearly hungry to taste Andrei’s seed, to swallow him down and feel him shudder with pleasure.
He cries out as I pump his shaft with both hands while my mouth sucks him in as deeply as I can manage, moving up and down with a quickening rhythm. I am surprised at how good I am at this, especially considering the fact that a month ago I would have gone pale with offense at the mere mention of this sex act. I can hardly believe how impetuous I’m being right now. How dirty I am. But… though I should be ashamed to admit it, I love this feeling.
I love knowing that I can bring such bliss to my handsome, powerful husband, causing such a strong and imposing man to tremble with the magic of my touch.
“Ohhh, malyshka, I’m almost there,” Andrei moans. His hand starts to press more urgently at the back of my head, yanking my braid slightly in the process. This causes a minimal shock of pain which, instead of deterring me, only adds to my fervor. I am discovering that sometimes pain exists on a plane very, very near to pleasure.
I groan as my mouth sucks his shaft harder and faster, relaxing my throat to allow the head of his member to brush against the back of my throat. Even though my eyes water and I start to feel like I might gag, I refuse to relent — not when my husband is moaning and rocking into me with such authentic bliss. I can’t stop now. I need to taste his seed on my tongue…
And with that, Andrei cries out and presses both hands against the back of my head, forcing me down on his shaft, hard. Just as I start to choke, I feel a hot, bitter spurt of come spill down my throat and I am forced to swallow it. He thrusts into my mouth a few times, his hands clawing at my hair, stroking the side of my face while he calls my name.
“Cassie! Oh, printsessa!”
When he finally releases me I stand up and look at him with rosy cheeks, hoping he will tell me how good I was, how well I performed.
He kisses me on the forehead and caresses my face fondly, peering into my eyes with genuine surprise and awe. “You are… a natural.”
“I did good?”
Andrei nods and pulls me in for a kiss, and I wonder if he can taste himself in my mouth.
“I apologize for being a little rough toward the end. I lost control.”
“I — I don’t mind,” I tell him, and it isn’t a lie. Not in the least. I’m finding that I rather like being pushed to the limits. It makes me feel alive.
“Well, I hope you’ll let me return the favor,” Andrei says, reaching down between my legs to rub my slit. I gasp and collapse into his touch, letting him stroke me in his arms, bringing me to climax again and again, while the hot water slowly ran out.
Later that day, Andrei surprises me yet again, this time with tickets to a ballet.
We have spent the day in bed, exploring each other’s bodies, drifting in and out of pleasurable, delicious sleep. We only took a break to eat a late brunch of pancakes and bacon, supplemented by homemade mimosas, which we brought back to bed with us. It’s been another glorious day in my newfound marital paradise.
And now we are going to a ballet! I can hardly contain my excitement as we dress for the evening, both of us trying to look sharp and sophisticated for the kind of high-class crowd that attends such performances. He dresses in a navy blue suit and dark red tie, his black hair artfully tousled. I wear a sapphire-blue, satin dress that falls to my mid-calves. It has an embellished Peter Pan collar and pearly trim. I pair it with sparkling white tights and scarlet kitten heels, then twist my hair back into a fairly elaborate French braid.
Daring to be brave, I put on a small amount of mascara I picked out on a whim at a department store last week with Andrei, and find that I actually like the way it looks. My eyelashes are naturally quite thick, but since I am blonde, the tips of my lashes are nearly invisible unless you look closely. But with the pitch-black mascara, the entire length of my lashes is visible, and it gives me a glamorous, dramatic look befitting the ballet.
We head out to the show, find our seats, and when the curtain lifts, I immediately feel grateful that my mascara is waterproof. I am utterly, completely amazed by the beauty of the show. The costumes, the lighting, the orchestral music, the elegant and graceful movements of the dancers — all of it is entrancing and bewitching in a way I’ve never experienced.
I find myself longing to dance that way, to feel my limbs flex and stretch into beautiful curves and lines. I want to be lifted and carried by the music, to become a moving, living embodiment of art and grace. I cannot believe that my parents, my doctrine, ever insisted to me that something so beautiful could be sinful.
Tears streak down my face throughout the entire four-hour performance, and unlike at the opera, Andrei remains at my side the entire time, holding my hand. After the final curtain closes and we head back out into the cold New York City night, he turns to me and asks what I think.
“It was beautiful,” I gush, leaning on him and wiping at my eye gingerly.
“You were crying. Are you alright?” he asks, stroking my hair. His face remains hard, but his voice is tinged with just the sweetest hint of softness.
“I just… I have never seen something so amazing in my whole life, Andrei. I never knew how moving it could be to see something like that. I can only imagine how much more wonderful it must be to dance the way they do. I wish I could.”
Andrei stops suddenly, causing me to look up at him quizzically.
“What is it?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“I think I know someone who can teach you.”
17
Andrei
“You just hold your shoulders like so, keep all the tension away — it will only hold you back. There, that’s good, lovely! You’ll be sliding across the dance floor like water in no time.”
Sonya stands back and lets Cassie go through the short routine she’s been practicing all week once again. Both of them are happier than I’ve seen them in a long time.
I made sure that Sonya had a place of her own to start teaching ballet on her own terms. It’s a quaint but very classy place in SoHo, downstairs from her new apartment. I used the money her mother paid for the hit to pay for it, calling it a favor for an old friend. There was a little publicity in the high culture community over her late coach’s murder, but that only seems to have helped her get her studio up and running successfully.
Cassie, meanwhile, has been flourishing beyond her expectations. Her moves are still unrefined, but she has the natural grace of a bird, her body becoming more used to the fluid motions with every passing day she trains.
And the look on her face when she moves so freely makes it worth all the work that’s brought us to this point.
I sit near the door as I watch her finish her lessons to the gentle, elegant music. The two of them are totally enraptured in the activity; I made sure to pay Sonya for private sessions.
As the lesson comes to an end, Cassie turns her attention to me, and her face brightens up even more than it was before. With the grace of a gazelle, she bounds over to me and throws her arms around me, and I lift her up to a delighted giggle.
“I didn’t even r
ealize you were there, you’re too sneaky!” she said as I planted a kiss on her cheek. “Sonya says I’m making leaps and bounds! I mean, I am literally, but you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” I laugh back as I set her down. “You seem like you were born to do this, the way I see it. I can’t wait to see you in a performance of your own, before long.”
Cassie’s cheeks go pink, and she beams up at me, embarrassed. “I don’t know about that, I’m only just getting my body used to the kind of flexibility this stuff takes. I can’t imagine how Sonya’s gotten as talented as she is.”
Cassie’s instructor gives me a wave from across the room on her way into the office, and I return it with a smile. We haven’t spoken much since her getting set up here, but I hear about her appreciation through Cassie.
Sometimes I wonder whether she suspects anything about my involvement in everything that’s changed in her life over the past few weeks, but I try not to think too far into it. I’m already following up on one person linked to a past target; I can’t keep up a network of them.
“A lot of training,” I say simply, “but she will be the first to tell you that a well-deserved rest is just as important. Come on,” I say, suddenly reaching down and sweeping her off her feet. She yelps and throws her arms around my neck, curling up into my embrace as I head out the door and start walking towards my car. “Your legs must be awfully tired, so it’s only right that I give you a lift home, don’t you think?”
Back at home, I push open the door to our room as Cassie’s lips press into mine, and my hand squeezes her ass as I draw her closer into me, my manhood hard against her as she grinds up against me needfully.
I lift her up and toss her onto the bed, and she lands gracefully, rolling onto the sheets and spreading her limbs with a satisfying stretch as she rubs her body into the soft mattress.
All around the walls of our room are pieces of Cassie’s artwork, hung up on display. Canvases large and small adorn nearly every corner of the room, and the ones hanging up are only the ones Cassie was really happy with. She’s been incredibly prolific, using nearly every hour she isn’t dancing at the easel.
Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0) Page 14
