Bad Boy Romance Collection: The Volanis Brothers Trilogy

by Meg Jackson

  “Wouldn’t you be better off forgetting it?”

  He stopped dancing. He stepped back. Her head, finding no more purchase against his chest, rose to meet his gaze.

  “Even if I’d be better off, it’s not my decision,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I couldn’t forget if I tried. My heart’s just shaped like you, I guess.”

  “Oh,” she said. The song went on, and they stood in the center of the dancefloor, half-touching, staring, drawing attention but feeling like they were alone in the world.

  “Would you want to forget me?” Cristov asked, pulling her close again. He could feel her heartbeat through her dress, her neck craning now so she could keep her eyes on his. She was so light and tender then, a woman he’d only ever gotten glances of, always buried underneath the person Ricky chose to show the world.

  “Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm,

  Come in, she said, I’ll give ya

  shelter from the storm…”

  “I learned a lot since I stopped drinking,” she said, not quite answering his question. They swayed. Her lips were plump and he wanted to taste her lipstick. He waited for her to finish. “Things I thought were easy turned out to be hard. And things I thought were hard…they turned out to be what I needed. I didn’t know it. But they were. Being with you…being with you was hard.”

  “Why?” he asked, turning her around, the crinkle of her dress under his fingertips denying him the flesh that was so tantalizingly close.

  “Because I knew I loved you,” she said, closing her eyes. “And love’s not easy. It never is.”

  “Oh,” he said, and buried his nose in her hair. She smelled like Ricky. She smelled like everything. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Cristov, I don’t want to forget you,” she said, and her shoulders heaved once, her sob swallowed as she pressed herself against him. “I don’t want to have to. I just want you. But I lost you and…”

  “If you lost me,” Cristov murmured, “then why am I here now? I’m right here, Ricky. I’m right here.”

  “For how long?” she asked, feeling her heart filling and emptying all at once, the unknowable and uneven tides of her heart tempting her to hope, drawing her to some new and better horizon, the skies behind her stormy and muddled and beating at her back.

  “For as long as you’ll have me,” he said, holding her tight as Damon sang the last lyrics and strummed the last cords. He moved away just enough to cup her chin and draw her face upwards. Her eyes were shut tight, like she was afraid of what would happen when she opened them and knew the dance was over, the moment gone.

  Leaning down, his lips covered hers, tasted the sweet cider she’d been drinking and, underneath that, the unforgettable taste of her. Her fingers clutched at the back of his neck and the fabric of his suit jacket, their bodies pressed together. When he pulled away, she wasn’t breathing.

  “Better clear your calendar then,” she finally whispered, finally opened her eyes, finally saw him without worrying about what he meant or where he’d take her. “Because that’s gonna be a long time, sailor.”

  “Lucky you,” he said, returning her smile. “As it turns out, I’ve got a whole lifetime free.”

  45

  Epilogue

  The quiet click of a keyboard. The wispy scratch of pen on paper. Cristov let the noises settle in his mind, hypnotic and wholesome.

  Then he made the mistake of looking down at the screen, perched on Ricky’s lap as she lay on the sofa, her hair fanning out, a halo covering his knees.

  “Shit,” he breathed, catching her attention. She looked up after a moment, putting a period at the end of a sentence. Her eyes seemed very blue from that angle; maybe it was the light of the screen reflecting off her.

  “Sup?” she asked, her hands stilled.

  “Gotta go soon,” he sighed, and Ricky scrunched her mouth to one side, knowing that what he needed to do was plaguing him. She lifted herself off his lap, putting her laptop down on the coffee table as she did.

  “I know you wish you didn’t have to,” she said, “but it’s gonna be for good for you. For him. When I was…I just mean, if it wasn’t for you and Kim…”

  “He’s not on drugs,” Cristov said, and though his words seemed short, his tone was gentle. “He…there’s something else. It’s got to be.”

  Ricky shrugged.

  “Whatever it is, you’ll get through it,” she said, offering him a wan smile. Her eye caught the sketch he’d been working on while she typed up her report. This time, her smile was a cynical smirk.

  “Think you embellished a little bit,” she said. The picture was her, as Cristov could see her, lying across the sofa with her head on his lap. He looked down; okay, maybe he’d gone a little overboard in the chest area, but the rest of it, he thought, was pretty good.

  “What do you expect?” he teased, reaching out to pull on the collar of her shirt. “You got those perfect little tits hidden away, I had to use my imagination.”

  “If that’s how you imagine…” she started to say, and from her tone Cristov knew she was about to go off on one of her trademark faux-lectures. Moving his hand from her shirt to her jaw, he squeezed her face gently, just enough to stop her talking. Her eyebrows rose. Something moved between them. Just like always, they slipped, easy and perfect, into entirely different roles.

  “I don’t want any backtalk right now, woman,” he growled, feeling himself harden as her eyes grew lidded, a lusty look that turned them almost grey. “You want me to draw them right, give me a good look.”

  He released her jaw and her eyes flashed, her teeth clearly biting back a smile.

  “Who’s gonna make me?” she taunted, leaning away from him slightly. He growled again, closing the distance between them.

  “I think you know damn well who’s gonna make you,” he said, eyes fanning the flames in hers. “Now, you gonna give me something to tide me over until I see you again, or am I gonna have to take it?”

  He was close enough now, crawling over her body, to see the way the flesh on her arms rose in goosebumps at his words, his weight on her. When she spoke again, it was breathy and distant, but she was holding tight to the very last of her resistance.

  “You’re so damn bossy, why don’t you take it?”

  “You asked for it,” he said, his hands now tearing upwards on her shirt, ripping it from her body while his mouth landed on her neck, his teeth dragging across her flesh as she threw her head back and moaned. She hadn’t been wearing pants since they’d been inside all day, and her creamy white thighs wrapped around his equally bared waist, his boxers barely concealing the throbbing need beneath them. He pressed against her, feeling for the slight part in her panties, the dampness he knew would be there soon.

  Ricky’s hands tugged at his shirt. She wanted to feel his broad back under her nails, wanted to see the bold ink of his chest as he took her. But he grabbed her hands at the wrists and pulled them up over her head, drawing away with a smirk.

  “You want something, you better ask for it,” he said. She squirmed underneath him and moaned when his free hand found her breast and cupped it from below, pressing it tightly against her chest and kneading it just the way she liked.

  “Take it off,” she cooed. “Please?”

  “I like a girl with manners,” he teased, releasing her for just long enough to pull his shirt off then grabbing her just as he had, one hand holding her arms captive while the other played with her breast. His mouth moved to cover her neck and chest, leading him downward. While he tweaked one nipple between his fingers, he rolled the other into his mouth, feeling her back arch, her hips moving upward to press more firmly against him.

  There it was. He could feel her lips parted beneath the fabric, and moved his cock against her, sliding himself upwards, teasing her clit through her panties. She caught her breath and threw her head back, eyes shutting tight as pleasure swarmed in her stomach.

  He could have teased
and played with her for hours, but they didn’t have time. He growled around her breast as he moved his hand down and pulled her panties to the side; his cock, already sticking through the hole in his boxers, settled at her wet entrance. He pushed her hip down, holding her in place, as he slid in, their moans synchronized.

  He slipped his hand under her lower back and lifted her slightly, allowing him to slip deeper into her pussy, rewarded by the way she bit her lip and closed her eyes, cheeks turning red.

  “God, you’re so good,” he growled, watching her body undulate slightly underneath him, her need overwhelming her desire to obey. He let her move, let her hips take what she wanted from him, watched her fuck herself on his cock, riding him from below. Picking up on her pace, he matched it, thrusting himself into her slow and steady, then gaining speed as her chest began to flutter, her breath coming quick.

  “So fucking good,” he said again, leaning down to take her breast in his mouth once more. She looked down, opening her eyes so he could see her need. “But not as good as me.”

  She opened her mouth as though to protest, but all that came out was a cry of pleasure as he thrust into her, penetrating her deep and hard the way she needed. Her thighs tightened around his waist. She was close. So close. He rose, one hand still lifting her lower back off the couch, the other now releasing her hands. He licked his thumb and lowered it to her clit, stroking upwards.

  “Oh, fuck,” she moaned. Everything tightened. Everything throbbed. Everything swelled and moved inside her. But she would wait, she knew he wanted her to wait, and she wanted to be his to command, to control. He stroked upward again and she lost her breath, her head rolling back on her neck. He circled her clit, thrusting into her like a stallion, making her whimper. Her whole body was a tight coil, a spring trap waiting for release. He could fuck her however he wanted, whenever he wanted, until they died from dehydration. Because when he told her to…

  “Come for me, Ricky,” he growled, and pressed his thumb against her clit, rubbing it in a circle, slamming into her like a machine built for pleasure. The coil released, the spring bound upwards, her body flooded with everything she ever wanted, the greatest drug she’d ever tried. Her back almost snapped when it arched up to meet his thrust, her whole body shuddering, his thumb still and hard against her clit, drawing out every drop of pleasure her body could give.

  And even before she was done, she felt him moving again, now taking everything he wanted, fucking her hard and fast so that her body felt like a punching bag.

  And then he exploded.

  The heat of his climax filled her, a delicious warmth that felt like home. He burst inside her, claiming her as his, spilling everything inside her until she was sure he couldn’t have anything left, and then giving her more. She loved the feel of his cum in her, loved the way it massaged her pussy and left her with the pure, raw, masculine feel of him inside her. And she loved, when he pulled away, leaning forward again, releasing her body, how he kissed her, so soft and gentle like he was afraid he’d broken her.

  But he hadn’t, and he never would. She would take everything he had to give, and she’d give it back in turn. She wrapped her arms around his back, her legs dropping wearily around his waist.

  “Maybe I should reschedule,” Cristov said, their bodies stuck together in a thin sheen of sweat. She reached up to play with his hair.

  “No,” she said. “You shouldn’t. I wish you could, but you really can’t. It’s been long enough.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now,” he said, sighing into the hollow of her neck. “Not after that. Let’s just lay here for a few minutes. Then I have to go.”

  “Mhmm,” Ricky murmured, already slipping into a kind of stupor, his heartbeat hypnotic.

  But even with his woman – his wild, infuriating, sarcastic, pain-in-the-ass of a woman – laying warm and still beneath him, Cristov couldn’t forget what he had to do.

  They’d waited long enough to talk to Damon about what had happened. About everything that had happened. His anger. The fact that he’d killed a man for reasons no one could truly understand. How he’d changed.

  They’d waited until after the wedding.

  And then they’d waited until after the honeymoon.

  And then they’d waited another week, just for good measure.

  But it couldn’t wait anymore.

  Finally, Cristov lifted himself off Ricky, pausing long enough to kiss her plump lips and wish he could stay. She watched him get dressed and then walked behind him to the door.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said. “I mean, if you feel like coming over after. But call me to tell me how it went, no matter what.”

  “I think I’ll need to come over after,” Cristov said, shaking his head. “No matter what.”

  She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him, pulling away and fixing him in her stare, giving him what strength she could.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too.”

  “No matter what,” she teased, knowing that this wasn’t really the time for teasing, but unable to hold back. Wasn’t that why he loved her, anyway? He smiled and shook his head.

  It sure as hell was.

  “You can’t fucking sit there and tell us that nothing’s different!” Cristov said, exasperated. For an hour, they’d been sitting on the same conversational see-saw, back and forth about details of what had happened and who had said what.

  As had become usual, Damon was acting unusual.

  Instead of taking the things his brother said in stride, formulating his responses behind those enigmatic eyes of his, he was taking the defensive – and holding it.

  “People change,” he snapped, his hands curled into fists.

  “Not like this they don’t,” Kennick said.

  “Nothing’s different,” Damon growled. He rose up, knuckles on the table. “This conversation is over.”

  “Like hell it is,” Cristov said, slamming his own palm on the table. “What the fuck has gotten into you, man? Just fuckin’ tell us.”

  Damon held Cristov’s stare. The air between them nearly crackled. Damon was the first to break the stare. That was almost as surprising as everything else that had happened. He’d been the kumpania’s staring contest champion since he was five.

  Damon stepped away. He looked at his brothers. His jaw was set. He turned around, and went into his room.

  Cristov felt like he could have collapsed right there at the table. It had taken everything out of him, trying to fight the truth out of Damon. Kennick put his hand on Cristov’s shoulder and squeezed it, forcing his brother to look at him.

  “We tried,” Kennick said. “We’ll try again tomorrow. And the day after that. We’re never going to stop try…”

  Damon’s door creaked open; the sound was as familiar to Kennick and Cristov as his voice. He appeared in the doorway, a looming hulk with his hands in fists; in one fist, he held a bottle of clear liquid. In the other, a plastic bag. He threw both on the table; the bottle rolled without decorum to the far end towards the window, the liquid inside sloshing.

  “That’s it,” he said. “That’s what’s gotten into me.”

  Kennick was the first to break the three-way staring contest, drawing the plastic bag towards him. He drew his breath through his teeth as he studied the contents. Rubber ropes and needles, all wrapped in sterilized plastic.

  “Quite literally, huh?” he said. Cristov picked up the bottle, and reading the label his gaze darkened.

  “Steroids? Fuckin’ steroids? Are you fucking kidding me, Damon?” Even though they were alone, Cristov’s voice was low, as though he could be overheard by unsavory ears. “How long have you been pumping your ass full of poison?”

  “I’m on the wrong side of twenty-five,” Damon said, his own voice stoic. “And my opponents aren’t getting any younger.”

  “Jesus Christ, Damon,” Kennick moaned, running his hands through his hair. “Since when does it matter to us whether you fight
or not? This was always your racket. I don’t give a shit! I don’t give a single solitary shit about the money! What the hell were you…”

  “It’s not about the money,” Damon said. “It never was.”

  “Can you not act like you’re a goddamn sage for once in your life,” Cristov said, his voice rising, his face getting red with anger. “What? You beat guys up for fun? And this is the only way you can keep getting your fucking rocks off?”

  “I’m done with them,” Damon said, taking a step away from the table and towards the living room. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “All we need to know? All we need to know? Goddamn meathead sack of shit pansy ass lying bastard, you owe us a hell of a lot more of a fucking explanation and you know it!” By now, Cristov was screaming, had risen from his seat and was leaning his knuckles on the table. “You could have killed yourself, and you know what that would have done to us?”

  “It wasn’t about the money,” Damon said, matching his brother stare for stare. “And it wasn’t about fun. And if you think I would ever truly enjoy hurting another man, we aren’t brothers at all.”

  “Then why. The hell. Do you. DO IT?” Cristov roared, rushing from the table and standing chest-to-chest with his brother, his hands shaking with anger. Kennick watched but didn’t comment, didn’t intervene, his mind turning slowly to try and make sense of Damon’s enigmatic words, his hooded stare.

  “It doesn’t matter, brother,” Damon said calmly, putting his hands on Cristov’s shoulders. Cristov’s muscles bunched but he didn’t move, didn’t try to shake free of Damon’s grips. “I won’t be doing it anymore.”

  And with that, he turned and went back to his room, the creak of the closing door separating them, leaving a red-faced Cristov standing in the kitchen, Kennick sitting beside him. Cristov took a rigid step forward, as though to follow him, but Kennick grabbed his wrist.

  “That’s it?” Cristov hissed, still staring at the closed door. “We’re just gonna let him go hide in his fuckin’ room after all that? You don’t want to go break down his door and shake him until he tells us what the hell he was thinking?”