by Renee Rose
“How is he in bed?” Kimberly asked.
I shake my head. “I’ve been holding out on him.”
“Still?” Kayla demands. She and my former roommates know I never had sex with men when I lived with them. I gave head frequently because I liked the power it gave me over a man, but I never let anyone into my panties. I never told my roomies I was a virgin, though. They may have guessed, but I liked to pretend the opposite.
“Do you actually hate men?” Ashley demands.
I shrug again. “I just don’t think this guy should get control of my inheritance and my body without me having any choice in the matter. And since I can’t do anything to change the inheritance part…”
“You’re holding out,” Kimberly finishes.
“But what about your needs?” Kayla said. “I think it’s a mistake to think of sex as something only men get something out of. I mean, God knows, sometimes that’s true, especially with college men, but you find yourself a real man? They know how to work for it.”
“Mmm hmm,” Sheri concurs.
“Yeah, he keeps promising I’ll be satisfied,” I admit.
“So make him work!” she encourages. “You should be getting more out of this arrangement.”
“Hmm. Maybe.” They may be right, but I have this shadowy fear that once I give my virginity up to Maxim he’ll own me completely.
And despite the fact that I did save my virginity for my husband, just as my father had ordered, now that the time has come, I don’t think he deserves it. Like my very virginity is some treasure he should’ve had to earn.
I was so willing to give it up to him once. But he spurned me.
He lost his chance.
Chapter 8
Maxim
After checking into Chateau Marmont, Hollywood’s famous boutique hotel, known for keeping celebrities’ most scandalous secrets, I keep my eye on Sasha’s tracker. I checked my credit card charges, and they match with the trip to L.A.—she didn’t just give her phone to someone to give me the slip.
No, I imagine Sasha knows full well I will track her here and bring her back home; she just wants to make me work.
And to have her fun in the meantime.
According to Dima, the address she’s been for the past couple hours is an apartment near USC—the same one she lived in last year. It seems she’s visiting someone—a roommate, perhaps.
A lover?
The idea unsettles me. More than unsettles me. It kicks me in the gut.
I never asked her if she was previously involved. Maybe she had a boyfriend in Moscow on the day we married. Maybe that’s why she hated leaving.
No, that didn’t seem right. She was hurt and angry over the marriage not heartbroken.
But the possibility of her having a past lover living in Los Angeles sits like a brick in my gut. I don’t like the sense of jealousy it produces.
My fingers clench into fists. If Sasha’s going to play this game with me, I will cut her loose. She can go back to Moscow with a target on her back. Take her chances on her own. I’m not going to play it with her.
Her marker moves. I watch until it stops and then zoom in. The Colony. It’s a popular Hollywood nightclub. Irrational jealousy still tearing at my throat, I call for a car and take it to the club, flashing a crisp one hundred dollar bill to skip to the front of the line that’s wrapped around the block.
The place is packed with beautiful people everywhere, bodies twining to pulsing music. I search the place for a particular redhead, fully ready to haul her out of there and show her the whip, but when I finally find her, my fury drains.
She’s not with a man.
She’s in a skin-tight red halter dress, sitting with a group of equally beautiful and scantily dressed young women. Probably her friends or roommates from college. They’re out on the town, having a good time, as beautiful young women should. As Sasha should, if she were a normal twenty-three year old.
One who isn’t an oil heiress in the Russian bratva with a hundred criminals after her fortune.
What stops me completely, though, is the smile that lights up her face. The group of them are sitting in a round booth, drinking cosmopolitans and laughing. Sasha appears completely at ease. At home. Her face is open and relaxed—full of life and joy.
It’s so different from the haughty, closed visage she’s given me since the day of our marriage. I’m suddenly ripped by guilt. Not that I think any of this shit is my fault—it’s Igor’s, without a doubt. But I feel sorry for Sasha and the position she’s been put in.
I’m sorry for myself, too, for being saddled with the responsibility of keeping her alive. Her money isn’t enough to sweeten the package. I was doing fine here without it. Ravil’s made millions in real estate, and I’ve started to build my own wealth as well. Nothing like Sasha’s or Ravil’s, but enough for me. If I hadn’t felt such a strong obligation to Igor, such a loyalty, I would’ve told him to find some other sucker.
I find a place to stand near the bar across the room. Somewhere I can watch to make sure Sasha and her friends are safe but where I won’t be noticed by her. I order a shot of Beluga and watch. I’ve been checking the surroundings since I arrived, looking for anything that looks off. Any man with tattoos like mine, anyone watching my wife.
Wife. That word still feels foreign to me.
I don’t notice any threats.
A song comes on that makes them all light up with what appears to be a shared memory. There’s shouting and laughter, and they drain their drinks to get up and dance. I have to listen for a moment to recognize it. It’s the dance-mix version of “Chandelier” by Sia.
The young women undulate and move with the music, and their beauty and obvious enjoyment draws attention from the sharks around them. Men move in from all sides.
I grit my teeth but stay where I am. I’ll let her have her fun for now. As long as no one—
Oh, fuck no.
The moment some guy lays his hands on her hips, I’m out of my chair.
Sasha
After dinner at our favorite taco joint, my friends and I hit a club for dancing. I wear a tiny red dress and stilettos that I’d thrown in my giant purse. Out on the dance floor with my friends, I’m having the time of my life despite the sense of a ticking bomb about to go off.
Maxim hasn’t called or texted, which probably means he’s on his way or is already here. I have zero doubt he’ll catch up to me, which is why I intend to enjoy the hell out of myself until he does.
I’m tipsy, so it takes me a minute to notice that some asshole put his hands on my hips from behind. I’m about to tell him to step back when Maxim suddenly appears in front of me.
It only takes one glance to know he’s pissed. Not irritated, like he is going to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out, but lethally pissed.
I often forget, purposely, that my father’s men are killers.
I literally gulp.
“Get him off you, or his blood will be on your hands.” He speaks in Russian, so only I will understand.
I could elbow the guy away from me, but before the thought even forms, I arrive at a better solution. I surge forward and wrap my arms around the neck of the enemy. Maybe it’s the cocktails talking. Maybe it’s out of a sheer survival instinct. They say women don’t do flight or fight—we tend and befriend. Well, I’m bonding with my executioner.
It’s not a hug. I absolutely mold my body to his, gluing my hips against his legs, riding one of his thighs like a cowgirl on a bull, still undulating to the music. My breasts press against his ribs, my lips brush his neck.
He instantly bands one strong arm around me, his palm splaying at my lower back then dropping lower to cup my ass and help me ride his leg. After a few seconds, I sense the fury in him dissipate. His body softens against mine. He sways to the music. “That’s better,” he murmurs in English.
Thank fuck. I realize I’m trembling, and most of my intoxication has disappeared with the adrenaline. For a moment there, I
thought it was me he wanted to throttle. But it wasn’t—it was the dickwad hitting on me.
At least, I hope so. I don’t sense the dangerous aggression in him anymore.
Knowing he’s dangerously possessive of me shouldn’t give me flutters of excitement, but it does. Part of me loves that he showed up to claim me. And I’m probably pushing my luck—I’m definitely pushing my luck, but considering how nice it is to be dancing with him, I don’t want to leave yet.
I’m sure he came to throw me back on a plane. I fully expect he’ll tie me to his bed when we return. Oh damn, that thought turns me on.
But it is so incredibly wonderful to be with my friends again. I feel more like myself than I have in a year. With my girlfriends, I can be myself and laugh and have fun.
“Maxim,” I begin, sounding breathless. “Can we, please… stay just a little longer?”
He circles his hips, taking mine on a ride around the park on his leg. I’m pretty sure my panties are soaked. I’m probably going to leave a wet spot on his leg. “Yes, we can stay,” he says, swaying us side to side. “I didn’t come all this way not to meet your American friends.”
I let out an exhale of disbelief. I didn’t expect him to be so accommodating.
But then he says, “I have all day tomorrow to punish you.”
I probably should be worried, and I am—a little. But mostly the flutter in my belly is from excitement. Maybe it’s because of the dark velvety purr in his voice when he mentions it.
I dare to lift my face to his and steal a peek at his expression. It’s hard to read. He stares down at me with an unfathomable dark gaze. Maybe a hint of indulgence.
I stand on my tiptoes and move my lips against his. It’s a tentative kiss. Not like my usual cock-tease shit. A real kiss—scary and sensual.
He doesn’t kiss me back, just lets me do my thing, which makes it even more excruciating. I’m used to being the one men try to kiss. The one refusing or accepting the kiss. Not the one putting herself out there, hoping the gesture will be received. The vulnerability of it stings.
I ease away, and he stares down at me. “Is that your apology?” he asks.
I nod.
He brushes my cheek with the backs of his knuckles. His other hand still has firm hold of my ass, like he’s showing every man here I belong to him. “It’s good,” he murmurs and lowers his mouth to mine in the same slow, exploratory way I kissed him. His lips slide over mine. He tastes like peppermint and vodka.
When I slide my tongue into his mouth, his dick lengthens against my belly.
“I have something for you,” he says when the kiss ends. He slips a hand into his pocket.
I don’t know what I expected—a pair of handcuffs? A ruler to slap my knuckles? A collar to attach a leash to?—but it’s a small ring box. He picks up my left hand and slides my father’s ring off my finger, then drops it loose into his pocket like it’s nothing more significant than a coin. I wait, the anticipation of the moment leaving me breathless.
I’m still trembling—whether it’s from my fear over his sudden appearance or the kiss or the ring he’s about to give me, I can’t be sure. He cracks open the box and takes out a big, beautiful ring.
Delicate but enormous, if that makes any sense. The center emerald is huge and beautiful, but the band is thin and covered in the same tiny diamonds that frame the emerald.
He slides it on my finger, and it fits perfectly. I’m not sure how he pulled that off. “Do you like it?”
I nod up at him. I think under different circumstances I might have pretended not to—I wouldn’t have wanted to give him that win. But he’s caught me by surprise. He showed up, as I expected, but didn’t make a scene or even throw a punch at the guy touching me. And instead of ranting and railing and exacting punishment, he produces a beautiful wedding ring.
A thoughtful, expensive gift that I will actually enjoy wearing. It suits me, and, honestly, I love it.
“What is this?” Ashley grabs my hand and holds it up for the others to see. They squeal and gather up tightly around us.
“Is that your wedding ring?” Kayla demands.
“Is this Maxim?” Sheri asks at the same time.
“Will you join us in a toast?” Maxim asks. He’s so damn suave—so slick. I sort of hate him for it because I’ve fallen victim to his charm in the past. But I also love it because he turned it on for my friends who matter very much to me. It’s not that I need them to like him—I already filled them in on the whole medieval arranged marriage tale—but I want them to see what I’m up against.
Maybe I wouldn’t mind if they liked him.
He leads us off the dance floor. Of course our booth has been taken, but Maxim lifts a hundred dollar bill held between his knuckles and a cocktail waitress instantly finds us. The same one who took forty-five minutes to make it to our table when we were sitting there before.
“A bottle of Moet and six glasses.”
The waitress creams her panties over him. Or maybe it’s just his money, but either way, she beams brighter than a thousand watt bulb and invites us to a corner of the bar where she uncorks and delivers the champagne in a chiller with ice. She starts to pour, but Maxim smoothly takes over, lifting his chin with his sexy-sauve grin to dismiss her.
She bats her lashes and disappears, telling him to just call her if he needs anything else. He catches her arm, and she leans back in as he asks for something else, and I grit my teeth. Maybe I’m as possessive as Maxim.
“To my beautiful bride,” Maxim says after he pours the champagne into the six glasses and hands them out.
“Congratulations to you both,” Kayla says.
“To you both,” the others agree.
“Na Zdorovie,” I say, reminding my friends of the Russian version of cheers.
“Nostrovia!” they all chant back—even Kimberly. The others must’ve taught it to her, which makes me smile—my presence was honored and remembered.
Maxim catches my eye, and my belly flutters. “Na Zdorovie.” He clinks my glass. He drains his glass and uses it to gesture to us. “Tell me—how do you all know each other? You are all actresses?”
Kayla smiles. “I am.” She tosses an arm around my shoulder. “We were in theatre together all four years. And we met these two doing promotions our junior year.” She indicates Sheri and Ashley. “We all lived together senior year. And this one is our replacement-Sasha.” She lifts her chin at Kimberly. “She’s our new roommate and also works for the promotion company.”
“There’s no replacing Sasha,” I say, spilling a few drops of my champagne as I hold my arms up for them to admire my figure. “No offense, of course.” I wink at Kimberly, even though I’m certain she knows I’m kidding.
“What promotions?” Maxim looks puzzled.
“We dressed up in skimpy costumes to promote new products at launches.” I shrug. “Like for new alcohol or energy drinks or meal replacement bars. It paid cash and was good fun.”
“I’ll bet you had fun.” This time I’m sure I detect indulgence in Maxim’s gaze. “A round of shots?”
Why is he being so nice to me?
It puts me on edge, waiting for the hammer to drop.
“Hell, yes!” my friends shout, and Maxim lifts another hundred dollar bill in the air to get us instant service.
“Six shots of Cazador tequila. With salt and lime.”
“Tequila!” my friends cheer. Their happiness is infectious. It makes me relax and forget my anxieties over Maxim.
It costs more than the hundred dollar bill, and he pulls out his wallet for another. While he’s talking to the cocktail waitress, Ashley mouths the words, he’s hot.
I steal a glance, irrationally proud that my friends think so.
He is hot. He’s in a crisp designer button-down, open at the collar, looking California-perfect. Like he’d known he’d be coming to a posh nightclub. But this is how he always dresses—at least in the week since we’ve been married.
“I like
him,” Kayla says out loud, leaning forward over the bar conspiratorially.
“I like him for you,” Sheri concurs, pointing at me. She waggles her brows. “Make him work. I’ll bet he’s good.”
Maxim’s attention returns, and my friends all grin mischievously. He takes it all in with a smirk. “I’ll bet you ladies get into all kinds of trouble.” His gaze slides sideways, and he suddenly tugs my hand. “Come on, a table opened up.”
We launch into action to claim a perfect circular booth like the one we had before. Another group tries to move in at the same time but Maxim turns to face them, blocking them with his body.
“No way, buddy.” One of the guys in their group starts to give him shit. “We’ve been waiting for this table.”
I loop my arm through his and speak to the guy. “Don’t fuck with the Russian,” I say, letting my accent come out thickly. “He will clean the floor with you.”
Maxim doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at the guy with an intensity that could cut glass.
“Come on.” The women with the would-be hero tug him away.
I slide into the booth with my friends, and Maxim takes the end seat, our protector.
“You do love drama, don’t you, caxapok?” He appears unruffled.
The criticism hits a little too close to home—it was what my father always accused me of—needing attention. Being a drama queen. “What?”
“Nothing. Just know when you get involved like that, you double the chances of me hurting someone.”
“How’s that?”
My friends are listening, and I get uneasy, thinking this might not be something I should air in front of them.
Maxim appears amused, though. He gives an easy shrug. “Because if they say something disrespectful to you, I have to kill them.”
My friends ooh over his comment. I guess it is sort of swoon-worthy. Especially if you don’t know he probably means literally kill.
I’m saved from responding by the arrival of our cocktail waitress—or I should say his because she is definitely all about him.
