"Fuck that." The laces loosen, and the dress starts to slide. "You're my wife now. That's the only title that matters."
His mouth finds mine and cuts off whatever nervous rambling I was about to start. Gentle at first, then deeper. His hand slides up my thigh, easing under the dress and finding me ready for him.
The limo starts moving.
I pull back. "Wait—someone's driving?—"
"Let him." His fingers don't stop.
"But he'll know?—"
"He already knows." Ivan's smile is wicked. "Now stop overthinking and let me have my wedding night."
That same finger slides into my mouth. The same one that was just?—
Oh.
His other hand keeps working. His mouth moves up my neck. Kissing. Biting. Marking.
The limo cuts through the streets. I can see through the window. Sunset. Chicago passing by. His territory.
What if someone sees?
Then another thought: I’m Mrs. Petrov now. Why should I care?
I reach for his zipper. The metal is cold under my fingers. It takes me a second to get it down because my hands are shaking. When I finally free him, he's already hard. I wrap my hand around him, and he makes a sound against my neck.
Low. Almost pained.
I start stroking. Slow at first, savoring the weight of him. The heat.
His breathing gets more ragged. His fingers inside me pause like he's trying to maintain control.
I don't want him controlled.
I tighten my grip and move faster, using my thumb the way I know drives him crazy. His hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"Fuck, Lila?—"
"Where are we even going?" My voice comes out breathy. Unsteady.
His mouth finds my ear. "Somewhere private. With a bed. Maybe a wall."
"Very specific."
"I'm a man of simple needs."
He positions me flat on the seat and spreads my legs wider. Then he's inside me and thinking becomes impossible.
He looks perfect like this. Still in most of his suit. Hair messed up from my hands. Eyes dark and focused entirely on me.
"Take off the jacket." I manage between gasps. "I want to see?—"
He shrugs it off without pulling out and unbuttons his shirt with one hand, revealing all the tattoos covering his chest and arms. Orthodox crosses. Stars. Cyrillic text I still can't read. The ink moves with his muscles. Each thrust making the designs shift and come alive.
I need to learn what they all mean. What each one represents. What each?—
He moves deeper, and the thought scatters. Everything scatters except the feeling of him filling me. Claiming me. Making me his in the back of a moving car.
