When we finally pulled apart, both breathless, I claimed her completely with one more kiss, softer this time, but no less possessive. Mine. She was mine now. Legally. Publicly. Irrevocably.
Mrs. Barbara Petrov.
The reception passed in a blur of champagne and speeches and dances I barely remembered. Barbara’s hand stayed in mine through it all, anchor and promise. We cut the ridiculous cake she’d insisted on, seven tiers covered in white fondant and sugar flowers. We danced the first dance while everyone watched, and I held her like she might disappear if I loosened my grip even slightly.
A few hours later, we were able to escape. To slip away from the party still raging at the estate and drive to my penthouse, to the space that would now be ours instead of just mine.
The city lights blurred past the car windows as my driver navigated Chicago’s streets. Barbara sat pressed against my side, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting on my thigh. We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The silence between us was comfortable, charged with anticipation but peaceful in its certainty.
When we reached the penthouse, I dismissed the driver and carried Barbara through the threshold despite her laughing protests that she could walk. Tradition mattered, even if most of my traditions involved violence and codes instead of romance and ceremony.
The door closed behind us with a soft click that felt final. Definitive. The outside world locked out, leaving just us in this space that would be our sanctuary.
I set Barbara down gently, and she immediately reached for my jacket, sliding it off my shoulders. Her fingers found the holster beneath, and she paused, one eyebrow raised.
“You wore a gun to our wedding?”
“Old habits.” I shrugged, pulling the weapon free and setting it on the dresser. “Besides, Sebastian’s still out there. I’m not taking chances.”
Her expression flickered—fear trying to intrude on this perfect moment. I couldn’t allow that.
“Hey.” I turned back to her, cupping her face in both hands. “Forget everything. Just for tonight. Sebastian, the video, Los Zetas, all of it. Tonight is ours. Only ours. Just you and me and nothing else.”
She looked up at me with those honey-brown eyes that had haunted me since that first night in the club. “Make meforget,” she whispered, and the request held so much weight. So much trust.
I kissed her like a man who’d waited a lifetime for this moment. Desperate and starved and reverent all at once. My wife. This beautiful, broken, impossibly strong woman was my wife, and I was going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knew exactly what that meant.
She gasped when I swept her off her feet, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back. I didn’t carry her to the bed; I marched her there, driven by a hunger that had been clawing at my throat all day.
The wedding dress—a masterpiece of silk and lace—was a cage I needed to destroy. I set her down on the edge of the mattress and attacked the fastenings. Buttons popped, flying off to ping against the floor. When a hidden zipper jammed, I didn’t finesse it. I gripped the delicate fabric in both hands and ripped it.
The sound of tearing silk was loud, sharp, and incredibly erotic.
“Kirill!” she breathed, her eyes wide, pupils blown.
“I don’t care,” I growled, stripping the ruined garment from her body until she was left in nothing but a scrap of white lace panties and her stockings. “I need to see you. Now.”
I pushed her backward, following her down, my weight settling between her legs. I didn’t kiss her lips immediately. I feasted on her throat, sucking a dark, violaceous bruise right over her pulse point.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured against her skin, biting lightly. “I’m marking you,moy malen’kiy voin. I want everyone to know who owns this skin.”
My little warrior, I’d called her. There was no nickname more fitting.
“You do,” she whimpered, arching her back as my hand slid up her thigh, fingers rough against the silk of her stockings. “Only you.”
I hooked my fingers into the lace of her panties and tore them away. The scent of her—aroused, sweet, and heavy with musk—hit me, and I nearly lost my mind right then.
“Beautiful,” I rasped.
I moved down her body, spreading her thighs wide, draping her legs over my shoulders. I buried my face in her wet heat, my tongue broad and flat as I tasted her. She cried out, her hands tangling in my hair, trying to pull me closer. I showed no mercy. I devoured her, swirling my tongue over her clit, sucking hard, then sliding two fingers deep inside her to curl and pump.
She tasted like ruin. She tasted like forever.
“Please,” she begged, her hips bucking against my mouth. “Kirill, please, I need you inside.”
I pulled back, leaving her flushed and trembling, her entrance glistening and swollen. I shed my own clothes in record time, kicking them aside, my erection heavy and aching for her.
I crawled over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, lacing our fingers together. I positioned the head of my cock at her entrance, teasing the opening, letting her feel exactly how big I was.
