one
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER
“Fuck,” I nearly scream as he pistons his hips savagely, rotating them at just the right angle that has me seeing stars. “Matthias, please.”
There I am. Begging again. Screaming his name into the wee hours of the morning like a debauched whore. And I don’t think I would have it any other way.
“Come for me, Krasnyy,” he growls in my ear, the sound emanating low in his chest, causing my pussy to clench around his thick length. A hand fists my curls, roughly pulling my head back. My neck is now completely exposed to his roving lips that nip and suck at my skin. There is no doubt in my mind that he is leaving marks behind; bold statements that tell the world who I belong to.
Him.
Possessive bastard that he is.
It should bother me. That primal possessiveness. I’m not his property. But in this moment, I can’t bring myself to care about anything other than the sheer pleasure he is wringing from my body.
I feel his hand come down between us, pinching my clit roughly, and I have no choice but to do exactly as he commands.
“Matthias!”
His name is a screamed prayer as the world around me shifts and lights dance across my vision like fireworks against an inky-black sky. My body writhes beneath him, and I am only partly aware of his completion as he curses lowly in Russian, pumping into my soaked, convulsing heat a few more times before collapsing on top of me.
Matthias braces himself on his elbows, chest heaving, his tattooed skin slick with sweat. He is careful to keep his full weight off me as he buries his face in my neck, struggling to compose himself.
The only time I ever see the cold, calculating mafia boss fall apart is in our bed. Or on his desk. In the shower… there is a sense of power knowing I can cause a man like Matthias to come undone with just the touch of my hand. My mouth.
“Fuck, Red,” he whispers before collapsing on his back next to me, dragging my body against his. We fit perfectly. Like two broken halves of the same tarnished coin. I come to relish these tender moments that take place when it is simply the two of us.
My husband has grown less cold with me around the men of his inner circle, but out there, in the harsh reality of his world, there is still a distance he is forced to maintain. Out there, among the wolves, he holds on to the hard-ass mafia Pakhan persona. It is a part of him I know he will never be able to let go of.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t softened behind closed doors and started to remove the stick up his ass. I’m not naïve enough to believe I could ever truly change him. Just like he can’t change me. We are both products of our upbringing, and there is no reconciling that. I understand the cold exterior will never truly melt away. It can’t. Not if he wants to maintain control. We live in a world that seeks out vulnerabilities and preys on them like vultures circling a carcass in the desert.
In this house, Matthias can be affectionate. Well, as affectionate as he can be since I am still betting good money that he is, in fact, part cyborg.
Out there, however, he emits a measure of control that often has me wondering if at times that is the actuale ruse.
Who is the real Matthias?
The man who holds me in his arms each night after sexing me within an inch of my life? Or the tin man he plays out there in the real world.
It doesn’t escape my notice that Matthias winces as he moves to get more comfortable. The shootout last week still has a lingering effect. The harsh colors of the bruises on his left side have begun to fade into a garish yellow, and despite his protests, I know his ribs are still giving him trouble. He isn’t used to being hindered, and the attack on his motorcade wasn’t something he’d predicted.
There is regret in his eyes each time he takes in my own bruised and battered body. The marks on my chest from the seatbelt are nearly faded, and my eye is almost healed. My cheek still pains me when I chew, but none of these things bother me.
Not really.
I’ve suffered pain before.
The nightmares are the real problem. Which is why Matthias has me chanting his name in near reverence at two inthe morning. The nightmares plaguing me now are different. Because the universe seems to think that piling up even more therapy-inducing incidents in my life is a great fucking idea.
Karma’s a bitch, and I’m not even sure what I did in a previous life to deserve this shit.
The only difference is that I’m no longer alone to deal with the overwhelming darkness of the past. Now, he is there alongside me, like a steady beacon thrumming in the murky blackness that threatens to devour me whole.
Some might call him a knight in shining armor.
He is anything but.
Matthias is right when he says he is a monster.
