“Hi, ptichka.” Fighting the urge to reclaim those lips, I lower my hands to her shoulders, squeezing gently. “How was your day?”
“It was good.” She still sounds a bit out of breath. “How about you?”
“Also good. I got this new car for us.” I nod toward the black Mercedes S-560 behind me. At first glance, it looks like any other luxury sedan. A closer inspection, however, would reveal that the windows are made of bulletproof glass and that the metal frame is unusually sturdy.
It cost me a pretty penny, but it’s worth it. I’m not expecting anyone to shoot at us, but one never knows. Plus, this car is pretty much indestructible in a crash—something that’s very important to me after what happened with Sara in Cyprus.
“Nice,” she says, even as a tiny frown forms between her eyebrows. “What about my old Toyota?”
“I sold it.”
She steps out of my hold, her frown deepening. “You didn’t think to consult me?”
I’m tempted to haul her to me and kiss her again until she forgets whatever it is that upset her about this. However, we’ve put on enough of a show for the passersby, so I just ask, “Were you attached to that car, my love? I can get it back if it has some sentimental value.”
That doesn’t seem to please her either. “No, I don’t care about the car. It’s just…” She squares her shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Peter, I need you to involve me in decisions that affect me—that affect us both. You told me once that this can be a partnership if I wanted, and I want that now. It’s important to me.”
I consider her words and nod. “Okay.”
She blinks. “Okay?
“I’ll ask you before I do anything else with the car,” I say and open the passenger door. Clasping her elbow, I help her inside, my jeans growing uncomfortably tight as I catch a glimpse of pale blue underwear when she swings her shapely legs inside.
We might need to reevaluate this dress as a staple of her work wardrobe.
“I’m not just talking about the car,” she says when I get behind the wheel. “It’s about everything—like wedding arrangements and where we’re going to live and what you’re going to do work-wise. I want us to make all those decisions together going forward, like any normal married couple.”
“I understand.” I carefully check the mirrors and pull out onto the street. “You want me to consult with you like a husband should. I get it.”
“You do?” She sounds puzzled for some reason. “I thought that—never mind. I’m glad you get it.”
I smile and lay my right hand on her slender thigh, enjoying the silkiness of her bare skin. If my ptichka wants me to consult her about such trivia as the car or what I’m going to do with my time, I’m glad to do so.
We can make all the decisions together as long as she understands one simple fact.
She belongs to me, for the rest of our lives.
60
Peter
Saturday morning dawns warm and clear, with the kind of blue, cloudless sky I would’ve ordered from a wedding catalog if I could. The weather was the one uncontrollable variable, but as luck would have it, it’s cooperating, so the event should go off without a hitch.
I’ve made sure of that.
Organizing a wedding is not all that different from planning a hit, I’ve come to realize. You have to be just as methodical about the logistics, and prepare for all eventualities. Of course, the stakes are very different, but it’s good to see that some of my skills are applicable in the civilian life.
Esguerra was wrong.
I’m going to make this work.
Sara and I will be happy here.
Her hair and makeup appointments aren’t until ten, and I wore her out last night, so I let her sleep while I make breakfast. Then I return to the bedroom with a steaming cup of coffee in my hands.
She either hears me or smells the coffee, because she rolls over onto her back, one slender arm splaying out across the mattress while the other hand scrunches into a delicate fist to cover a big yawn. “Is it morning?” she mumbles without opening her eyes, and I grin as I sit down on the edge of the bed and set the cup of coffee on the nightstand.
“Yes, my love.” Leaning in, I nuzzle the warm, fragrant crook of her neck. “It’s our wedding day.”
Her hair smells sweet and faintly fruity, like the shampoo in her shower. It makes my mouth water. Unbidden, my hand slips under the blanket, closing around one soft, round breast, and my cock hardens, my breathing speeding up as her erect nipple stabs my palm.
Fuck. There’s no time for this—not to mention, she might still be sore from the three times I took her last night.