“I was born knowing that marriage would not make me happy,” I say carefully. “I was always raised to know it would be arranged. I didn’t expect a fairytale.”
“So why is this so hard for you?”
I pause, choosing my next words very carefully. “Because I expected my marriage to be arranged with an Italian man. A mafia man. Someone who might not love me, and who I might not love, but who would at least be familiar. Who would know my family, and I theirs. Who was not my enemy, and my family’s enemy.”
“And I am?”
“The Bratva have been our enemies for decades. You know that, Viktor.”
He undoes the clasp of the necklace, letting it slide down. I catch it in my hand, striding away from him towards the dresser where my jewelry box sits and taking longer than strictly necessary to put it away. I don’t want to turn around and see his face, and yet at the same time, I do.
“We don’t have to be enemies. You and I.” He comes to stand closer to me, behind me, and I feel my breath catch at the nearness.
“I think it’s time for my injection. Can you?” I’m not excited about getting yet another of the shots that will hopefully soon help me fulfill the one thing Viktor requires of me. Still, I also desperately want to change the subject.
Viktor lets out a sigh. “Of course.”
Slowly, I push the skirt of my dress aside, the slit parting as I bare the side of one cheek. I bend over slightly, leaning against the dresser, very aware that this is much more sexual than my usual flowered or silky pajama shorts that I wear to bed. I can feel my heart speeding up a little in my chest when Viktor approaches, and it’s all I can do not to let out a small gasp when his hand rests on the small of my back, holding my skirt aside.
The injection fucking hurts. It always does. I grit my teeth, glad for the momentary pain this time to distract me from the growing tension in the air between Viktor and me. It burns, but it’s a better burn than the flush of my skin from him touching me or the heat in my blood from remembering the one and only time we did much, much more than dance on the edge of the tension between us.
I expect him to step away, but he doesn’t. His hand stays there, resting against the silky material of my skirt, and I feel his thumb brush over the spot where the needle just sank into my skin.
My skin feelsas if it’s burning where he’s touching me. All night I’ve felt the tension growing between us, the touches and looks, the shivers down my spine, and the awareness of how handsome my husband is. I wish we’d never had to sleep together on our wedding night, because now I know how good it can be, that it could be even better if we learned each other, if I let him do what he wanted to that night and seduce me. Pretend, just for a little while, that we aren’t a mafia princess and a Bratvapakhan. Two people who should be enemies but have been pushed into an uncomfortable marriage for the sake of peace.
A peace that I can’t feel because everything in me feels like turmoil, like torment, like I’ll never feel comfortable and safe and at home again.
I so desperately want to forget everything I was taught about what marriage would be for me, everything I’ve ever known about it, everything that marriage to Franco showed me about not trusting men, not putting hope in them. The small part of me that still craves love and happiness despite it all wants to believe it can be different this time. And that’s the part of me that makes me turn around, knowing how little space there is between Viktor’s body and mine, knowing that when I turn around, he’ll be nearly touching me, up against the dresser.
My skirt falls back into place when I turn, his hand dropping to his side. His face is a hand’s breadth away from mine, his blue eyes darker than I’ve seen them before, and I feel my heartbeat quicken when they drop to my lips.
I could let him kiss me. One kiss, to feel something again. I still remember how his mouth felt on our wedding day, cool and firm, his lips brushing over mine. They would feel different now. Warmer, maybe, full of desire instead. That kiss had been one for others, to seal our vows. What would it feel like for him to kiss me with passion, a kiss just for him and me?
Viktor takes a step forward, moving closer to me. I step back, but there’s nowhere for me to go. I feel the knob of one of the drawers pressing against the small of my bare back, the metal cold against my skin as Viktor closes in on me, his hard, muscular body brushing against mine as he raises a hand to my face.
Those calluses. The roughness of his palm. I’ve never felt anything like it. He presses that palm against my flushed cheek, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, and I can see the desire in every taut line of his face.
“You’ll have to ask for me to kiss you,printcessa,” he whispers. “I won’t have you accusing me of forcing it. So kiss me first, or ask me.” His thumb is pressing against my cheekbone, and I know he can feel how hot my skin is. “You feel so warm.” His fingers slide down my jaw, his thumb pressing against my lips, pushing against the seam. I feel a sudden throb of desire at the thought of his cock there instead, the head pressed against my mouth. Franco had loved me sucking him before our wedding, but after he mocked me, telling me I wasn’t good enough. Telling me how the other girls he fucked sucked him better.
Somehow, for all the cruelty I know he must possess deep down, I know that Viktor wouldn’t do that. He’d groan instead, tell me how good it feels, urge me to take it deeper. He’d be rough, dominant, pushing all of that hard thickness that I saw on our wedding night down my throat, but he’d praise me for it. The thought sends another rush of desire prickling over my skin, and I can feel the damp silk of my panties clinging to me. I’m wet, aroused, aching for him.
And all I have to do is ask—or kiss him first. One word, one motion, and his mouth will be on mine, his hands. I can make him stop anytime, unlike Franco. I have that power over him, the power of threatening to go to Luca, to break all of this apart.
If you kiss him, you won’t stop.As much as I want to deny it, I know it’s true. I’m aching for something to make me feel again, to give me a rush, to pull me out of the dull routine every day that’s become my life since I was married again. If I kiss him, if I feel his hands on me, I’ll want to keep going. I’ll want to feel his hand between my thighs, his cock, want him to make me come again, to give me a few blissful moments of pleasure.
“Caterina.” He breathes my name then, not the nickname I hate so much but my actual name, and I feel my heart flutter in my chest.
Don’t fall for it. It’ll hurt so much more when you remember that there’s no future in wanting more than what this is.
His hands drop to my waist, catching on the fine red silk of my dress. “I didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked tonight. I should have.”
“It’s okay.” I feel my breath hitch in my throat, the words a whisper. “We agreed not to pretend.”
“It’s not pretending for a man to tell his wife how beautiful she is. Especially when it’s true.”
The words hover in the air between us.Just a kiss, I think, looking at his mouth, a breath away from mine.Just a kiss.
I lean forward, my hand reaching for his face. I feel his stubble scrape against my palm, and my heart skips a beat in my chest again when I see Viktor’s eyes close at my touch, hear his sigh as my fingers slide back into his hair. It feels soft to the touch, and I know I’m lost even before my face tilts up as his mouth leans towards mine, and I feel the hot brush of his lips.