Caterina
When I wake up the next morning to the sun streaming through the window, it takes me a moment to remember where I am.
I’m in my husband’s loft apartment in Moscow. InRussia. I’m naked next to him in bed because I let him take me there last night after I’d had too much wine at the gala.
I should regret it. But I don’t.
What I remember are all good things. I remember Viktor tossing me onto the bed and following me down, stretching his lean, muscled body the length of mine as he pinned my wrists over my head, devouring my mouth. I remember that I could taste myself on his lips as he kissed me, but it didn’t disgust me. Instead, all it did was remind me how he’d made me come with those lips only moments before, grinding shamelessly down onto his mouth as he’d introduced me to the pleasure I’d never even known existed.
I remember him feverishly undoing the front of his trousers, the hot press of his erection against my thigh, the way he’d whisperedI can’t wait any longer,printsessa, before pushing the thick head of his cock between my folds and thrusting into me, hard and deep.
He’d fucked me roughly, desperately, as if he were afraid it might be the last time. I’d wondered, as he’d sank into me and held himself there, hips arched against mine, if he were savoring the fact that I’d gone willingly? Or did he assume, like I did, that once he got me pregnant, there’d be no more excuse to fuck me?
I’d felt a pang of something, almost like loss, at that thought. I’d known that I shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t be a willing party to any of this. Instead of pulling away, I’d wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips, and pressed myself against his body.
It had felt so fucking good—my nipples brushing against his hard chest, the slide of his thick cock inside of me, stretching me, filling me until I couldn’t have taken an inch more, his lips against my mouth and his hands in my hair. He’d whispered things in Russian I couldn’t understand, but it didn’t matter, because the rasp of his voice and the thick heat of his words told me everything I needed to know about what they meant.
For the first time in my life, I’d felt real, raw passion. I’d found out what it was like to want someone physically so much that I tossed aside my own ideals and stubbornness, and I’d gotten the same in return. What I’d felt with Viktor last night was unlike anything I’d experienced before.
It can’t happen again,my mind whispers as I roll over to look at him, and I feel myself instantly rebel.
Why? Why not?
Because he’s Russian. He’s Bratva. He sells women—how could you ever love a man like that?
I close my eyes, fighting off the whisper in my head.He’s also my husband,I think to myself.I’m bound to him forever. Am I also bound to be miserable for the rest of my life? Shouldn’t I just sneak out of this room right now, find the nearest bridge and leap off of it, if that’s all I have to hope for?
I think about what he’d told me on the plane last night, about how things are different here, about what might have happened to those women otherwise. About how he said that he’s giving them a chance for a better life than they might have had.
I’m not entirely sure I believe him or that any part of it is as altruistic as he tries to make it sound. Surely he could just rescue them or give them jobs, something other than turning them into concubines for wealthy men. It isn’t as if his family hasn’t gotten rich off of it over the years. It makes it hard to believe that it has anything to do with what’s best for them.
But at the same time, if that explanation is true—
It doesn’t make it okay, but does it make it so much worse than anything my family has done, or Luca, or the Macgregors? The Irish and Italians deal in arms that kill innocents and rip apart families, and foster wars. My father ran strip clubs as a front for addictive party drugs. My entire life has been built on top of things that are illegal and criminal.
Viktor is still asleep, and I reach out to touch him, trailing my fingers through the soft dark hair on his chest. I can see a soft sprinkling of grey here and there through the dark hair, and I brush my fingertips over it until he groans softly and his eyes slowly open.
“Morning,printsessa,”he says, turning his head to look at me. The sunlight angles off of his face, making him look softer than usual, his face less sharp and commanding.
“I don’t like it when you call me that.”
Viktor rolls onto his side, smirking. “What should I call you, then? What do your friends call you?”
“My friends call me Cat,” I say softly. “But I don’t think we’re friends yet, you and I.”
“No?” He cocks his head. “Do friends not do this?”
He reaches out, his finger running down the valley between my breasts. He curves his fingertip around the small swell of one, tracing it up to my nipple, which he pinches lightly.
“None of my friends have ever done that.”
“What about this?” He rolls the nipple between his two fingers until I gasp, and as he leans closer to me, I feel his naked cock hardening against my leg.
“No.” I shake my head, licking my dry lips.
He squeezes my breast, bending to run his tongue over my other nipple, making a slow circle. “This?”
I can’t speak. I can feel the growing ache between my legs, my clit throbbing with every swirl of his tongue and pinch of his fingers, as if there were a line directly from my nipples to the apex of my thighs. I just shake my head, and Viktor tightens his lips around my nipple, sucking at the tender flesh as his hand leaves my breast to skim down my stomach, down to where I’m wet and aching for him.