But this was different. It felt different, and I knew tonight would mean something more profound.
A part of me wanted to sit and just talk, to get to know who Dmitry Petrov really was. I wanted to know all his little idiosyncrasies, his likes and dislikes.
Although I knew a large part of his life—the underground part that was dark and villainous—he’d never utter to me, I still wanted to peel away his layers.
I knew, just by looking at him, there was so much to him he showed no one else.
He let me explore the suite, just standing back and watching me, the shadows wrapping around him. Dmitry kept close, the feeling of him only an arm’s length away reminding me of what tonight was.
My wedding night.
Once we stood in front of the bed, all thoughts of conversation faded. Especially with the look he gave me, as if he’d been waiting an eternity to have me.
My body was on autopilot as I sank down to the plush settee across from where he stood.
While keeping my gaze on his, he came closer. Not speaking, just moving meticulously.
He undid his cuff links and set them on the dresser. Then he slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Never once did he take his gaze off me as he worked each button from the hole of his shirt. He let it slip off his broad, muscular shoulders, tossing it over the chair with the jacket.
I was gripping the edge of the settee, clenching my thighs, unable to look away.
Watching a man undress should not have been as arousing as it was, yet I was acutely aware of the air that brushed against my bare arms, my nipples pressed against the lace of my dress, and how my panties were soaked clean through.
I was pretty sure what made this even more arousing was the fact that he never broke eye contact, as if he wanted to make sure I was watching him the whole time. As if it turned him on as well to know I couldn’t look away.
When he went for his belt, undid it, and slid it through the loops, the whoosh that filled the room had a shiver coasting over my spine. He wrapped it around his hand so it was a perfect circle, then set it next to his cuff links and watch.
I looked at his bare hands, realizing he didn’t have a wedding ring. I wanted to have that proof of ownership of him as well.
“I need to get you a ring,” I murmured idly, my voice breathless. He said nothing as he ran the pad of the digit over his finger.
He made a humming sound as he came closer, his slacks still on, but I realized how hard he was, that impressive length pressed against his pant leg as he stopped closer.
He stood in front of me, my husband so tall and wide that with my sitting position, my face was lined up perfectly with his cock.
I tipped my head back and looked at him.
“My beautiful krasavitsa.” He trailed his finger along my forehead and down my temple, tracing my jawline, and then my lips. “You know,” he said deeply as he stared at my mouth and traced my lips. “I would’ve killed your father and his bitch mistress for putting you in danger if they weren’t already dead.”
He kept tracing my mouth, then pulling my bottom lip gently down before letting it move back into place.
“I would’ve avenged you.”
It had been over five years since Francesca and my father had died, but his statement, his declaration that he would’ve taken care of them, ended them simply for putting me in danger, did something completely physical to me. It lit up my synapses, had my throat in a choke hold.
It made me want him to fuck me so hard I felt him tomorrow.
He slowly touched my shoulder, skating his fingers up and down my arm as he circled me. He stopped behind me and wrapped his tattooed hand around my throat from behind. I let my head fall back, the hardness of his erection so close to my cheek that I actually moaned, unable to stop the visceral reaction in me.
With slight pressure, he tipped my head fully back, his hand still wrapped around my neck as he leaned forward and kissed me.
The angle was different, and I wasn’t able to fully open my mouth for his plundering tongue, but as he dragged the muscle across my lips, plunging inside before repeating the action, I couldn’t care about how we were kissing. I just cared that we were kissing.
I wanted Dmitry so badly I could feel it, like a tangible touch all over my skin. He’d fucked me, put his mouth between my thighs. And now I wanted to do something for him, something that would give him pleasure.