Taken by the Russian

Fuck, her mouth looks soft. All of her appears so soft. Touchable. “Trust me, I would get you used to it now, but we have a guest waiting downstairs.”

“We do?” She sucks in a breath. “Is it m – my father?”

“Nyet.” My blood pressure goes haywire for a moment at the reminder that another male has a claim to her. Even fatherhood is unacceptable. Mine. Mine. “A priest. Within the hour, you will be Anya Mikhailov.”

“Oh, really?” Her spine straightens. “I don’t remember you asking me to marry you.”

My muscles threaten to snap. “You would allow me to breed you on the back lawn — fill you with my child — but you will not take my last name?”

A tense standoff begins between us, but I’m almost brought to my knees when her lower lip trembles and her body sags. “I know we don’t exactly have a conventional relationship, but you could at least give me a nice proposal.”

“I will try, angel. I will try to do this,” I say without hesitation, intensity resonating in my throat. “Please, do not cry. I am only impatient to call you mine. In every sense.”

She uses the sheet to wipe her damp cheeks. “Cut me some slack, all right? I didn’t even know you were into me until this morning.”

“Into you? Your name is tattooed on my body once for every year you’ve been alive.”

“You’re going to run out of room by the time I’m forty.”

“And that will be my honor.” I kneel on the bed and walk toward Anya, cupping her face in my hands. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved or lusted for. The only person I’ve ever called friend.” I brush my thumbs across her eyebrows. “Become my wife. Give me a far richer life than I deserve.”

With a gusty sigh, she tucks her face into the crook of my neck. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Relief is a cool balm inside my chest. “That was good, yes?”

Her smile blooms against my skin. “Da. Very good.” When she pulls back, there’s a pink flush on her cheeks. I suspect it has something to do with my hard dick prodding her between the legs, looking for its home. “Should we go get married?”

I nod and allow the anticipation to take hold once more. “The suitcase with your clothing is in the closet. You might want to shower before facing a man of God. You look as if you’ve been plowed by an uptight Russian.”

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. On her way to the bathroom, she sends me a saucy wink over her shoulder. “I have.”

My entire being aches with love as I watch her vanish behind the closed door.

Note to self: sometimes it’s easier to ask for things. Asking gets me winked at by Anya.

This gives me much to consider.

Anya

Oh snap.

I almost fall down the stairs when I see Sasha waiting for me, a young priest at his elbow. My Russian is wearing a tight white dress shirt and black pants. Through the material of his shirt, I can see the outline of his tattoos. They creep out through the cuffs onto his hands, his knuckles. Grow through the collar onto his neck. And the expression on his face…

He likes me in the white nightie. He just doesn’t want me in it right this second.

See, I didn’t get the dress code memo. Nor have I ever had to follow a dress code.

Sasha and I spend most of our time at home, since my father’s business dealings put my life in danger. So I don’t go beyond casual very often. Heck, I’m usually in yoga pants or a bathing suit, while Sasha lives in his signature overcoat. Maybe I should have realized a wedding meant putting on a dress, but hey, this is taking place in our living room. As soon as the priest leaves, I have a feeling we’re heading back to bed, anyway. At least I hope so. Ever since I woke up to find him devouring me with hot, gray eyes, my body has been humming. Wanting him.

Did I wear it thanks to some subconscious wishful thinking?

When the priest averts his eyes and Sasha’s jaw tightens, I look down and notice the hem brushes high on my thighs, just beneath my underwear. Oh boy. It’s even shorter than I realized. “Should I go get a robe, or — ”

“Nyet,” Sasha says, visibly trying to keep his cool. “We do this now.”

Electricity straightens my spine. Sasha has always been high – handed with me, but I was a child. Not his soon – to – be wife. Tomorrow is orientation at college and I’m going to be there. That’s the war I’m prepared to fight. But apparently there are going to be several little battles along the way to making him a fair husband. To that end, Sasha dictating every detail of our wedding day really isn’t working for me.