by Amarie Avant
But now . . .
I shove that thought into the back of my brain. Along the corridor, I notice Mikhail lurking in the shadow. He comes from the darkness. The faint illumination from the skylight shines down on him.
I place my hand on his shoulder. “You good, kuzen?”
“Nyet.”
“Are you going to fuck it up for all of us?”
A few beats pass. Like my wife, Mikhail can get lost in his thoughts for so long that I don’t expect an answer. He mutters, “Nyet.”
I shrug a little. “Go read your—”
“Nyet! I will not read my Bible. I will not pray till that cunt sister of yours is dead.”
I give his shoulder another squeeze and let go.
“Was Yuri slamming his cock in one of her whores?” he asks.
“He’s still drinking.” I rub the back of my neck. “We’re on Horace’s turf, Mikhail.”
“You said that before, and I won’t play the part.” He starts away from the bedroom that my wife and daughter are in. I hold out the uncorked champagne, but he sidesteps that as well. Mikhail mumbles something about a security camera in the hallway. He enters one of the extra bedrooms for the night.
Jiggling the handle of the door, I find that it’s locked from the inside. Since Natasha may or may not be sleeping, I whisper, “Zar?”
A few seconds later, the door is opened. My wife is dressed in cotton pants and a long, white tee, clothes that tell me there won’t be any sex tonight. We can get to that later.
My eyes are drinking her in from head to toe, searching for any signs. Hurt, pain, I don’t know what the fuck to expect when it comes to having her here. I can’t keep her safe in this place!
“Vassili?” Zariah cocks her head.
I blink.
“Oh my gosh, you aren’t listening to anything I say,” she grumbles. I’m worried about my wife, and she’s trying that one angle that I won’t let her have: team. There’s no way I’ll let her help us out of this shitty-ass situation. But I listen to her reflect, “Do you think Mikhail and Yuri should sleep in the same room as they did at the suite in Australia?”
Her eyes are alight with questions. My wife will do anything to keep the peace. I tighten my jaw so that I don’t end up saying something stupid. Something that will have the attorney arguing with me too.
“I appreciate Mikhail’s unwavering loyalty. Vassili, he stood outside this door for three hours. I’m still not convinced he’ll contain himself. He’s liable to . . .”
Head dipped down, my mouth goes over hers, tongue darting inside hers, I close the door behind me, bringing Zariah’s tiny waist with me. I lock it. Last night, I loved my queen. I needed to fuck her and show her that all the nightmares coming to us at every angle mean nothing. I needed to clear her fucking mind. Now, I need her love to free me. Though I won’t allow her to help me fix things, I have to know that none of these mudaks can put a wedge between us.
In a half-second, the pants and sweats that stole her frame are on the floor. Royal purple bra and panties still cover everything I desire.
I look her deep in the eyes, my thumbs massaging the inside of her wrists. My lips go to her delicate fingertips, her palms, that quickening pulse. “No matter how dark shit gets with my family, Zar, you won’t leave?” My massive chest tightens. Not that I’d ever let Zariah go, I covet the words. She stays because she wants to and not because I’ve become my father.
Drag her ass back.
Lock her up.
Keep her for all time.
My lips press against her wrists again, and I say, “You’ll never leave, Zariah?”
“I—Vassili,” she murmurs. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Say it, girl. Say you’ll never leave.”
6
Zariah
In my attempt to connect gazes with Vassili, my brown orbs flit back and forth. Those obsidian marbles of his mirror a past that has died a long time ago. I can see his mother. A woman that I’ve never set eyes on, attempting to flee Moscow and flee his father.
His tender actions throw me for a loop. The lips of my labia are throbbing for him. I stare at his face, those gorgeous eyes and that chiseled jaw that was set stubborn earlier today. All I see are the couplings of a madman.
Fire burns my skin as his mouth grazes my wrist, and he repeats the same question that he had moments ago. “You’ll never leave, Zariah?”
“No. No.” I clasp his face and feast on his mouth. My mind has been in attorney-mode, ready to help my husband create a defense. Now, I stand before him, bare to the emotions he never shows me. I can almost touch his vulnerability. Never thought it possible, but I’m content in it because it makes the beast human. Throat constricted, I stare into his eyes and say, “Never—never, Vassili.”
Vassili’s heavy hand goes to the back of my neck. He presses me away. “I don’t like that word. Never,” he says, his Russian accent thicker than it’s ever been.
“Vassili, you’re hurting . . .”
He stops clasping the back of my neck, and now Vassili is cradling my face. His callused fingers and palms are abrasive, yet tender as he holds me as though I am breakable. His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone. The touch is so light that my soul burns for him to kiss me. Damn, those kisses he offered me last night left me splayed against the bedpost. I beg for that with my gaze, needing it. Intuition keeps my feet rooted against the ground. Don’t lead, Zariah, I tell myself. Let him dominate. He needs this now.
I anticipate the barbarian who is well-versed on how to fuck me senselessly. Vassili needs to take a deep breath, and that means a good, hard screw. Anticipation scorches my skin as I wait for him to lead.
With Natasha asleep in the center of the bed, Vassili presses me against the wall. A fiery of kisses trail down my neck while his hands skim over my shirt. Those damn heady kisses leave me breathless. Save for my thong, I’m naked before his searing gaze. I’m plastered against the wall, chest-pounding, nipples taut, and waiting for a good fuck.
“Tell me you’re mine forever,” his husky voice is low, lethal.
Body burning with desire, I murmur, “I belong to you, Vassili Karo Resnov.”
Vassili says nothing. Something flickers in his gaze. He moves closer to me, his ropy body crushing mine against the wall. Damn, I need him to undress too. My husband teases my bare skin with his hands while every part of me aches for his lips again. He palms my curves before bringing his hand to the apex of my sex. I lean harder on the wall, beneath his dark presence. My pussy sets off like fireworks waiting for a mere stroke of his fingers. Vassili’s warm breath plays at my lips.
“Say what I’ve told you to say,” he commands, his fingers clawing into the skin at the inside of my thigh.
“I’m yours, forever,” I murmur.
Now I realize the flicker in his eyes is from anger. It crashes. He’s pleased with my response as his mouth plants against mine. The king of my world descends with a kiss to my collarbone to a nip at the side of my cleavage. His tongue swirls over my nipples as he works his way down. It isn’t until the beast is on his knees that I notice his fingers are still clawing the inside of my thigh. Vassili clutches my hip and brings it over his shoulder.
His lips press against the dark brown welts he’s made. His mouth moves inward. My hands go to his hair, fingers prickled by his buzz cut. I touch the back of his neck as he presses his nose against the silk of my thong. He rips the shirt down the middle, eyes hypnotized by the sight of my pussy. Never removing his hot gaze from me, Vassili’s torn shirt is tossed behind him. My fingers savor the intricate tattoos on the planes of his broad shoulders as he breathes me in.
“I’m fighting for more moments with you, Zariah,” he says, his fingers running up my hips. He tears my panties from my frame. “I need you always to appreciate what I do for you, for our daughter.”
With his face pressed against my valley, I find it hard to assure him of my love. My hand kneads the back of his neck. Vassili
needs to hear that I’ll never leave, never let him go. I don’t ever want to. My husband’s aura is brittle one moment and pliable the next. No matter how steely he can be, I’m tethered to him. As his lips press against my heavy clit, I make more promises than I’ll ever be able to keep.
Yes, I’ll love him all my life. Concerns still prickle at my heart, such as, how much time do we have on this earth if there are more Danushka’s and Horace’s in the world craving a piece of us.
My head falls back against the wall. His tongue darts past the slickness of my slit, slamming upward against my g-spot. The heat from his body burns against me, sparking fire throughout my chest. My heart urges him to fill any achy void between my thighs.
My brain screams.
“Vassili,” I groan, weak in the knees.
He hefts my other leg around his shoulder; my entire body gets pinned against the door. A shutter of moans claim me, and my fingers dig into the flesh of his shoulders. Climbing over my first orgasmic wave, I rock my hips and pray he doesn’t suffocate. On his knees, Vassili grazes his teeth against my tiny bulb. He catches a rhythm that damn near shatters me. He alternates to darting his tongue as deep as it will go inside of me. Gaining leverage, my husband’s fingers bite into the soft flesh of my hips.
Pain and pleasure blur. The hurt feels so fucking good. And the good is my euphoria. The mini symphonies have clashed, starting to build in my toes.
Fuck, this one will break me.
“Vassili,” his name tears through my lips as cum floods out of me. All my desire unleashes on Vassili’s face. He slams my back against the wall. Though I’m still straddling his face and shoulders, my hands lift up, splayed against the wall. My body goes slack, and I’m a trembling mess, all because he ate my pussy like his last meal.
Sensations detonate, and I push at Vassili’s face. The orgasm is too intense for any sort of sensation. I try to escape the onslaught of his thick tongue, but he’s power personified. The licking has turned into biting as Vassili takes to the inside of my thigh with his teeth.
“Nyet,” he grunts. His mouth engulfs the lips of my pussy, causing more spasms.
“Oh, fuck! Please fuck me,” I beg, voice exhausted from whimpering and murmuring. My limbs dangle over his back, toes locked underneath. My arms fall at my sides. Vassili pulls me down from his shoulders and stares at me through intense darkness eyes.
His massive chest slams against mine, heart battering my own. The way his fingers thread through my hair warns that I’ll feel pain even before he offers a good tug. Damn, I can’t complain. Vassili has lavished my body with pure pleasure. I’m putty now.
With his thick lips coated in my juices, Vassili growls, “Remember when I told you your pussy tasted like water?”
“Oh yes,” I huff, walls shuddering for more at the thought of us.
“I need this water to survive . . .” he says.
A gasp escapes from my lips as his mouth descends on mine, demanding and rough. Now, I’m back in the predicament we were in earlier. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Vassili has always been my rock. My spine slams against the wall as his cock spears deep into my wet valley. Fireworks of desire and sparks of pain weave through me. With each assault of his cock soaking wet from my pussy, my spine crashes against the wall. His cock slams straight through me, punching at my gut. I take every hit with a shout loud enough to reach heaven.
“Vassili,” I scream, voice trembling.
His teeth graze my neck before dissolving into my skin. Hot tears slither down my cheeks as I cry out, “More, more, more . . .”
The Russian bull riding me rams his cock inside of me. Every intense thrust sends my pussy walls convulsing, attempting to keep his magnificent erection inside of me. The assault lasts until my back is bruised, and my pussy is satiated with his hot, searing seed.
He’s devoured me, ate me like he was dying, and then screwed me as if my pussy were the antidote.
7
Vassili
Anatoly is a mudak, and I am too. When Zariah first became pregnant, I set aside “Crime and Punishment” by Fyodor Dostoevsky and a shitload of MMA text on strategy. All those girly ass parenting books became my meat. I snuck every single book Zariah had because, like fucking hell, I was going to be prepared for my firstborn. Learning how to be a better father became my food. If my wife had read a particular book first, I’d rip out pages, which implied that we are like our parents. Burn that shit. Have nothing to do with it.
Those fucking pages have come back to bite me in the ass as I awaken to see tiny bruises along Zariah’s back. My first thought is to pick her up from the pallet we made on the floor and place her on the bed next to Natasha. That’s not the man I want to be. Fuck her and set her aside. Some of those baby books—the ones with clout—remind me of who I could be, not the shitty past.
My lips press against the purple blemishes dotting Zariah’s back. Shit, I had her spine slamming on repeat against the wall last night. She said nothing and took all this pain. The only word roving through my mind is: mudak. That’s what I am. The world I was born into has predisposed me to that. No amount of baby books that tried to teach me otherwise matters, for the sake of my daughter—matters.
Mouth tasting another parcel of pain that I’ve caused, I consider the truth. I have to let them go. The thought is almost enough to kill me.
Let. Them. Go. My wife, my daughter, and the seed that’s barely taken root in her belly is my son. And I am the mudak who should let them go before I—
“Mmmm, you stopped,” Zariah’s murmurs in a throaty voice. “Don’t stop.”
“I hurt you last night,” I snap before I can think better of it. “Now, you don’t want me to stop?”
Zariah turns around. Her dark brown gaze is twinkling. She starts to speak but presses her mouth against my chest. Her breath is warm as she yawns. “Sorry.”
Anger begins to rise over me.
What the fuck does she have to be sorry for?
I’m the mudak. I can still see the humbled look on my mother’s face. When someone hurts you so bad that you can’t do anything else, you humble yourself. That’s all she knew before she broke. Patience. Humbleness. Sorry.
Now, Zariah’s breath is puffing toward my jaw in tiny statics of laughter. “Damn, Vassili. I remember a time, feels so long ago, that your full name was ‘Vassili, you’re an Asshole.’”
She pauses from her laughter in an attempt to include me. I grip her cheeks. “What’s so funny?”
“What’s so funny,” she parrots in an awful attempt at my accent. After a few seconds, Zariah presses her lips to mine. “You are my everything, Vassili. We’ve had this conversation before. If you want to fuck me, then please do. And if you want to make love to me and call me queen, I’ll love you all the same. Last night, we screwed.”
With not an ounce of emotion in my voice, I reply, “I’m leaving you, Zariah.”
The first slap is free. I grab my wife’s wrist. Her left-hand juts out. I grab that too. “Zariah—”
“You-you sounded serious! Don’t make me hate you, Vassili. Don’t get lost in those dark-seeded thoughts of yours.” Her volume is hardly a whisper, but the words sting.
“Nyet, you’re the one who overthinks shit, Zar. And, dah, I am serious.”
Her arms start to wrap around my body. I push her away. She whimpers, coming to her knees. In a half-second, Zariah’s attempt to straddle me lands her in the array of blankets on the floor. “Think, Zariah.” I grip her forearms and hold her down. A tiny lioness roar comes from her. Had I not been serious, this shit would be funny.
Those pretty brown eyes of Zariah’s simmer. She closes them a second before tears begin to roll down the sides of her face.
“Think, girl,” my voice is harsh again.
“I’m your wife,” she mutters.
“I don’t need one of those. Not right now,” I grit out.
“Marriage is love and-and—”
“Compromise,” I sigh.
“I love you, Zariah. But I can’t play house with you. Fuck compromise, girl. This isn’t working for me.”
With her eyes closed, she murmurs through gritted teeth, “We were never a team, Vassili. I hate you so much. I hate you—I hate you—I. Hate. You.”
Though her tormented soul has me magnetized, I look up. Our daughter is sliding her feet and legs off the side of the bed. In a flash, I’m up and helping her down the lengthy platform.
“Good morning, Cutie Pie.”
“Daddy love, love,” she flexes and relaxes her fingers, doing sign language for ‘milk.’
My bruised heart is momentarily knitted together. While teaching Natasha Russian and English, I picked up some sign language. It’s another suggestion from those parenting books that label me a mudak. I smile, “You want milk?”
“Can we talk?” Zariah’s voice hardly reaches across my shoulder as Natasha and I walk away from her.
“Nyet.”
“Vas . . .”
“Nyet!” I growl, still headed toward the bedroom door with our daughter. Natasha looks up at me with bright eyes, repeating my word with the same force. Her beautiful fucking smile almost does me in.
The door connected to the bathroom slams shut behind her. The pallet where I fucked my wife last night looks like a disarray of us as I walk right over it.
“Let’s go see about some milk for you, Natasha,” I say, planting a kiss on her caramel forehead. With my baby girl in my arm, I unlock the bedroom door. Before I open it, I decide that a conversation with my daughter is in order. This may be the last time we have a chat in a long while—at least until Zariah gets over her fucking emotions. In this reality, shit isn’t safe for her.
“Daddy did something stupid,” I tell my kid.
“Daddy?” Her long lashes kiss her cheeks as she blinks at me.
Not a man moved to tears, I chew my bottom lip. Not ever. My little girl will never see me cry, although Natasha is my closest confidant after my broken patella. “Daddy broke mom’s heart a little while ago. I pray that God will bring you someone who won’t do that shit to you. Not on purpose—because I’d kill him and ask God’s forgiveness later. Also, not by accident too. You don’t need a husband like Daddy, Cutie Pie. You can do better than this. Better than us.”