Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  “And you can see that view after I get some ass.”

  Zariah grumbles about how I always put her to sleep while a stiletto goes flying across the massive bedroom space. I yank her into my arms, walk the long length of the entryway and throw her into the bed. A goose-down duvet flutters around her shapely frame.

  “Whoever gets undressed first is on top,” I growl.

  Though it’s dark, light sparks shine in her eyes. She starts shoving down tights and tugging the buttons of her knit dress.

  I’m out of my clothes in seconds. My cock salutes my wife. “I win.”

  “Aw, you’re an asshole, Vassili,” she groans, still playing with the buttons.

  I climb in bed, snatch her fat ass and pull her under. Zariah’s thighs don’t readily wrap around mine. The shit is usually so miraculous as her thick thighs splay. The buttons down her dress clatter along the marble floor as I tear her out of it.

  “You picked this dress, not fair,” she pouts. Now, my fucking miracle happens as her luscious thighs drape around my waist.

  “Dah, I picked it.” I toss a kiss along her protruding bottom lip before sucking it into my mouth.

  “See? Not fair,” she manages to say.

  Shit, I picked the dress because my wife complains about being cold and this one, at least, fell over her curves.

  “You want to be on top, girl. You want to ride this Russian cock?” My dick grinds against her.

  “Mmmm, please let me ride your cock, Daddy,” she purrs.

  I bite the fuck out of her lip, grinding harder, then lick up the taste of copper. She took that pain. No complaints. I’m a proud mudak as I flip until Zariah’s thick body bounces on my hard erection.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  I lean up, my stubbled jaw scratching at her soft cheek. “Fuck me, girl.”

  The type of smile that would make any man buy a ring brightens her face. Zariah unclasps her bra. I grip her thong, slaughter her pussy and ass with it while yanking it up and shredding it off. Her wet pussy drags across my abdominals as she slides down.

  “Lick that sweet cunt juice off me first,” I order.

  “Yes, Daddy.” Zariah slides down until she’s aligned with my knees. She kisses the head of my cock before dragging her tongue along my abs. “Damn, my juice tastes so good on your body,” she murmurs against my eight pack.

  I grip her hair, “Good girl. Suck my cock and lick my balls. I’ll let you know when you can jump on my dick.”

  Grabbing the base of my shaft, Zariah engulfs one of my balls into her mouth. Pre-cum seeps at the top of my dick. She pulls my other ball into her mouth, swirling her tongue. An animalistic growl roars through me.

  “Fuck,” I groan. I’m not waiting for her lips on my dick. That pussy sucks me in as professional as her mouth. I tangle her weave in my hands and bring her up.

  “Squat, girl, and work that pussy for me.”

  She aligns the heels of her bare feet next to my hips, one hand on her breast while the other pushes back fat folds. Her clit is on display as I watch her cunt swallow my dick. My eyes roll back, and she’s screaming my name the instant I shout hers.

  39

  Zariah

  The lips of my pussy have never been so heavy. The sweet taste of it glosses my tongue, intoxicating me as my ass and hips slap down on his cock. I gain leverage, working Vassili’s kingly erection. I twerk and twirl like I’m riding a bull. My husband reaches forward. The entire act stretches my pussy. His thumb makes circles on my pearl.

  “Oh shit,” I grunt, clinching his cock tight.

  “Keep jumping my cock,” he growls, his thumb and index tweaking my clit.

  “Fuck, hurt me, hurt my clit,” my voice is a low groan. I gain leverage again, sliding up and down. My breasts bounce, my ass pops, and my clit is tortured.

  I look down at my husband and revel in his mass of muscles. My hands glide over dips, grooves, and masculine ridges. I gasp when I end up beneath Vassili.

  “Hey,” I groan.

  “Shhh.” My husband moves fast as lightening. He burrows his face in my pussy. The deep growl vibrates through my inner and outer folds.

  “Vassili,” I screech, marveling at the feel of it all.

  The heaven he sent me to, breaks way into a second heaven as Vassili comes up. His hard body is on top of mine. The gentle scrape of his jaw rubs against my cheek until I’m kissing his wet mouth.

  “That’s my water,” he groans as my tongue glides around his.

  “Tastes so good,” I murmur against his lips.

  Vassili lines his cock with my slit. My heart pounds. His chest crushes my nipples. I exhale as my husband enters me. His eyes stay on mine. His dick strokes deeply inside of me, and I’m mesmerized by his intense gaze. He knows my body exceedingly better than I ever could. When I moan, he concentrates on that—growing my moan until my throat is raw.

  “I’ll never stop fucking you,” Vassili declares, voice hoarse as he makes love to me.

  “Don’t stop, please . . . Don’t ever stop.”

  He continues to lavish my mind, body, soul with attention while unraveling me with each stroke. I gasp, my treasure has become his ocean. Tears cloud my vision. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t have words for my happy tears. Doesn’t claim that he hates them. Vassili continues to ride me, his hardness delicious as it crushes my softness. His light against my dark. My light—goodness—against his perceived bad.

  A wave of ecstasy crashes against the fighter and I. The world fades. All that’s left is Vassili calling my name, I match him with my falsetto.

  40

  Zariah

  Vassili gave me the best night of my life. That’s a declaration I’ve made a thousand times before. Lord knows, he’s given me the best night of my life before. Each one exceeds the last. It all started when we sat in my childhood bedroom. Vassili showed me the power, the beauty, and the fearlessness of my sex. Next, our wedding night left me breathless. As our love grew, more perfect nights blurred with the last.

  But last night elevated all that love and multiplied it. We soared to uncharted territory. Loved each other so good that the only place to go was . . .

  Down.

  I feel that shit in my bones as I get ready for the day. My fingers tremble as I zip up yet another dress. This one is black. Feels like we’re heading to a funeral. My husband matches me. The lapel of his suit is a white satin line, the rest of his designer suit, his aura . . . It’s all black.

  I almost asked if he wanted to pray this morning. We had one the night before leaving for Moscow, which has been the norm before any of his matches.

  But this isn’t a match; it’s our life. Our life is about to collide with the one that often leaves my husband’s jaw clenched and his mouth closed. Though I know enough horror stories about Sasha and his mother, I’m aware that very few women in the Resnov Bratva mean anything. Not aside from Simeon’s mother and Malich’s departed wife, Anna is respected, and Vassili has done a stellar job giving the rest of his family the stiff arm. I’m not even Russian. Where do I stand?

  “You ready?” Vassili’s gaze washes over me. His face is unreadable until his lips caress along my jaw. “You look gorgeous, Zar. What are you thinking?”

  I stare out of the ceiling-to-floor window and glimpse the Kremlin. “That I never got to see that last night all lit up.”

  There’s no laughter at my attempt of a joke. Moreover, my husband doesn’t tell me that I’ll get my chance tonight. He’s preoccupied with something so important that Vassili murmurs how gorgeous I look again. Like a muscular robot.

  We don’t share a thing with each other while heading out of the most opulent hotel room I’ve ever seen.

  In the hotel lobby, Anna has her children and Natasha bundled up. They’re not dressed for a “funeral.” However, all the men are donning tailored suits. Malich is pawing Natasha’s cheek while Yuri tussles Albina’s pigtail.

  Toying mindlessly with his cufflinks, Mikhail is seated a
little way from the family. His demeanor seems a bit foreboding and matches the dread I can’t quite place.

  “We will see you all later.” Anna smiles at me. “I won’t take my eyes off Natasha, not for a single second.”

  “I know you will keep my baby safe, Anna.”

  We all head out to two SUVs. I kiss Natasha a thousand times before Vassili places her in the car seat. Once again, Anna promises me that they’ll all be having fun at a children’s park. Yuri hands the driver extra cash, telling him to watch them all.

  The men and I get into the second SUV. We’re headed to Rublyovka. Needing to feel some semblance of normal, I find the town on Wikipedia. It’s a suburb that models Beverly Hills, with similar lavish mansions.

  At the wrought-iron gate, armed men with red pinched noses stand to attention. I gulp, eyeing each one as the SUV is allowed to enter. Luxury supercars line a lap pool that can easily measure a few New York blocks. The home is even more dominating.

  The scenario reminds me of a cartel movie with a trillionaire drug lord. Anatoly saunters down the steps with Simeon at his side. A few men follow behind them carrying automatic guns. On unsteady legs, I exit the car, contemplating who should I fear more: the man who ruined my husband’s younger years or the man who holds my secret regarding a Federal agent and yet another hotel room.

  “My daughter in law.” Anatoly holds his arms out, disregarding his son and younger brother for me.

  “You’re not hugging my wife,” Vassili growls. With my hand in his, I can only mumble a simple greeting while he guides me toward the house.

  Simeon stares down at me. Not a glower of revulsion. Not a spark of familiarity or appreciation. Not a single sign of his thoughts. Yup. I fear him more. At least Vassili’s father shows his true colors.

  Mikhail and Yuri follow us, grunting their hellos. The two brothers, Anatoly and Malich, are unexpected in their affections and respect for each other.

  “You know, that cousin of yours favors you.” I try to calm the jitters in my belly with a smile.

  “Who?” Vassili arches a brow.

  “Sim,” Yuri agrees. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say that. Meaning, if Simeon looks like the rear end of a dog—”

  “Finish the statement,” my husband grits. With him still holding my hand, I shuffle on my feet as Vassili squares off with Yuri.

  “Therefore, you look like . . .” Yuri waves his hand as if to assist with the conversation.

  Mikhail breaks a smile. “People who often resemble each other, do not get along.”

  Vassili grunts. Yuri’s smiling, although it’s not cocky. It’s genuine, and he’s staring up the stairs behind us. He says something in Russian; I think, auntie. Vassili and I turn around.

  I glance toward the top of the steps and can’t mistake the woman in a ball gown as Simeon’s gorgeous mother. She mirrors Anatoly too. With the height difference, I’m instantly overwhelmed. I assume the woman, with alluring eyes and shocks of silver hair, is the most powerful woman in the Bratva.

  “Sofiya,” Yuri says, going toward her.

  All the boys hug their aunt, Vassili last. He turns toward me. “Meet my wife.”

  Her brown eyes scoured me from top to bottom as she hugs Mikhail and Yuri. A faint smile is on her face as she hugs me. The Hallmark hug and kisses she bestows on men are dead to me. Feels like a jewelry box is embracing me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Likewise,” Sofiya grits. A half-second later, her face brightens considerably. My gut tells me that it wasn’t due to our greeting each other.

  “Malich,” she nods to him.

  “Sofiya,” he nods back, slowly ascending the steps at the front of the home.

  “If you don’t hug me.” A smile plays at the corner of Sofiya’s lips then detonates into a full-blown grin like before.

  The Hallmark preview continues. All warm, fuzzy feelings as she cries in his arms. One that leaves her body wracking. Malich wipes at her tears.

  “Do you vouch for her?” Sofiya asks him, nudging her chin toward me.

  “Dah.”

  She then takes a few steps over and hugs me too. Now, I’m smack dab in the middle of the feel-good movie.

  “Oh, auntie,” Yuri chuckles. “You asked me that.”

  “Me too.” Mikhail shakes his head as she holds me tightly.

  “I am elated to meet you,” Sofiya says again. This time, my bones warm up. All the anxious thoughts choking at my soul from earlier have vanished.

  I’m flabbergasted by her ways. Her rigidity has disappeared.

  After she deftly rubs her eye ducts, she clasps my hands again. Sofiya wags a finger at them, saying, “Any of you tell the others I cried and your all dead. Now, Mrs. Resnov, I’ll keep watch over you. Make sure the rest of the family doesn’t try to eat you up.”

  “They won’t,” Vassili growls.

  “Because the king is her father-in-law,” Anatoly adds. My husband shoots him a dark, daggered gaze as we all start into the house. The ceilings reach the sky with murals lined in gold.

  The lengthy foyer is lined with pillars and fresh-cut flowers on podiums. True to her word, Sofiya loops an arm with mine, and we travel through the mansion. We enter a room that makes the grand Russian Tea Room resemble Motel 6. Not one single inch of the room hasn’t been polished. It’s all incased in marble walls. The smell of wealth is sweetest here. She introduces me to more siblings and cousins. I expected to be overwhelmed by the entire dynamic of the mafia, but Sofiya is on one side of me, Vassili the other.

  “Have we completed all greetings?” Anatoly asks. His gaze gleans with power.

  A collective “Dah” resounds. He presses a button. A mural-like wall zips inward, revealing another room. In the center of the hidden room is a massive oak table. This is it. The secrecy of it leaves me in shock.

  Sofiya kisses my cheeks before crossing over. Anatoly and a few other brothers I was just introduced to stand before the table.

  “Malich, I beg of you,” Anatoly implores. Although it feels like an order. Like there’s no other choice.

  Mikhail tenses. Malich heads toward them. They sit. All five of them, except for Anatoly. He stands behind his chair at the head of the table. I glance around at the rest of the Resnovs. There are a token number of men who remind me of “Horace” and are still in their good graces. Names that have titles, political and such. I notice Simeon in the fold. Why doesn’t he have a seat?

  “Moy syn.” Anatoly pats the leather headrest of the head seat, staring at Vassili.

  “Nyet. I don’t want it.”

  The room seems to darken as everyone awaits the father’s reaction to an insubordinate son. Vassili finds my hand, not saying another word, not making another move.

  “This week, I lost a daughter and a son.” Anatoly clears his throat, the head seat, though not claiming it. “I could say they would be missed, they will not. In time they will be forgotten. After today, they will not be spoken of again.”

  He used such a steel voice, I doubt there were no wounds, to begin with.

  “I have a few more sons among you, the select few that are here today are important. Those that aren’t, still serve their purpose. Make no mistake, my son Vassili Karo Resnov is my successor.” He moves away from the unclaimed seat. He stops behind Malich, running a hand through his hair.

  My eyes dart to Mikhail and Yuri, they’re on edge.

  “Contrary to everyone else’s plans, mine will succeed,” he continues. The king’s slimy fingers rub through another brother’s hair and then Sofiya’s. “Though, I have my desires of one successor, I’ll give my siblings the floor. They will all have a chance to convince me of who should be next in line.”

  Murmuring follows before silence descends. This is unheard of. Why is there even a table? It’s like a boardroom with CEOs and it appears one man is accustomed to having it all.

  Anatoly says, “Before I open the floor up to any such pitch to become successor, I must f
irst make one last attempt. I’ll ask moy syn again—”

  “Nyet. Still nyet!” Vassili shouts.

  Anatoly’s eyes sparkle. “I haven’t asked you yet.”

  He calls for Simeon. The man who is the ying to Vassili’s yang locks gazes with me for a fraction of a second. All the blood running through my veins ceases its course.

  I’ll be the reason my husband becomes king . . .

  41

  Vassili

  Zariah stiffened. Why the fuck did my wife stiffen beside me? She should be assured that I’m not team Anatoly. Not now, not ever. My hand gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze. She’s not close enough. I let her fingers go, clasping her at the waist now. I bring Zariah before me, my arms around my growing son. On the next doctor visit, my wife will know that she is having my son.

  Simeon heads toward the table. My fingers thread through Zariah’s again, my chin on my wife’s head. She’s my queen and none of these mudaks understand that I love her more than the power at their fingertips.

  At the opposite head of the table, Anatoly and Simeon argue under their breath. It’s all tensed jaws, hard glares. Simeon opens the left side of his blazer. Anatoly wrestles an envelope from his hands.

  Teeth gritted, Simeon leans against the partition that would separate the two rooms.

  Anatoly snatches open the envelop and pulls out an 8 by 12 photo.

  “Nicks,” Zariah murmurs.

  “Special Agent Tyrese Johnson—presuming the alias of Tyrese Nicks, went on a wild goose chase,” Anatoly declares. “The Feds have been infiltrated. The higher-ups allow lowly FBI agents to conduct investigations on us. We’re all in agreement that nothing will be found.”

  My eyebrows pull together.

  “Zariah,” Anatoly inquires, “We must know of your association to Special Agent Johnson? I presume you knew him as Nicks when the two of you were—”

  She blurts, “We never did anything.”

  An imaginary hook slams through me with enough force to floor me. I take a few unsteady steps away from my wife. Zariah spins around, and I look her dead in the eye. I command, “Who the fuck is he to you?”