by Zoe Blake
“I can’t do this. I don—”
Gregor grabbed me by the shoulders and turned my body to face him. His dark gray eyes pierced my own, trapping me with the intensity of his gaze. Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “She does.”
He didn’t even wait for the judge to finish the ceremony.
Gregor claimed my lips in a fierce kiss full of possession and promise. His tongue swept into my mouth, swirling and capturing my own. Taking by force what was now his right.
Setting me aside, he shook the judge’s and pilot’s hands.
We immediately disembarked to find Jim waiting inside the hangar. Gregor handed him our signed marriage certificate. “See that gets filed first thing and send out a press release. Make sure it is in all the morning papers. I don’t want there to be any doubt. Samara Ivanova is now under my complete protection.”
Samara Ivanova.
Samara Ivanova was Gregor Ivanov’s wife and under his protection.
But who was going to protect me from Gregor?
Chapter 32
Samara
Several scary men in black fatigues holding even scarier automatic rifles greeted us as we disembarked. One man stepped forward with authority, and I recognized Mikhail Volkov, head of security for the Ivanov family. I wondered if Nadia still had a crush on him. I hoped not. I wouldn’t want her to share my same fate.
Parked inside the private hangar was a small motorcade of black SUVs. Gregor quickly rushed me into the backseat of the closest one. Before I could even buckle my seatbelt, the car lurched forward.
So, this was my life now?
Surrounded by guards?
Under constant surveillance?
I sat in silence staring at the engagement ring on my finger as Gregor received a status report from Mikhail on the various additional security measures that had been taken since they attacked me.
We raced through the familiar streets of Washington D.C. and then Alexandria, Virginia. Through the window, I could see several tourists stop and stare. A few even took photographs, assuming some big politician or celebrity was behind the tinted glass. Soon we were in Fairfax. A sign announced we had just entered the grounds of George Washington’s former Mount Vernon Estate. We passed several large homes before stopping before an impressive wrought-iron gate that was at least one story high and attached to a solid, two-story brick wall.
After the driver punched in a security code, the automatic gate slowly slid open. I cast a nervous glance at Gregor, but he was still talking with Mikhail who was in the passenger seat, though he’d turned around to face us in the back. He must have seen my expression, because without pausing or looking in my direction, he reached over and placed his warm hand over my chilled ones and gave them a reassuring squeeze. It was an oddly affectionate, couple-like thing to do, and I was even more oddly pleased and comforted by the gesture.
As the car rolled down a wide, tree-lined driveway, I tilted my head to look out through the front windshield. When the house came into view, I couldn’t stifle my gasp.
It was gorgeous and massive.
A white clapboard, Palladian-style home with a grey slate roof, it must have been at least four stories high with large arched windows every few feet. Behind it, I could see the gentle rolling waters of the Potomac River. The house was set on a slight hill just above its banks.
As we pulled into the circular drive, beautiful evergreen wreaths with scarlet ribbons were visible on the front door and side windows. There were also tiny electric candles in each window. While American Christmas had passed several weeks ago, I realized with a start that Russian Christmas was tomorrow.
“Whose house is this?” I whispered to Gregor.
His lips stretched into a rare smile while his eyes shone with pride. “Mine.”
“This is your house?”
“What? Did you think I lived in some villain’s fortress underground?” he teased.
My nose wrinkled as my lips twisted into a grimace. “Sort of.”
Gregor shook his head as he reached to unbuckle my seatbelt. “Let me show you inside.”
As we exited the car, the double front doors swung open. A tall, rather severe looking woman with a tight bun in her hair and pinched lips greeted us. “Welcome home, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Thank you, Matilda.”
Too busy staring at the spiral staircase that dominated the entranceway, as it spun around an elaborate crystal chandelier and seemed to head straight up into the heavens, I didn’t notice when Gregor moved to sweep me into his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m carrying my bride over the threshold.”
I blushed. I could almost believe this was a proper marriage.
Striding to the base of the staircase, Gregor tossed over his shoulder, “We don’t wish to be disturbed, Matilda.”
“Yes, sir.”
I clung to his neck as he easily carried me up a dizzying three flights of stairs. The glossy white painted wood panels and dark wood of the staircase gave way to rich cranberry walls cluttered with English fox hunt and landscape paintings in burnt mahogany frames. An open loft space took up most of the upper floor, dotted by a pair of chocolate leather sofas and a few scattered upholstered barrel chairs .
Gregor headed straight for another pair of double doors. Turning, he pushed them open with his back. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was decorated in the cozy, colonial style which favored bold colors set off by thick white crown molding and dark wood furniture.
As he swung me around, my mouth dropped. The high ceiling allowed for a wall of tall arched windows which looked out onto the Potomac. The sky was a fiery orange and pink as the sun set, sending shafts of shimmering light over the blue-grey surface of the river.
When he finally placed me on my feet again, the first thing that caught my eye was the enormous four-poster bed. Just as my still reeling mind was about to conjure up all the kinky things Gregor probably had planned for us, I saw it.
I could feel Gregor’s eyes on me as I approached it. Grasping the cool railing at the bottom of the bed, I just stared. The bright emerald green of her dress shone brightly against the white wall backdrop. I stared at the firm masculine hand, Gregor’s hand.
My painting.
Little Girl Saved.
The one someone had purchased in Boston.
The only painting of my own I had ever sold.
Hung in a place of honor over his bed.
Of course, I knew he had hung my other painting over his bed in Chicago, but I had just assumed that was to taunt me, to prove his control not only over me but my belongings and my artwork.
This… this was different.
I sold that painting close to two years ago.
“It was you. The buyer in Boston.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. I kept turned away from him, my face averted. He had an uncanny way of reading my every thought, and in this moment, I didn’t want the intrusion. My emotions were too raw.
There was a slight shuffling of clothing and the scrape of a boot on the hardwood floor as he stepped behind me. My stomach fluttered, and shoulders tensed slightly, anticipating his powerful arms wrapping around me. He didn’t disappoint. His arms caressed my sides as he flattened his palms against my stomach and eased me back to lean into him.
“Yes,” he said simply.
No. No. This wasn’t happening. He would not pull me in to believing this had some deeper meaning.
I broke free of his arms and paced across the room.
Gesturing frantically at the painting, I asked, “Why? Why do you have that?”
“Because I have all your paintings.”
“What do you mean all my paintings?”
“The ones you stuffed into your closet at your parents’ house. The ones you left behind in your art locker at school. The one from the gallery in Boston and the ones from Chicago.”
My eyes widened as he ticked off all the different groupings of my painting
s he had collected over the last three years.
I ran my hands through my hair as I paced again. “I don’t understand.”
Gregor crossed the room and tried to reach for my arm. I shrugged him off and backed away. He refused to relent, stalking me till I was trapped against the wall.
My eyes filled with tears as I slowly shook my head. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me think… make me believe….” I couldn’t even force myself to form the words.
Gregor’s hands enclosed my jaw as the pads of his thumbs caressed my cheeks. “Force you to believe what, Samara? I want to hear you say it.”
I tried to shake my head, but his grip on my face prevented me. I reached up to clasp my small hands around his wrists. “No. I won’t.”
“Would it be so terrible?” His gaze burned a dark molten steel as it searched mine. He leaned in. Instead of claiming my mouth as usual, his lips skimmed over mine, caressing. The tip of his tongue flicked out to taste my tears.
I could barely choke out the words. “Don’t do this.”
His body leaned into mine, pressing me harder against the wall. “Do what? Say that I love you? That I’ve been collecting your paintings to feel close to you?”
“Stop,” I begged, but his lips muffled my protest.
I turned my head to the side. He then bit my earlobe as he rasped, “Admit it, Samara. You love me too.”
I groaned. “I don’t. I can’t. I can’t!”
“You can’t what? Admit you’ve fallen in love with a monster?” His hips ground against mine, punctuating each word. “Admit you love the feel of my hands on you? Admit that despite three years apart you never let another man touch you?” He kissed the column of my neck. His hands wrapped around to my lower back and pulled me forward.
I inhaled the familiar spicy scent of his Bleu de Chanel cologne as my fingers clawed at his shirt, unsure of whether I was trying to pull him closer or push him away. “You can’t love me. You barely know me. This is all just a game… a sick, twisted game.”
“God dammit, malyshka,” he growled.
Placing his hands on my ass, he lifted me against his body and swung around. Taking three long strides, he flung me back. I sunk into the deep, downy softness of the navy blue coverlet on his bed. His hard body quickly followed, pinning me down. Before I could protest, his mouth claimed mine, his tongue sweeping in to devour me. The inside of my lips pressed painfully against the sharp edge of my teeth as the five o’clock shadow along his jaw scraped my sensitive skin. Each bite of pain only enhanced my awareness of him.
Pushing his fingers into my tangled waves, he curled his hands into fists as he held me captive. “Listen very carefully, you beautiful wild creature. I love you. For the last time, this is not a fucking game to me.” His gaze flicked down to the thin line of dried blood still visible on my neck from last night’s attack. “If I had lost you last night, I wouldn’t have gone on living. You are my salvation. I need to see the beauty in the world through your eyes or there is no point. Don’t you understand? You are the only light in my unrelentingly dark world.”
I couldn’t breathe. The enormity of what he was saying overwhelmed me. To be loved with such a savage violence and with such completion felt as if I were submerged in dark stormy waters and yet could still see the shafts of sunlight glimmering on the waves, cutting through the gloom.
“YA lyublyu tebya,” I cried, repeating in English, “I love you.”
The moment I blurted out the words, I realized they were true. It made little sense. It was beyond crazy to even think it possible. The man terrified me. He could be overbearing and controlling and the shadowy nature of his business scared the hell out of me but he was also incredibly intelligent and cultured and thoughtful. He was also just so powerful and sexy. He made a girl just want to curl up in those big, tattooed arms of his and never let go.
“YA lyublyu tebya, malyshka.”
Holding me around my waist, he flipped till I was straddling him. Reaching under my champagne silk skirts, his fingers slipped past my thong to caress my already wet pussy. My head rolled back as he pushed one long finger deep inside of me. With a moan, I ground my hips against the hard ridge of his cock.
“Unbuckle my belt,” he ordered.
My fingers clawed at the leather strap as I rushed to push it through the metal buckle. Once it was free, I slipped open his trousers’ button and lowered the zipper. Reaching inside, my hand wrapped around the hot, hard length of his shaft.
Gregor’s hips rose. “Fuck, baby. Yes, squeeze me tighter. Jesus, you’ll be the death of me.”
Rising onto my knees, I tried to position the tip of his cock, but my panties kept getting in the way.
With a sexy as fuck growl, Gregor twisted his hand around the fabric and pulled, tearing them off me. I placed the large bulbous head at my slick entrance. Pressing down slightly till the heavy ridge slipped inside. I bit my lip, adjusting to the feel of him, waiting for him to take over and thrust.
Gregor stayed still. “Not this time. I want you to fuck me. You’re in control.”
I braced my palms against his flat stomach and held my breath as I slowly lowered myself onto his rigid cock, Only releasing my breath in a rush when he was fully seated inside of me. From this position, I could feel every thick inch. Closing my eyes, I gloried in the slight sting of pain as my body strained to accept him.
Tearing at his shirt, I lifted it high so my hands could explore his warm tattooed skin as I lifted onto my knees again then lowered my body onto him.
Again, I paused.
His cock felt good, but something was wrong… off.
Gregor reached up. The pad of his thumb caressed my lower lip. I sucked it into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip, tasting the salty tang of his skin. “What’s the matter, baby girl?”
Releasing his thumb, I grasped his hand and lowered it till he was cupping my breast. He gently rolled my erect nipple between his fingers through the fabric of my dress.
My cheeks flamed. “Gregor, I need… I… I need…” I stammered to a halt.
His lips twisted into a knowing grin. “Say it.”
“Don’t make me.”
He bounced his hips up once, and a sharp moan escaped my lips. “You know the rules. I won’t do it unless you say it.”
“Oh God. Fine! This is too… gentle. I need you to fuck me, Gregor. Make it hurt!” I blurted out in a rush.
His large hands wrapped around my hips. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Lifting me high, he tossed me to the side of him. As I was about to flip onto my back, he commanded, “No. Stay on your knees.”
He shifted off the bed and stood at the edge. Grasping my hips again, he pulled me toward him. Next thing I heard was the rending of fabric as he tore the thin silk of my dress right up the back. The useless dress pooled beneath me. The next sound had me biting my lip and shifting my hips in dark anticipation. It was the sound of leather sliding against fabric.
He had taken off his belt.
My entire body jerked when he snapped the leather ends together, sending a deafening crack resounding across the bedroom.
His hand twisted in my hair, wrenching my head back. “Have you been a bad girl?”
“Oh God, yes! Yes. I’ve been very bad,” I groaned as memories of him saying just that when he first found me in Chicago and my illicit kinky reaction to the taunt came crashing over me.
The first strike of leather had me crying out as I pitched forward. He yanked me back by my hair.
Yes! This is what I wanted… what I needed from him.
Pleasurable pain.
Him in control.
Using me.
Owning me.
His cock thrust in deep at the same time he struck my ass a second time with his belt. As he pounded into my body, he tossed the belt aside and used the palm of his hand, making my skin sting and burn with every touch. My body rocked back and forth with the power of his thrusts.
Reaching between my legs, I swirled the pad of my finger over my clit as the pressure of my release built and built like waves crashing over me. As my climax peaked, I fell forward, unable to stay on my knees. His hands pressed into my lower back as he continued to thrust several more times before filling me with his hot seed.
Gregor collapsed next to me. His breathing harsh and heavy, he pulled me into his arms, my head resting against his chest. HE stroked my hair as he growled against my forehead, “Say it.”
I smiled. I knew what he wanted to hear. “I love you… husband.”
Chapter 33
Samara
It was late into the evening when we finally ventured downstairs looking for something to eat. I was dressed in Gregor’s rumpled light blue dress shirt and he in his even more wrinkled grey trousers.
I cried out in delight when I saw the twinkling white lights and bright red star of the spruce tree he had set up in the center of his spacious living room.
“You have a yolka tree?”
“Of course, every year.”
Circling around its evergreen branches, I inhaled the sweet scent of the forest. The living room looked more like a wood-paneled library with its inlaid bookcases filled with maroon and gold leather volumes and its black marble fireplace. Like the bedroom several stories above, the high ceilings allowed for sweeping arched windows. Since it was so late, the darkness outside only provided a backdrop for the twinkling tree lights to be reflected on the panes of glass.
Gregor padded barefoot into the room and joined me on the Persian rug where I was sitting cross-legged between the unlit fire and the tree. He handed me a heavy, earthenware bowl filled with sweet smelling porridge. As I looked down, I could see golden drizzles of honey and plump pieces of dried fruit and nuts.
“What’s this?”
“It’s sočivo.”
I sounded out the Russian word. “Soh-chiva?”
He nodded.
I inspected the dish. “You didn’t sneak any vegetable in here, did you?”
His eyebrows raised. “No. I promise. Your mother never made sočivo for Christmas Eve? It’s tradition.”