I Married a Mob Boss

by Shandi Boyes

  When he places me on the bed, I lace my fingers through his hair and pull him down with me. He growls, concerned his weight falling on me may have added to the small collection of bruises mottled across my skin.

  “You didn’t hurt me. You never would.”

  The groan of concern rumbling up his chest is swallowed by my mouth when I seal my lips over his. I kiss him tenderly, expressing my gratitude for everything he did and still does for me. He returns my kiss with the same amount of rawness, accepting my thanks while also issuing his own. My chest puffs high, creating room for my swollen heart.

  As we kiss, lick and fondle each other, my fingers make quick work of Rico's clothes. I gasp in delight when I feel the warmth of his skin on mine. The muscles in his back twitch when I run my nails down the length of his spine, tracing the swirly pattern of his tattoo. A squeal unexpectedly topples from my mouth when he flips us over, so I'm straddled on top of him—his seemingly favorite position.

  Small white lights flicker in front of my eyes when the heat of his swollen flesh nestles between my soaked sex. I grind against him three times before leaning over and resealing our lips. The temperature in the room increases with every rock of my hips and stroke of my tongue. He suckles my bottom lip into his mouth before he playfully bites it.

  I yelp and pull away from him, laughing. "No biting. What are you, an animal?"

  He cocks his head to the side and arches a brow. “A tiger playing with his little kitten.” His words come out so rough, they sound like a growl, and they send an electric current straight to my core.

  The heated ache between my legs grows so exponentially, I'm tempted to scissor them together to ease the pain. I'm hot, wet, and needy. A flare of excitement crosses Rico's heavy-hooded gaze as he watches me squirming above him, but he does nothing to ease the discomfort his seven little words created.

  “Please. . .” I aim for my pleading word to come out strong. My effort is borderline.

  A soft purr escapes my parted lips when Rico thrust his hips upwards, dipping the first inch of his heated cock into my aching core. I arch my back and snap my eyes shut, giving my body time to adjust to the spark of vibrancy scorching through my veins only his touch can produce. My pussy contracts around him, urging him in deeper. With his hands on my hips, carefully guiding me, Rico takes his time, delivering every inch of his cock in painstakingly slow installments.

  By the time he fully sheaths me, my first orgasm is already lingering deep in my womb. Sensing my climax is close, Rico stares me straight in the eyes, lowers his thumb to my clit, then flexes his cock. With his thumb placing the perfect pressure on the swollen bud of my clit, and the devoted look in his eyes, my climax hits fruition. I hold the gaze of the man who has saved me time and time again as the blessedness of an orgasm revitalizes my drained body. My pussy clamps around him as a cold sweat coats my skin. My orgasm isn’t the strongest I’ve had, but it's the most powerful mentally.

  "This. I don't want to see any other look on your face but this.” He runs his spare hand across my pink-hued cheeks.

  Once my pleasurable quivers ease, he moves his hand away from my clit and places it back onto my hip. He adjusts my position, so I am more open to him before slowly withdrawing his cock. The wetness of my climax soothes the sting I'm feeling from taking a man as wide-girthed as him.

  I cry out in pleasure when he thrusts back in one fluid stroke. He goes so deep, he bottoms out at my cervix. I flatten my palms on his sweat-slicked pecs and meet his thrusts pump for pump. My heart rate surges when my spread hand is unable to hide my name swirled across his chest. Just like every time my eyes scan his name on my hip, a smile stretches across my face. If any name belongs marked on my body, it's his—my savior.

  When he ups the tempo of his thrusts, I gyrate my hips and contract the walls of my vagina.

  “Again,” Rico demands, his words breathless.

  He screws me in a rhythm fast enough that my chase to climax matures with every thrust he makes, but slow enough there's no chance he will hurt me. That will never happen—physically or mentally.

  Every grind of his cock increases the pressure building low in my womb. As my coil tightens, so does my grip on his pec muscles. When he adds a twist to his hips, I claw his chest, accidentally drawing blood. Regret clutches my throat when a droplet of vibrant red blood follows the little rivulets of sweat sliding down his torso. I snatch my hands away, mortified that I've maimed him. Rico seizes my wrist and places them back onto his chest before he continues pummeling into me, seemingly unaware of the injury I inflicted on him. Tears prick my eyes as the heaviness on my chest outweighs the climax brewing in my belly.

  “No!” Rico shouts, startling me when a sly tear escapes my eye and trickles down my flushed cheek.

  He glares into my eyes unyieldingly, his gaze so scorching, it dries my tears before they have the chance to fall. I bite on the inside of my cheek, struggling to keep my emotions at bay.

  Remaining hilted in me, he rolls us over, so he is now on top of me. The weight of his body adds to the heaviness on my chest but in a soothing type of way. He stares down at me with sweat-damp hair falling around his face like a dark curtain before he slowly thrusts inside me. His pace is more controlled, as is the storm clouding his beautiful eyes. He gathers my hands with his and runs them over the little indents my nails made to his skin.

  “These scars I’ll wear with pride,” he mutters, his truthful eyes adding to the strength of his statement.

  He places my left hand on his left shoulder. Maintaining eye contact, he runs my hand down the side of his back, following the pattern of his tattoo. My lips quiver when the tips of my fingers run over a jagged surface hidden beneath his dark swirls of ink.

  "Just like these," Rico continues, peering into my moisture filled eyes. "Every scar holds a story, Kitten. As long as that story includes you, I'll wear them with pride."

  Chapter 27

  Enrique

  I wake up to the feeling of silk running across my tattoo, tracing the scars marking half of my back. Usually, I’d repel from anyone touching the marks that converted me from a boy to a man. But this person isn’t anyone. It's Blaire—my little kitten.

  “I did this, didn’t I?” Her voice is so soft it matches her angelic face.

  I remain quiet as her fingertips follow the grooves hidden by a tattoo designed specifically to conceal the mottled skin on the left half of my back. It isn't that I don't want to answer her question, but the story behind my scars has never been shared, because it's simply that: a story. The scars define me as a man; they made me a man. A better man. Others see them as weakness; I don't. They are my ally, a reminder of when an angel fell from the sky and brightened my miserably bleak life.

  Ever since that day in the alleyway ten years ago, I changed. I stop being the ruthless man who could claim a life without a skerrick of remorse passing through me. I evaluated scenarios, and formulated my own response, ensuring I was only instilling punishment to men who deserved to be punished. Cowards like the men who attacked Blaire and her friend.

  I'm not saying what I've done the past ten years has been lawful, it's far from it. I was raised in a life cloaked in darkness, yet my actions have been far more tame than my counterparts’. Well, until it comes to protecting Blaire. I'll stop at nothing to ensure she is safe. Even throwing myself into the line of fire. I'll protect her until my very last breath.

  “Did you get those scars from protecting me?” Blaire’s voice sounds pained.

  “No, Kitten.” My voice is low as I struggle to mask my deceit. “They were given as a reminder of my journey. A life I chose to live.”

  When she sniffles, I roll onto my hip, letting the bed sheet fall away from my body in the process. If I can use the unmarked side of my body to distract her, I will. I hate seeing her cry. I saw enough tears spill from her eyes last week to last me a lifetime. I don’t want to see anymore.

  She peers into my eyes, her beautiful face looking tire
d and worn before her gaze suddenly drops. My cock goes from flaccid to painfully hard in an instant when a hue of pink adorns her cheeks. Even tired, nothing can take away from her natural beauty. Plump pink lips, an angelic face, and eyes that imprinted my soul with just one glance.

  Like I have every night we’ve shared a bed, I pull her into my arms and run my hand down her forearm. As much as my cock would love to spend a few more hours wrapped in her warmth, she needs rest. Although the small injuries she sustained in her attack have healed well the past week, she still looks exhausted. Her tiredness is understandable. Struggling out of the depths of hell are a brutal fight for any person to battle. It was one of the cruelest battles I’ve ever endured.

  Over time, her breathing levels out and the tightness in her shoulders relaxes. I wait a few more minutes to make sure she's sound asleep before pulling back. I like to watch her when she's sleeping. She truly looks like an angel. . . trapped in the depths of hell. A place she doesn’t belong.

  I should have heeded the warnings screaming in my brain three weeks ago when we stood at the foot of the chapel we married in. I should have walked away from her without a backward glance. But I was stuck, stupidly believing that fate had brought Blaire to me. That she was a gift for changing my life full-circle. I was reckless, and now Blaire is suffering the consequences of my stupidity.

  Although I love Blaire, I'd give anything to go back to that day and save her from this lifestyle. An angel doesn't belong living in the blackness of hell, no matter how much I want to keep her.

  When my endeavor to sleep becomes unachievable, I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb Blaire. Sleep has never been an ally of mine. I’m lucky to get three to four hours a night. Usually, I'd stay awake for as long as possible before crashing days at a time, but I can’t do that with Blaire here. I need to be on guard and alert. Luckily, when she is in my arms, my quest for sleep is more successful. That might have more to do with sexual exertion than anything.

  After pulling a pair of trousers up my legs and throwing my shirt over my head, I exit my bedroom, carefully closing the door behind me.

  I’ve been working on some developments in my industry for nearly two hours when my awareness of Blaire’s closeness activates. I lift my eyes from my youngest sister’s kindergarten enrollment forms to the door of my office. Blaire has her shoulder propped against the doorway. Her face still looks restless, but unlike hours ago, the torment in her eyes has vanished. She's wearing a knee length floral skirt and a three-quarter sleeve shirt I laid out for her earlier. She looks innocent and fuckable at the same time. Two complete contradictions.

  When I push my chair away from my desk, a smile slowly creeps across her flushed face before she pads towards me. Completely unaware of her appeal, every step she takes naturally seduces me. I'm sure over the years, other men have overlooked Blaire’s natural beauty as they preferred women who dressed more scantily. They were foolish men. I relish Blaire’s choice in clothing. It means only those privileged get the opportunity to see the skin her modest clothing hides. I just wish it wasn’t fear that altered her clothing selection.

  Blaire wasn’t attacked in the alleyway because of the short pleated skirt and mid-drift top she was wearing. She was attacked because she caught the eye of a man who shouldn’t have been looking. A man who should have known better. Her clothing wouldn’t have changed anything that happened that day. I know it, but Blaire hasn’t worked that part out yet.

  When Blaire reaches the end of my desk, I catch her by the waist and pull her to sit on my lap. Her faint giggle is replaced with a throaty purr when she discovers how her closeness soothed my hesitation and traded it for desire. The scruff on my chin scratches the silky-smooth skin on her neck when I nuzzle in close to savor her refreshing scent. Her smell reminds me of daisies on a dewy winter morning. Don’t ask me how I know what that smells like, as I wouldn’t be able to answer you, but that's what Blaire smells like. I’m certain of it.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  She lifts her eyes from the paperwork on my desk and locks them with me. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

  My chest puffs high, beyond smug. Like my entire life, my relationship with Blaire has matured at a breakneck speed. Although the expeditiousness of our relationship is daunting, I wouldn’t change a single thing that has happened the past five days. It has been perfect. Almost too perfect.

  “I had a few things I had to take care of, but it can wait; you need your sleep.” I brush a few stray hairs away from the pillow crinkle mark on the side of her face.

  She screws up her nose. “I'm not tired.” She drops her eyes to my desk. "What are you working on?" Her eyes suddenly rocket to the side as she gasps in a quick breath. “Is that. . .”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence; she just slides off my lap and pads over to a free floating bookshelf on our left. My chest grows tight when she gathers the mandatory Las Vegas quickie wedding photo off the shelf and stares down at it.

  I inwardly smile when she says, “Darn it. I was kind of hoping we had an Elvis impersonator as our celebrant.” From the lowness of her tone, I can’t tell if she's being serious or witty.

  I stand from my chair and amble to stand next to her. As I peer over her shoulder to the photo, reality dawns on me. I should have known she was drugged that night. Her outward appearance is an exact replica as she stands before me now, but the sparkle of life in her eyes that held me captive from the moment she glanced at me ten years ago is missing. Her eyes are still bright and full of life; they just aren't as vibrant as they are now. With how carefree her eyes look now, it has me wondering if I ask her to marry me again right now, would she?

  “Hmm?” I ask when Blaire’s soft voice breaks me out of my daydream.

  "Who's this?" She hands me a faded Polaroid picture in a wrought iron frame.

  I accept the photo from her grasp and roam my eyes over the lady I only remember in hazy memories. “That’s my mom.”

  My mother’s death is the main reason I returned from Russia three weeks ago. For years, I was told my mom died of a drug overdose. The older I got, the more rumors circulated throughout the compound that her death wasn't an accident, that her life was taken by a man. A man well-known to the Popov entity. My father is an abhorrent man—a reincarnation of the devil himself, but he loved my mother. She was his ahren; his gift from heaven.

  When the rumors about the uncertainty of my mother’s death reached the pillar of the Popov entity—my father, he awarded me free reign. I could use any means necessary to find out if the rumors were true. I used them, and I discovered the truth. My mother was murdered, right under my father’s nose. It was the ultimate betrayal.

  People assumed that when I killed the man who strangled my mother to death the story would end there. It didn’t. Before his death, Col Petretti disclosed that members within the Popov compound knew of my mother’s murder and hid it from my father. Spineless snitches who needed to be punished before they meet with their creator. That's why I came home. To serve justice for the people who aided in my mother’s death. Well, I thought that was the case until Blaire fell into my lap. Just like ten years ago, our chance meeting ended with me saving her life for the second time. . . before I ultimately claimed it.

  “She's very beautiful.” Blaire runs her index finger over the frame to clear away the dust that settled on the glass the six months I was in Russia.

  I purchased this apartment months before I was sent to Russia by an associate of my sister's fiancé. Contractors related to the Popov entity have been remodeling the main living areas the past six months. I was planning on surprising Blaire with news that the renovations had been finished the night she was attacked. I had planned on us moving in this weekend. I knew Blaire living in the Popov compound was dangerous, but I assumed my reputation would have been sufficient enough to protect her. Obviously, I was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  “She looks a lot like your sister,” Blaire murmurs, dragging m
e away from my thoughts. She nudges her head to a photo I placed on the mantel the day I drove her to the airport.

  I’d never expected my investigations into my mother's death to lead me to my sister. With the number of mistresses my father has, I have many siblings, more than I could count, but Isabelle is my only true sibling. We share the same blood. Just like my memories of my mother, my memories of Isabelle as a child are best described as cryptic. But the instant I saw her, I knew she was my sister. She's identical to our mother in every way, except for her eyes.

  I hated using Isabelle to seek the answers on our mother’s death, but she was the only leverage I had. Although frightened, she was never in any danger when I kidnapped her to lure Col Petretti out of hiding, despite what Isaac claims.

  She places Isabelle's photo back onto the bookshelf before shifting on her feet to face me. "The picture of the little girl on your desk. Is she your sister. . . or your. . .“

  A smirk etches on my face from the uncertainty in her voice. She's even more beautiful when she's ruffled by jealousy.

  “She isn’t my daughter. That's my sister, Callie.”

  Relief fills Blaire’s impressive eyes. “I wasn’t sure. Her eyes are identical to yours.”

  A smirk etches onto the corners of my mouth. “All the Popov children have Vladimir’s eyes. Scorched from the ashes of hell we were born in.”

  She screws up her nose. “Not all of you. Nikolai doesn’t have dark eyes.”

  Jealousy slashes me open just from her mentioning Nikolai’s name. Nikolai and I were close when we were younger, but after the incident in the alleyway, things changed between us. He became a shadow of our father—a ruthless and coldhearted man. Where I strived to become my father’s opposite.

  “Who does Nikolai get his blue eyes from?” The confusion on her face grows. “I’m assuming the lady who called me a whore at brunch is Nikolai’s mother?”