by Holly Bargo
After swallowing, Iosif said, “Your body will be tender. Take a hot bath. I’ll make breakfast.”
Another blush added a rosy hue to her skin just as Latasha was thinking she must look and smell awful.
“I… I, uh…” she stammered and looked around as though her bathrobe would suddenly appear close to hand.
Understanding her shyness, Iosif decided to indulge her and rose to his feet with smooth, strong grace.
“Half an hour,” he said, and left the room to allow her some privacy.
Latasha leaped from the bed and grunted as her body protested. The soreness didn’t prevent her from racing to the bathroom as her bladder suddenly demanded relief. A few minutes later she had scrubbed herself in the shower and washed her hair. Then she let the tub fill and eased down into the hot water to soak, liberally seasoning the water with the delightfully scented bath salts Iosif had set out for her. The warm fragrance of white tea and ginger filled the small room and clung to her skin.
“Five minutes,” Iosif called through the closed door.
Latasha glanced at her fingertips which had gone wrinkly. Ah, well, it was time to get out anyway. She dried herself off, wrapped a towel around her head, and found herself standing in front of Iosif’s closet. Should she? She’d read about women doing this. She’d watched movies in which women did that. Oh, hell, why not?
Suddenly decisive, Latasha tore one of his dress shirts off its hanger and put it on. She inhaled his scent lingering on the fabric and smiled to herself. The fine fabric felt decadent against her bare skin. She took a step and giggled at the intimate caress of cool air that wafted up beneath the shirt’s hem. Rolling up the sleeves to expose her hands, she walked barefoot into the kitchen.
Iosif’s dark eyes widened with both surprise and appreciation to see his bride wearing his shirt. He found it unexpectedly sexy, not presumptuous as he had in the past when lovers had tried the same thing. Once again he lost his English: “Krasivyy. Ty prekrasno vyglyadish' v moyey rubashke.”
“What did you say?”
He coughed to clear his throat and turned around to flip the pancakes before they burned. Because he apparently could not speak English while looking at her, he spoke with his back turned toward her, “You look beautiful in my shirt.”
“You like it?”
“Da.”
She smiled and wondered where this coquettish new personality of hers came from. “I like wearing it. I like wearing it for you.”
“Prikhodite i syest,” he bade her come and eat, gesturing to the table as he transferred the pancakes to plates.
“This looks marvelous,” she complimented him as she sat down and politely waited for him to join her.
“Sirop?” he asked, holding the plastic bottle of maple syrup.
“Da,” she replied with a grin. “What time is it, anyway?”
“We need to leave within an hour,” he replied. “That will get us to the airport in time.”
“I’ve never been outside the United States,” Latasha confessed, although she knew that he’d not be surprised. With her background, having traveled overseas would have been surprising. “Have you ever been to Costa Rica?”
“Nyet,” he replied. “It will be an adventure for us both.”
“I like that,” she said and took a sip of orange juice. “An adventure we can share.”
“Everything is packed?”
“You bet, even some things I probably won’t need.” She smiled when he raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. “Like a nightgown.”
Iosif laughed. No, she would not need a nightgown. They would sleep skin-to-skin. Predictably, his penis twitched at the thought. He ignored it. They had not the time to dally.
They finished breakfast and worked together to clean the dishes and tidy the kitchen. He noticed Latasha moved a little gingerly and handed her a couple of aspirin. She blushed at his perceptiveness and took them.
“Go get dressed,” he said. “I’ll load the car.”
Latasha obeyed, happy enough to leave the heavy lifting to him. Looking in the mirror as she confined her thick, wild curls into a loose braid, she noticed the new sparkle in her bright green eyes. Apparently, marriage agreed with her.
She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her purse, and met Iosif in the living room. He caught her to him and plundered her mouth with the type of kiss that never failed to dazzle her... every damned time. Which was probably why he did it.
“Wait for me,” he ordered, his voice hoarse with desire.
She nodded, and wanted to whimper when he retreated into the bedroom to change into clothes suitable for public viewing. Although it was a damned shame to cover up that fine, fine body, Latasha knew she didn’t want anyone else ogling her man. Probably as much as he detested anyone ogling her.
Not for the first time, Latasha gave thanks for having been given this big, strong, handsome, delicious man. In fact, as soon as the soreness between her legs eased, she wanted to have him there again. And again. And again.
Dear Lord, in the space of one night she’d turned into a nymphomaniac. Wouldn’t her best friends laugh at that? Well, Cecily would probably crow with triumph and Gia would merely smirk. And Vitaly and Pyotr and Bogdan and… oh, dear, they’d all know why her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed like that.
“Ready, vozlyublennaya?” Iosif asked when he emerged from his—no, their—bedroom.
Latasha smiled at him and replied, “Da.”
At the airport, Iosif held her hand as they walked from the parking lot to the ticket counter to check their luggage, through security, and all the way to their gate. They garnered a few curious glances and a handful of disapproving sneers, but he ignored them. Narrow-minded fools held no importance for him. He did, however, see fit to direct the occasional warning glare at those men who allowed their lustful gazes to linger a moment too long upon his wife. It made him look like a possessive lout, but he didn’t particularly care.
He didn’t notice the admiring glances he collected from women passersby until Latasha laughed and pointed it out.
“They are nothing,” he reassured her, wondering if he ought to be irked at his bride’s apparent lack of jealousy or complimented by her trust.
“I know,” she said, giving him a smile and squeezing his hand for emphasis. “If the past couple of years have taught me anything, it’s that you’re cast from the same mold as Vitaly, Maksim, and Pyotr. You’re all loyal to the bone.”
He frowned and thought that over. Although it may have sounded as though he were some blindly loving mutt, he could not deny that loyalty was as much a part of his makeup as were his black hair and black eyes. “Da,” he replied with a satisfied nod. Then, running the back of one finger down her cheek, he asked in a quiet voice, “Are you still very sore?”
A pretty flush darkened Latasha’s cheeks in response to his question and she squirmed. “A little,” she admitted. “The aspirin helped.”
“Shall I leave you to recover tonight?” Iosif thought that his bride would never know how much that considerate question cost him. After two years of repressing his baser instincts, the very last thing he wanted to do was pass a night in platonic friendship with his wife. No, he wanted to wallow in her body, imprint the satiny texture of her skin upon his palms, drink of the nectar that flowed from her pretty pink honey pot, breathe in the heady fragrance of her perspiration when lovemaking made the skin bloom with heat.
Flattered by her husband’s tender care for her wellbeing, Latasha smiled and answered, “Don’t you dare, Iosif.” She squirmed again, feeling the residual effects of her wedding night. “I love the way you make me feel. I love the way my body aches because it reminds me of you.”
Iosif couldn’t think when he’d heard more tender, intimate words. He wrapped a big, warm hand around the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss. Several onlookers frowned at the inappropriate, public display of affection. One elderly man sitting across from them caught Iosif’s gaze with his own t
winkling eyes and grinned.
“Newlyweds, eh?” His faded blue eyes glanced down at the coordinating rings the bride and groom wore.
“Married yesterday,” Iosif replied.
“Congratulations, my boy. She’s a beauty.”
The flight attendant called their zone for boarding. Iosif gave the old man a friendly nod as he rose and took Latasha’s hand.
“Enjoy your honeymoon!” the old man called after them.
“Oh, we will! Thank you!” Latasha called back as Iosif led her away.
The flight attendant scanned their boarding passes and ushered them into the jetway. They quickly found their seats and were soon buckled in.
“I can’t believe you got first class seats,” Latasha enthused.
“I am too large for coach,” he said as he tucked her hand into his lap. “And I will not be parted from you.”
What he did not tell her was that the rent money she had paid him had gone to finance their honeymoon. Iosif could have afforded the expense on his own, but he liked knowing that he’d used the money she had paid him—not that he had ever asked for it or even wanted it—to indulge in a luxurious vacation for the both of them.
He watched Latasha watch the activities of the transportation crews and baggage handlers through the porthole. He knew she’d never flown before and took pleasure in her interest in everything going on.
She turned to face him, green eyes sparkling and a bright smile illuminating her face. “This is so exciting!”
He smiled back at her and agreed just as a flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder to ask if he and his companion would like something to drink.
“Champagne,” he replied. “We are celebrating.”
“What’s the occasion?” the attendant asked with a polite smile.
“Our wedding,” Latasha blurted, joy fairly bursting from her.
“Newlyweds? Congratulations!” the flight attendant said with a genuine smile that time. “That definitely calls for champagne. Unfortunately, we only have sparkling wine, but I’ll open up a bottle.”
As soon as there was a break in the stream of passengers creeping toward their cramped economy class seats, the attendant popped into the tiny galley and brought the festive wine to them in plastic glasses.
Bringing the drink to her mouth, Latasha snorted as the fizzy bubbles tickled her nose. She sneezed and laughed at herself as Iosif took a small sip of the inferior vintage.
“You know, I’ve never had champagne before,” Latasha said as she took a small sip to sample the bubbling wine.
“You still haven’t,” he said. Her smile faded, making him feel like a brute for having dashed her high spirits. So, he smiled and said, “I will make sure you do, though.” He lifted her free hand and kissed her palm. “You should have nothing but pleasure and joy, and I will do my best to make it so.”
Latasha set the cup on her leg and leaned her head against Iosif’s meaty shoulder. “Oh, Iosif, I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do. But I’m an emergency room nurse. There won’t be a surfeit of pleasure and joy in my life, but there will be satisfaction.” She lifted her head and looked him in the eye, her emerald gaze earnest. “I can do good in this world, and that’s not to be lightly dismissed.”
Iosif did not take offense at her words, because he knew she meant no comparison between what he did and what she did. He’d learned a great deal from Vitaly and, more often than not, he dealt in blood, pain, and cruelty. He was no one’s savior. It was his job to break the toughest of the tough down into quivering jellyfish and extract all the information they harbored. Sometimes he got to use his skills for vengeance. Seldom were his skills employed to spare someone from harm.
Again, he ran the back of his finger down her smooth cheek. “Perhaps someday the good that you do will balance out what I do.”
“I hope so, Iosif, because you’re not a bad person.”
He raised an eyebrow. There were thugs all over the greater Cleveland area who would laugh themselves silly at hearing that—right before they soiled their pants.
Her expression serious, Latasha’s quiet voice throbbed with intensity: “You do bad things. I know that. But you are not evil. You don’t enjoy your work.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered, “Spasibo, moya lyubov.” He deeply appreciated her faith in his good heart and vowed never to confess to her that he found a certain sense of satisfaction in his violent life. He relished the tactical and strategic skill necessary to eradicate a disrespectful gang from Bratva territory. Maksim kept his territory safe and woe betide the foolish thugs who thought to disrupt that peace. He felt no remorse when he killed to protect his Bratva family’s interests. He took some solace in that he only hurt those who were threats.
Iosif Drakoniv took some small pride in sticking to a rigid code of honor that did not tolerate harm to innocents, which generally meant women and children. Carmen Montoya had been a rare exception.
The captain’s voice broke the hum of passenger conversation to announce the aircraft would be headed toward the runway in a moment and to request that everyone stow his or her tray tables in the upright and locked position and to fasten their seat belts. He enjoined all passengers to pay attention to flight attendants as they recited the usual litany of safety instructions and general prohibitions against smoking anywhere in the cabin. Latasha listened with rapt attention, as Iosif knew she would.
Gripping his forearm, she leaned close and whispered nervously, “Do they really think the plane will crash?”
“Nyet, vozlyublennaya. They merely prepare for the worst. The aircraft is very safe.”
“But what about that airplane that crashed in Brazil not so long ago?”
“They ran out of fuel and air traffic control did not authorize landing.”
“Well, if our plane gets low on fuel, then the captain had damned well better land it anyway. I am not dying on our honeymoon and neither are you.”
Iosif chuckled. That was the feisty woman he loved.
The jet engines whined as the turbines gathered power for liftoff. Latasha’s hand clenched Iosif’s arm. He endured it without wincing, although he silently acknowledged that his skinny bride had a strong grip.
The aircraft left the ground, and Iosif watched his wife’s full lips move silently in prayer. He covered her white-knuckled hand with his big, warm one to help ease her anxiety. Perhaps he should have gotten a prescription of Xanax or something to make the travel less stressful. Knowing his beautiful and opinionated bride as he did, though, she probably would have refused to take it. Oh well, he’d just have to fuck her senseless as soon as the opportunity presented itself. At that idea, his cock thickened and swelled behind the plastic zipper of his dress slacks. He hoped the plastic would hold and why in the hell didn’t fine clothiers use stronger steel zippers anyway?
He heard Latasha chuckle, a sultry, throaty sound that never failed to heat his blood. He met her gaze, which flickered down at his crotch, then back up again. Red tinged the delicate mocha of her cheeks and her eyes gleamed. Iosif’s lips stretched in a smile that could only have been described as wicked.
“If only we were alone,” she murmured, a naughty little smile playing on her face.
“Who needs privacy?” he murmured back.
She inhaled with surprise, not quite a gasp, more than a simple breath. “You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
Latasha shook her head, that pretty blush spreading down her neck and across the elegant sweep of her delicate collar bones. She knew better than to take that challenge. Iosif Drakoniv did not lose.
Iosif gave his unexpectedly shy bride’s hand a light squeeze. If she were one of the fast and loose women from his past, then he’d ignore the other passengers and the flight attendants and bring her to climax right there in the airplane seat. But Latasha could be very modest, and he would not shame her. To ensure she understood that, he brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the knuckles, and said, his voice
thick with emotion and a heavy Russian accent, “You are the one good and pure thing of my life. I will do nothing to sully that.”
A fluttering sigh behind them was followed by a whispered, “Kyle, did you hear that? How romantic. How come you never said anything like that to me?”
Latasha’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she choked on a snicker of laughter. Glad to see that her anxiety had eased, Iosif reached down for his wife’s oversized purse and pulled out a paperback novel. Wordlessly, he handed it to her. Equally silently, she accepted it and settled in to read until they landed.
She gladly let her mind be swept away by the travails and adventures of Elvis Cole and his sociopathic, homicidal sidekick Joe Pike, whose character reminded her more than a little of the man she now called husband. Except that Iosif was almost certainly less sociopathic and definitely sexier.
Iosif drew another paperback from Latasha’s purse and began reading. He did not begrudge his wife her drug of choice for escaping the anxiety induced by air travel. He did not feel the need to fill the companionable silence they shared with inane babble. After two years of living together, they had found comfort in each other’s presence, an enduring place of acceptance and love that needed neither florid poetry nor dirty talk.
They changed planes in Houston. Their layover had been planned to accommodate a delayed flight or to eat supper. As the weather, the aircraft, and the air traffic controllers had all aligned in cooperation, supper remained on their agenda. Latasha gladly settled her hand in Iosif’s firm grip as they walked through the crowded airport to the food court.
“What do you want to eat?”
She swiveled around and looked at the myriad options. “I’ve got to try a place called Cat Cora’s Kitchen.”
Iosif nodded and escorted her there. A hostess soon seated them, and a waiter quickly brought them menus and took their drink orders.
“How much time do we have?”
“About ninety minutes.”
“Okay.”
The waiter returned with their drinks and asked for their menu orders. Latasha just blinked at the menu, silently calculating the prices.