Russian Love: Books 1 - 3: Russian Lullaby, Russian Gold & Russian Dawn

by Holly Bargo

  “Zakazhite to, chto vy khotite,” Iosif said quietly, instructing her to order whatever she pleased.

  “Eto dorogo,” she answered in the same language, protesting the high prices. “Maybe we should try somewhere else.”

  “We are on our honeymoon, lyubimaya. There is no better time to splurge a little.”

  She met his earnest gaze and relented. A lifetime of counting pennies and pinching them until they screamed proved a hard habit to break. Mama may not have felt any shame in living off public assistance; but, Latasha had, and she vowed she’d not live that way again. It would have been nice to have pursued a career in art or music, but art and music usually failed to pay the rent or buy the groceries. Nursing, while not her passion, remained a solid career choice. And she was good at it. A good nurse could always find well-paid employment.

  Iosif permitted her the independence of ordering for herself, knowing how hard-won that independence had come. Were she another woman, he would have assumed authority and ordered for her. His Latasha would have felt belittled, restrained, and suffocated by such behavior. She would not consider it an alpha male’s care for his woman, but a subjugation or indictment of her inability to make a decision that pleased her.

  He hoped that one day she would trust him enough to order for her. A woman such as his wife could be gently led, but never bullied.

  Their food arrived in good time. Latasha exclaimed over the Asian fusion cuisine, sampling from Iosif’s plate even as he sampled from hers.

  “This is so good!” she enthused. “I’ll have to see if Cece can make this the next time she visits.”

  The mention of Cecily dampened Iosif’s mood, although he knew that the plump blonde remained his wife’s dearest friend. Oh, he understood why she had left Pyotr. Few women of good moral character—the phrase tasted sour on his tongue—could tolerate living with a thug. But Pyotr was his best friend, and the poor man had been utterly crushed when the Midwestern farm girl had panicked and abandoned him in a crisis of conscience.

  Latasha caught the flicker of emotion that crossed his expression before he concealed it. Setting down her fork, she reached across the table to rest her hand on his forearm. “I know you’re still angry at Cece, Iosif. Frankly, I am too, a little. But we’ve got to understand that she doesn’t have our background.” Latasha shook her head. “It’s so weird, a corn-fed farm girl and an inner city sista becoming best friends, but just as my upbringing is impossible for her to really understand, so is hers to me. I can’t imagine getting up at oh-dark-thirty to slop the hogs or milk the cows or whatever it was she did before breakfast every morning. We just have to accept the differences and be glad that it all worked out in the end.”

  “You are forgiving.”

  “I have to be. I love her like she really was my sister, except that two of my real sisters are crack whores and the third is showing every sign of following in their footsteps.” She tilted her head. “I hate that my family is a cliché of everything that’s wrong with urban Black America: lazy, ungrateful welfare mom with half a dozen kids from as many fathers. Of my brothers, one died because of gang violence and the other will probably suffer the same fate, but not before he gets a few kids on a few baby-mamas and the public picks up the tab for their care.”

  She sighed again. “I got out of there. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got out. If any one of my siblings ever asked me for help to get out, I’d do whatever it took to make it happen.”

  “I know, Latasha. I admire your strength. It’s why you will give me strong, smart children.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O of surprise.

  “An intelligent man does not want a stupid wife. He wants a smart wife who will give him smart children.”

  “So, you married me for my brain?”

  “No, I married you because—since the moment I saw you—my cock would rise for no other woman. Ya lyublyu tebya.”

  “Aw, I love you, too, you big softie.”

  Iosif drew back, puffed out his chest, and pulled his wife’s hand to the rigid length of him beneath the straining zipper of his trousers. “There is nothing soft about me.”

  Latasha felt her bones melt and her blood sizzle. She rasped, “Oh, God, no, there is nothing soft about you.”

  Their waiter returned, set the check on the table and left, carefully averting his eyes from the randy newlyweds.

  Iosif slapped down some money, sufficient to cover the cost of their meal with a healthy tip. He rose, pulling Latasha up with him. She grabbed her purse and he marched her toward a family restroom, keeping her positioned in front of him to conceal his very obvious erection.

  The family restroom was unoccupied. He shoved Latasha inside and followed her, locking the door behind them.

  “Ty mne nuzhen,” he growled his need, even as he cupped his hand around the back of her head so he could plunder her mouth.

  Latasha moaned, tasting wine and lamb on his tongue. She felt him lift her skirt and tug down her panties, which were damp anyway. Her own hands fumbled at unfastening his belt and unbuttoning his pants at the waistband. She moaned again, feeling his warm fingers stroke her, sliding through the slick folds, teasing her suddenly aching center. Iosif broke the ravenous kiss and turned her around.

  “Hold on to the sink,” he ordered as he slid downward to draw her panties off her smooth legs. He straightened and used his legs to spread hers apart. She heard the rasp of his zipper and then felt the broad head of him probe her swollen pussy lips.

  “Iosif,” she moaned and felt her hips tilt in needy invitation. Dear Lord, she felt empty! She needed him inside her. Now. “Please.”

  “Ty moya, vsegda moye,” he growled as his hands settled on her hips, wrapped around the sturdy bones, and held her as he pushed into her body.

  “I’m yours!” she agreed with a squeal as he filled her in a single, inexorable stroke. She trembled with the urge to buck against him, but his strong grip held her still. She whimpered as he withdrew and squeaked when he slammed back in. Soon the tiny room’s air filled with the rich, distinctive sounds of vigorous sex and the musky scent of arousal.

  Latasha felt her husband thicken and jerk erratically inside her as he ejaculated with harsh grunts, one arm wrapped around her waist to hold her where he wanted her, the other hand clenched on the edge of the sink. She cried out as the flood of hot semen triggered her own release, sending her body into uncontrolled spasms that would have knocked her off her feet if Iosif’s strong arm were not wrapped around her.

  Iosif exhaled heavily, his body curled over his wife as he strained for breath and summoned his strength and will to remain standing. Only Latasha had such an effect on him. Only she could make him forget their flight left in ten minutes.

  “Blyad,” he cursed as his softening dick slipped from her body. “We’re going to miss our flight.”

  “Oh, God,” Latasha whimpered even as she reached over the sink to withdraw several paper towels. She handed a wad to him, withdrew more, and quickly splashed those with water from the spigot. Her hands trembled with the aftermath of their passion.

  “Let me,” he said and took the dampened towels from her hand. With deft care, he quickly wiped her clean and helped her back into her panties. He then wiped himself and stuffed his softened penis back behind the zipper.

  “Everyone’s going to take one look and know what we were doing,” she moaned when she saw her reflection in the mirror.

  “We’re newlyweds,” he said. “We doing what everyone expects newlyweds to do.”

  God, he loved that blush!

  Chapter 3

  Relaxed to the point of thinking her bones had melted, Latasha fell asleep on the long flight to the western coast of Costa Rica. Iosif kept hold of his wife’s slender hand as he looked through the porthole at lusciously green mountains and tan strips of beach. When they neared their destination, he stroked the back of one finger down her cheek and whispered in Russian, “Sweetheart, it’s time to
wake up. We’re going to land in twenty minutes.”

  She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his arm. He could not help but smile at her unconscious affection and sensuality, but he knew he couldn’t let her continue to sleep, if only because he couldn’t carry her and their luggage.

  “Latasha, we’re there.”

  She blinked, her long lashes sweeping the air like small, feathery wings. She gave him a sleepy smile and turned to look out the porthole. Her mouth formed a silent “O” in awe at the magnificent scenery passing below them.

  “It looks so beautiful,” she breathed.

  “Da,” he replied, gazing at her.

  She glanced back at him, saw that he focused his eyes on her, not on the disappearing scenery below, and blushed. With a whine from the jet engines, the aircraft began its descent, which made her ears pop. She winced. Latasha clutched at Iosif’s hand, anxiety tightening her grip until the wheels made contact with the runway and the aircraft slowed to a roll.

  “Take-offs and landings make me nervous,” she confessed.

  “That’s when most crashes happen,” Iosif said, validating her anxiety. “But they happen infrequently. Commercial jets have redundant systems.”

  Latasha nodded. That made sense.

  They remained seated until the plane pulled into its assigned bay and the jet bridge extended to meet it. The sound of clicks as passengers unfastened their seat belts reverberated throughout the cabin was followed by controlled mayhem as they rose to retrieve their carry-on bags from the overhead bins. Iosif rose at the same time as the passenger across the aisle from him. He directed an icy glare at the other man, who raised his hands in a gesture of submission and lowered himself back into his seat.

  “Spasibo,” Iosif thanked him with a curt nod. He stood, hunched a little because he preferred not to crack the top of his head against the ceiling, and rolled his shoulders. Extending a hand to his bride, he bade her come to him.

  Not particularly noticing that he’d spoken in Russian again to her, Latasha rose to her feet and took her place in front of her husband. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him. He leaned forward, nuzzled her hair, and asked, “Do you want to go to our room first or have dinner?”

  He rolled his hips against her, and she felt the bulge of him against her lower back. Latasha bit her lower lip to keep from whimpering at the nonverbal promise of bone-melting pleasure. But her stomach rumbled and Iosif’s chuckle ruffled her caramel curls.

  “Supper it is,” he murmured and pulled down their carry-on case which contained sufficient clothing and toiletries for an overnight stay in case their luggage failed to arrive at the same time and destination as they did.

  The line began to move in fits and spurts as people generally exercised polite and courteous behavior allowing the passengers in the rows ahead of them to gather their belongings and deplane first. Iosif was grateful to stretch to his full height on the jetway and strongly considered upgrading their tickets to first class for the trip back to Cleveland. He might not have been as big as Pyotr, but he was still bigger and taller than most men.

  They made their way through customs and baggage claim and finally to the taxi stand.

  “I don’t suppose you read Spanish?” Latasha asked.

  “Nyet.”

  She sighed as they approached the taxi stand. “I can speak a little; it comes in handy in the emergency room. But reading? Not so much.”

  “English?” she asked an attendant. She repeated in Spanish, “Ingles?”

  “Sí! Sí! I speak good English,” the attendant replied, his white smile brilliant in his swarthy face. He blinked

  Latasha smiled with relief. “Oh, good.” She looked back at Iosif. “Where are we going again?”

  Enunciating with care, Iosif said, “We need taxi to Blue Parrot Resort.”

  The attendant’s chocolate eyes gleamed with recognition. “Ah! Is very exclusive. The place is magnifico! Sí, I will direct driver for you.”

  The man strutted to a short line of luxury vehicles and gestured emphatically as he spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to the driver. The driver hopped from the car and popped open the trunk. Without waiting for further instruction, he grabbed their luggage and tossed it in. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured to his passengers. Neither noticed the attendant quickly snap a photograph.

  In halting Spanish, Latasha inquired, “Tarjeta de crédito?”

  “Sí,” the driver replied, eyes widening upon seeing her bright green gaze. “Tus ojos verdes son hermosos, como esmeraldas.”

  “Er… gracias,” Latasha replied.

  “Chto on skazal?” Iosif asked softly.

  “I’m not sure what he said, something about my eyes,” she murmured back.

  Iosif directed a glower toward the driver, who smiled back at him. The hairs on the back of Iosif’s neck prickled. His instincts, finely honed, alerted him to danger; however, he wasn’t sure whether the danger was to him or Latasha. He took Latasha’s hand in his and wished he’d somehow smuggled a firearm or at least a knife. He could use either with impressive skill.

  The drive to the resort passed without incident. The driver maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing back at his passengers. After encountering the icy glare of the big man, he dared not let his gaze linger upon the uncommonly lovely woman who sat in the back seat and gazed open-mouthed with wonder at the lush tropical scenery just beyond the window.

  Upon arrival, the driver opened the passenger door and then popped the trunk to lift out the suitcases. He accepted the American bills the big, formidable looking man pressed into his hand, even though the woman dug into her purse and held out a credit card to pay their fare.

  “Priyekhat,” Iosif commanded, settling a hand low on Latasha’s back as she grabbed the handle to her suitcase.

  “I’m coming,” she said as he gently propelled her up the golden brick walkway to the hotel’s bright and airy front entrance. She inhaled warm, moist air scented with the salty ocean glimmering in the distance and the verdant forest just beyond the resort’s manicured grounds. She could hear the squawk and trill of birds concealed among the heavy foliage. “Iosif, this is beautiful!”

  “Is nice,” he agreed. “You are beautiful.”

  She giggled, feeling more lighthearted and carefree than she had in a long, long time. “I think I’m going to want to stay here forever.”

  Iosif privately agreed that the idea of returning to cold, dreary Cleveland held little appeal compared to their honeymoon getaway. “Someday, I will take you to Russia.” Latasha gave him a puzzled glance, as though doubting any place in notoriously cold and grim Russia could compare favorably to Costa Rica. “Krasnodar, Kirov, or even Saint Petersburg,” he elaborated. “We’ll see great art, listen to beautiful music. It is magnificent.”

  “Not tropical, though.”

  “No, not tropical. But beautiful all the same.”

  Latasha sensed his disappointment and felt guilty. She reached out to rub his arm and said, “I’d love to visit Russia with you some day. Anywhere with you will be wonderful.”

  Iosif favored her with one of his rare smiles and her breath caught in her throat. She already thought him handsome in a severe sort of way, but his smile made her think of sunshine breaking through thunderclouds, both startling and illuminating.

  They entered the cool, air conditioned lobby and checked in at the front desk where staff spoke fluent English, much to their relief. Key card in hand, they made their way to the hotel room, spacious though not a suite. It opened up onto a small balcony that faced the shore.

  “I can see the ocean from here!” Latasha announced, then retreated back indoors to unpack.

  With shared efficiency, they soon emptied their suitcases and stowed their clothes and toiletries in the appropriate places. With admirable restraint, Iosif caught his bride to him for only a handful of intense kisses, each leaving her dazed and aroused.

  “Supper,” he said.
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br />   Latasha could not have prevented the moue of disappointment that pursed her lips. Falling into bed with her husband sounded like a much better idea. Iosif recognized the gleam in her eyes and chuckled.

  “Let me take care of you, lyubimaya. First, we eat, then we relax.”

  She pouted.

  “I will work very hard to make sure you are very relaxed,” he purred, sliding a hand down her arm and resting it on the gentle flare of her hip.

  A sigh eased from her lips and she followed him from the room. They quickly found the resort’s on-site restaurant where they indulged in a meal of local seafood, fresh vegetables, and sweet tropical drinks.

  “I’m stuffed. Let’s walk along the beach,” Latasha suggested.

  Iosif could not deny her the simple request. Hand-in-hand, they followed the gravel walkway to the sandy beach. He slipped off his shoes and socks; she toed off her sandals and knelt down to roll up the cuffs of his pants. Hand-in-hand, they strolled, laughing when saltwater foamed over their feet and ankles.

  “It’s not like Lake Erie,” Latasha exclaimed in delight.

  “Is warm,” he acknowledged and thought he’d never seen her so carefree and beautiful. Without thinking, he turned her toward him and pulled her close. She automatically raised her face and reveled in the long, passionate kiss that made her womb clench with anticipation and her spine tingle.

  “Make love to me,” Latasha whispered against his lips when he drew back so they could breathe. “I need to feel you inside me.”

  Iosif groaned and looked around. Other resort patrons were enjoying the private beach, and he saw no place nearby where they could be private. He pressed a hard kiss to Latasha’s mouth and grasped her hand, leading her quickly back to the hotel.

  The door had hardly shut when he practically tore his bride’s clothes off her body. Buttons popped as he tore his shirt open and flung it across the room. Latasha fumbled with the button at his waistband, so there went another plastic projectile. The zipper on his pants rasped open and Iosif shoved his trousers down. Latasha took a step back as she took in the sight of him. Her jaw dropped a little, her mouth slackened, her eyelids drooped. She pressed her thighs together and felt the slick moisture of her own arousal coating the smooth skin.