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

by Holly Bargo

  “God, you’re magnificent,” she breathed, stretching out a hand to run her fingertips lightly over the hills and valleys of hard muscle beneath the crisp pelt of dark hair. Iosif was no hairless metrosexual; he embodied virile masculinity with his hairy body and the dark, sandpaper shadow of his beard. The very visible evidence of his heavy musculature beneath the hair made her want to drool. The hot, heavy, pulsing length of his erection rising from its nest of dark curls made her mouth water and additional moisture pool between her thighs.

  Iosif felt a dark, heady satisfaction at his bride’s admiration as he took himself in hand and smeared the pearly drop of precum over the tip of his swollen and eager penis.

  “Lozhis, solnyshko,” he ordered.

  Latasha turned around and walked to the bed. Iosif stood where he was and watched the seductive sway of her hips, the delicious play of smooth muscle beneath silky skin, the firm, pert roll of her buttocks. He inhaled deeply as though he could smell the fragrance of her arousal which left a gleam on the skin of her inner thighs. He watched as she climbed onto the bed and lay down.

  Latasha could not figure out where this inner seductress came from as she felt the cool cotton beneath her back. She never walked that way, deliberately swinging her hips in blatant invitation. Speaking of blatant… she could not help herself as she bent her knees and spread her thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut as one hand trailed from the base of her throat to the curls protecting her sex while her other hand lightly circled the tight peak of her nipple.

  “Nyet,” Iosif breathed, suddenly positioned between her legs.

  Her eyelids snapped open. She gasped when his dark head bent down between her legs. Another gasp ended in a faint shriek when he placed his mouth fully against her labia in an open-mouthed kiss. His hands gripped her thighs as he did things with his lips, tongue, and teeth that she could not quite see, but which drove her out of her mind. Once, twice, three times she shattered into brilliant showers of light until she gasped for air and wondered if it were possible to die from such intense pleasure, or whether Iosif had melted every single one of her brain cells.

  When her body had relaxed, but still sparked with every stroke of his fingertips, every butterfly touch of his lips, Iosif crawled upward. With nearly unbearable tenderness, he met her mouth and let her savor the taste of her own passion on his tongue. She sighed as he eased into her body, which yielded with heated, silky compliance to his possession. Her eyes fluttered closed again as he began a slow, seductive rhythm.

  “Posmotri na menya,” he commanded. “Posmotrite na menya, kogda ya zanimayus' lyubov'yu k vam.”

  She obeyed. Latasha opened her eyes and locked her gaze with his as he made love to her and brought her to a final, inexorable climax that Iosif shared with a triumphant shout and the bone-deep satisfaction of true intimacy. Easing from her body, he gathered her close, pulled the covers over their cooling bodies, and drifted off to sleep.

  Latasha wondered if it were proper to revel in the delicious soreness between her legs and the general achiness of the rest of her body. With a furnace-like husband at her back, she lay awake and considered sliding from Iosif’s arms, but his heat soaking into her skin felt too damned good. She stretched and felt the brawny arm around her tighten, a possessive gesture that made her want to melt with happiness. She sighed. The big, long-fingered hand moved down her body and cupped her mound. She sighed again, then realized that the pressure she felt wasn’t external.

  Biology demanded attention. Latasha wriggled and her husband’s hand pressed more firmly against her, restraining her body.

  “Iosif,” she whispered. His fingers delved into her dewy cleft. She gasped and hissed, “Iosif!”

  “Kakiye?” he grumbled, voice slurred with sleep.

  “I have to pee,” she mumbled. She wriggled again. He nuzzled her. “Iosif!”

  In the dim reaches of a sleepy mind, Iosif Drakoniv realized the love of his life was upset. He drew his hand away from the warm, moist place where it preferred to stay and watched Latasha scramble out of bed and race toward the bathroom. He crossed his arms behind his head and waited a few minutes. When he heard the shower run, he determined that he’d waited long enough.

  With her head under the hot stream of water as she rinsed coconut-scented shampoo from her hair, Latasha did not hear her husband enter the bathroom or use the toilet. She shrieked with surprise when big hands took the tiny bar of soap from hers and lathered up. Then she felt Iosif’s presence behind her, felt the tap of his erection against her back, watched his soapy hands run over her body in the most sensual bathing experience she’d ever thought to enjoy. By the time Iosif knelt in front of her to wash her calves and feet, she panted with arousal. When his soapy fingers glided between her thighs, she whimpered and could not help but buck her hips. Iosif soaked a washcloth and rinsed her well where the shower did not reach and then lifted her leg, settling it on his broad shoulder. He angled himself and put his mouth on her, smiling against the squeal of pleasure that spewed from her lips. Hands gripping her hips to hold her both upright and steady, he licked and sucked her to an explosive orgasm that left her legs rubbery and trembling.

  After giving her a moment to recuperate, he gently set her leg back down. Latasha heaved great gulps of steamy air as she leaned against the white ceramic tile and watched her big Russian stand up. Trying to gather her scattered wits, she watched him as he lathered his hands and began to wash himself, admiring the swipe of his magical hands across the bulging muscles.

  With a wrench of determination, she took the soap and lathered up her hands. “My turn,” she said, though she still breathed heavily and her body felt deliciously boneless. Again.

  God, if anyone had told her a week ago that she’d enjoy sex this much, she would have laughed at the poor, deluded fool. Huh. Shows what she thought she knew.

  Iosif gladly submitted to his wife’s ministrations as she tenderly washed his body. He obliged by leaning down so she could wash his face and shampoo his hair. He hissed when she fondled his testicles and groaned when she stroked his erection. He damn near yelped when, after allowing the shower a moment to rinse him, she knelt and put her mouth over the freshly cleaned head of his penis. The heat of her velvety mouth eclipsed the heat of the water. Her tongue swiped over the glans, tickled just beneath the frenulum. He entwined his fingers in her sopping hair as her head bobbed, taking as much of him as she could until he bumped the back of her throat. Her hands teased the rest of him, tenderly stroking, gently squeezing, fingertips rubbing the sensitive perineum which made his balls tighten and the base of his spine tingle with warning.

  “Latasha, I’m going to—”

  And his hips bucked as semen spurted into her mouth. Surprised, Latasha drew back, eyes wide as Iosif ejaculated over her face, neck, and chest.

  “Oh, my,” she said, blinking at the volume he produced and thinking it was no wonder her thighs felt sticky that morning. She raised her face to the showerhead and let the water rinse her skin.

  Iosif reached around her to shut off the water. Sliding the glass door open, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around Latasha’s slender body. Skinny, others might label her, but he knew the steely strength of her. His whipcord-lean bride was tough.

  Latasha stepped from the shower. Iosif followed her, taking a second towel which he wrapped around his narrow hips.

  “What do you want to do today?” he asked, voice rumbling from his chest as he watched her pat her cafe au lait skin dry. He loved the ecru hue of her skin, not as warm a hue as caramel, not as cool as taupe. Coffee liberally softened with cream, a delicious combination of her Black mother and white father from whom she’d also inherited those magnificent emerald eyes.

  If Iosif ever found her father, he’d be hard pressed not to beat the faithless bastard into a pulp. How the man could have abandoned his precious daughter, Iosif could not fathom. He wondered if, even now, his seed had taken root in Latasha’s womb and whether their children would inher
it her brilliant green eyes and lovely skin.

  His dick twitched with renewed interest.

  “I thought we’d start with breakfast,” Latasha answered his question while his mind wandered. “I am absolutely famished.”

  Her voice recaptured his attention. “Do you want to eat here or head to the hotel’s restaurant?”

  Latasha raised one delicate eyebrow, accurately judging just what would happen if they ordered room service. There’d be eating, but not of food. Her core sent forth a fresh gush of moisture in anticipation. She shifted, squeezed her thighs, felt the achiness of the tender flesh that responded so eagerly to the mere hint of sex with Iosif. The nurse in her knew that her body—stupid, nymphomaniac body—needed a break.

  “Let’s go down to the restaurant and sit on the patio,” she suggested.

  Disappointed, yet smart enough to conceal it, Iosif expressed mild agreement and picked up a comb to begin working through her shoulder length hair.

  “I didn’t remember to condition it,” she said. “Hang on a minute. I brought some leave-in conditioner.”

  Iosif bided his time while, after wrapping the damp towel around her body, Latasha fetched a small jar of conditioner from the dresser. She scooped out a small amount and rubbed it between her palms, then massaged it through her wet hair.

  “Except for the color, my hair’s a lot like Mom’s,” she explained. “It dries out and frizzes fast.”

  At her signal, Iosif began drawing the comb through her caramel colored curls. By the time he finished, his skin had dried and his hair had gone from sopping wet to merely damp. He drew the comb quickly through his own short hair and then followed her out of the bathroom to get dressed.

  They held hands and chatted easily, discussing plans for the day as they rode the elevator to the ground floor and walked to the restaurant where the smiling hostess seated them after a short wait. Iosif noticed two men, both dressed in linen suits and wearing Panama hats, rise from their seats in the hotel lobby and follow them into the restaurant. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but he could see no obvious threat. Still, he finagled a seat that put his back against the hotel’s concrete wall.

  “Sit next to me, Latasha,” he said with a small smile as he tapped the chair beside his at the small bistro style table.

  Unaware of any reason to feel uncomfortable, she gave him a brilliant smile and took the chair. Taking the menu in her hands, she glanced up and noticed that Iosif’s gaze had sharpened, grown cold and piercing. Although she wanted to discount his sudden wariness, she knew better. After a long stint in the Russian special forces followed by long years working for the Bratva, Iosif’s finely honed sense of danger never lied.

  “What’s up, Iosif?” Her voice was barely audible.

  “I’m not sure,” he murmured. “Speak to me in Russian and stay alert.”

  “Da,” she replied.

  Satisfied as to her obedience, he nodded and said in a quiet voice, “Order for me.”

  Worried that something bothered him sufficiently so that he would not look at the menu, Latasha murmured her acknowledgement and scanned the menu for something that would satisfy the big man’s equally big appetite, something with plenty of protein.

  A waiter approached, all smiles and cheer, and offered coffee. In slow Spanish mixed with carefully enunciated English, Latasha conversed with the young man and placed their order. The waiter, obviously accustomed to American tourists, nodded, smiled, and patiently worked out what the hotel’s patrons wanted.

  Other than a few seemingly casual glances, the two men from the lobby did not seem to pay any particular attention to the newlyweds. Iosif wasn’t sure whether their apparent unconcern masked intense interest or whether they simply didn’t appreciate his wife’s beauty. He could give no reason for his uneasiness, which irked him.

  “Perhaps it’s just because we’re in an unfamiliar place,” Latasha reasoned in fluent Russian.

  Iosif raised an eyebrow. “You’re better than I thought.”

  “I’ve been studying,” she replied with a grin. “Besides, I wanted to know what you, Vitaly, and the others were talking about when you didn’t want me to know.”

  “Sneaky,” he complimented her and chuckled, thinking that Maksim would probably be appalled to know how much Latasha understood of their conversations. “Why doesn’t my job bother you?”

  “It does,” she replied with her usual candor. “But you don’t go around killing people because they looked at you funny or because you want their sneakers. And I know that Maksim’s been working on cleaning up the organization, trying to move into legitimate businesses and get off the radar.”

  “Da.”

  She tilted her head to one side and gave him that sex-kitten grin he liked so much. “And my man being a true badass makes me feel safe.”

  Iosif smiled at her, lifted her chin with the touch of a fingertip and pressed a soft kiss to her full lips. “Your man, eh?”

  “Any woman who thinks otherwise will get my foot up her ass. If you ever think otherwise, I’ll gut you with a rusty spoon.”

  Usually dour Iosif chuckled at the possessive growl in her voice. “Any man who touches you dies.”

  “Good.”

  They exchanged glances, secure in the knowledge that they both meant what they said. Latasha settled her hand over Iosif’s and gave it a light squeeze.

  “You understand me better than anyone,” she said. “That’s just one of the reasons I love you.”

  “And another?” he inquired, one eyebrow again rising.

  She laughed. “Fishing for compliments? I love you also because you’re hotter than a habanero… and you’re not a dick about it. In all the time I’ve known you, you never used women like so many other men do.”

  “My mama raised me to respect women,” he said. “Of Vitaly, Pyotr, and me, I’m the only one who had a stable family life growing up. They were orphans, raised by the state, which is a brutal way to grow up. My mama and papa wanted me to attend university, but I wanted the glory of the military. So, that’s where I went. I did well.”

  Latasha snorted. “Modest. ‘Did well’ doesn’t cover what you did, you big bear. I never understood why you went from the military to the Bratva, though.”

  “I was wounded and discharged, no longer useful to Russia. The Bratva, though, they had use for me, gave me respect when I’d lost it amid bandages, painkillers, and self-pity.” He wrapped his hand around hers, relished the protective feeling it gave him to shelter her fragile bones within his gentle grip. “Then I started carrying out assignments for them and there was no way back.”

  Latasha wanted to pry further, but understood that some secrets were too painful to share. So she asked, “How did you end up on Maksim’s crew?”

  “I heard about him through various channels, heard that he ran a little more liberated operation. His brother is a complete brute, cold, unpredictable, murderous. Rumors of Maksim showed that his brother disliked him, mainly because he held to a code of honor. I wanted to work for a man like that, even if I didn’t particularly wish to leave Russia.”

  “You liked Russia?”

  “It’s beautiful there. Sure, we get snow and cold, but that just makes us appreciate spring and summer all the more. There is nothing more delicate than a Russian summer in the countryside, nothing more spectacular after a long, icy winter. But winter has its own beauty when the sun turns the snow into diamonds and smoke curls from chimneys. Someday I will take you to my homeland, and you will fall in love with Russia, too.”

  “You make the countryside sound wonderful, certainly nicer than dreary old Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland is not all bad. I have been to your Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

  Surprised by his dry humor, Latasha laughed just as their waiter returned with plates heaped with food. Light conversation continued as they ate, punctuated by soft, fleeting touches and heated glances.

  “So, what’s on today’s agenda?” Latasha
inquired as they leaned back in their chairs and sipped cups of dark, rich coffee. She absolutely had to find out what kind of coffee this place used and how they made it, because she’d never tasted coffee so good.

  Iosif raised an eyebrow in silent suggestion.

  “No,” Latasha laughed. She took another sip and chuckled again. “I did not come to Costa Rica to spend all our time locked in a hotel room.”

  Iosif sighed with real regret, though he kept his small half-smile. He knew her body, unused to the rigors of passion, was tender. He also understood her eagerness to enjoy the activities and entertainment their exotic honeymoon location offered.

  “There’s a zip line we can go on,” he suggested.

  “Zip lining through the jungle?” Latasha’s eyes brightened with anticipation. “That sounds like fun.”

  “I didn’t know you were an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Why do you think I’m an emergency room nurse?” she quipped. “Excitement that comes with a good salary.”

  Iosif nodded, knowing that she avoided mentioning the compassion that led her to the healing profession. His bride wanted to help people, too. He thought that, perhaps, her choice of profession somehow balanced the harm he did as a professional thug. He wadded his napkin and set it beside his plate. Rising, he asked, “Shall we go?”

  “Right now?” Latasha glanced down at herself. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  Ah, she was right. He’d only thought she looked fetching in that pretty sundress and strappy sandals, not that they wouldn’t be appropriate for the zip line adventure.

  “Tomorrow then?” he suggested. “Today, I will take you shopping.”

  “You hate shopping.”

  “But I love you and you like to go shopping.”

  Her conflicted expression amused him.

  Coming to a decision, she nodded and said, “It would be a shame to go back home and not have a few mementos.”