Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  I look up to answer her and that’s when I notice it. Dimitri is more tatted up than Tupac, Travis Barker, or a neo-Nazi! When I say he is inked, I mean it. His entire chest and back is covered. Everything is done in an indigo color, and the images run the gamut from what looks like a Russian castle branded across his chest to barbed wire around his forearm to cats, skulls, and snakes. In all the time we had been on the ship, I’d never seen Dimitri shirtless. He always wore classy clothes, like linen suits and crisp dress shirts. And he didn’t swim or Jet Ski so I’d never seen him in swimming trunks. All the tats just seem so out of character for Dimitri. He’s pretty conservative, and even his casual clothes give off an air of polished sophistication. I’m stunned, still I answer, “Yes, it does.”

  I continue to stare as Amara caresses her own breasts, and then moves her hand between her legs. Dimitri grabs a handful of her luxurious mane with one hand and slaps Amara’s ass with the other.

  “Oh, baby, Dimitri is sooo good,” she shrieks as Dimitri pumps away. Eventually I lose fascination with Dimitri’s tats and Amara; Mikhail is doing an excellent job distracting me. I moan and writhe as Mikhail licks me, bringing me to the brink of orgasm.

  “Don’t stop, baby!” I gasp, pulling his head back toward me.

  Mikhail stands up and removes his clothing. I tear at his clothing to help speed up the process. His erection jutts out, and I can see his hardness throbbing with anticipation.

  “Bobbi, I don’t want to get a condom, I want to feel all of you,” he says in my ear as he lies down on top of me. I know what Mikhail wants, he wants the raw dog: unprotected sex. His dick is an inch away from entering me. He teases me with the tip of his penis, which is driving me crazy. My head is screaming Don’t do it! but my body is saying Now!

  I should tell him that people in hell want ice water, or that you can’t always get what you want and make him get a rubber, but I don’t. I know better, but I’m so caught up in the moment that I go against my better judgment.

  “Okay, baby,” I say, with only a tinge of hesitation.

  Mikhail thrusts himself inside me, and I’m lost in the sensation. I lock my legs around his back and thrust my pelvis against him, trying to get more and more of him inside me. Mikhail stops thrusting altogether and through clenched teeth says, “Be still.” I do as I’m told, but my breath is coming in rapid gasps, causing my body to move spastically. Mikhail waits for me to calm down, then begins to flex and pulse his cock inside me. He makes his dick jump and twitch until I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, oblivious to anyone or anything.

  I moan as he tosses me onto my stomach like I’m a rag doll and begins to forcefully thrust himself inside me from behind. I go crazy, throwing my ass against his body until I reach another climax. Amara follows suit, muttering in Portuguese as she comes, before finishing Dimitri off orally. Mikhail holds me by the hair, forcing me to watch the whole thing. Well, he doesn’t really have to force me. It’s like looking at a live porno.

  “Come for me, baby,” I plead because I can’t take much more.

  “Where do you me want to come?” he asks. I’m going to answer him, but he asks me a question before I can respond.

  “Can I come inside you?” he asks me.

  “No!” I reply, quickly.

  “It’s okay,” he says, grabbing my hips firmly.

  “I don’t want to get pregnant,” I manage to utter.

  “Bobbi, I love you!” Mikhail shouts. “I’m about to come. Let me come inside you,” he says. Dumbstruck by the fact that Mikhail has just told me that he loves me, I’m unable to speak.

  And then it’s too late.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE UP EARLY BUT I DON’T OPEN MY eyes. I hear Mikhail talking on his cell phone, and my curiosity gets the best of me, so I eavesdrop while I play possum.

  “Yes, I miss you,” he says. “Of course I do. I think of you often . . . You know why things must be this way, I do not wish to explain them again . . . I’m going to go now . . . No . . . No, I will see you when I return to Miami. You just concentrate on the tasks on hand. You have a lot of work to do. Yes, I love you too. Good-bye.” Who does he love too?, I wonder as he disconnects the call and then comes to my bedside. I want to sit up and ask him who he was talking to; after all, he professed his love to me the night before. But I don’t; the time isn’t right. I continue to pretend that I’m sleeping.

  Mikhail gently kisses my forehead, eyelids, and the tip of my nose before planting a kiss on my lips. I crack my eyelids open and smile sweetly.

  “You even wake up beautiful,” Mikhail says to me.

  “Mmm, you must need glasses,” I murmur.

  “I don’t need glasses to see that I’m in bed with the most beautiful and talented woman in the world, and that I’m madly in love,” Mikhail says.

  “With me?” I ask. I did just hear him telling someone else he loved them.

  “Of course with you, silly girl.”

  I grin at Mikhail, because I think he’s running game.

  “Does that grin mean you love me too?” he asks. Uh-oh. I’m checking for Mikhail, this is certain. But love is another thing. I gave up on love when Kaos died, and I know I’m not ready, or even willing, to go there. But you can’t tell a man that kind of thing without hurting his feelings. Even if there may be another woman in the picture. Fuck what they try to act like; men are just as sensitive as women are about these kinds of things. So I just continue to smile. I lift the covers up over my face until only my eyes are showing.

  “Maybe,” I say slowly and mysteriously before erupting into a fit of giggles. Attagirl. Keep it light.

  “Maybe?” He pokes out his bottom lip and folds his arms across his chest like a child.

  “Aww, baby,” I say soothingly as I stroke his back. And then he turns on me. Before I know it, Mikhail ambushes me, tickling me all over until I think I’m going to wet the bed. Then he kisses me until my head starts spinning. When we finally disengage after what feels like forever, he ruffles my hair and we sit up in bed.

  “So who were you on the phone with?” I ask, now that he’s off guard. It isn’t so much that I care, but my curiosity must be satisfied.

  “That was an ex,” he says.

  “You still love her?” I ask.

  “You could say that I love her. But I am not in love with her. Not in that way. That, my sweet angel, is reserved only for you,” he says with a smile.

  “Mikhail, I don’t own you. You can do whatever you want, just be honest, okay?” I tell him.

  “I am being honest,” he says. “And I am precisely where and with whom I want to be. Come, let me show you something.” Mikhail leads me to the windows and draws back the curtains. I gasp at what I see. We’re docked at a marina that is nestled beside an island with a large, cone-shaped mountain jutting up from the center, with billows of white steam floating around its peak. The water is so blue it doesn’t look real, yet it’s so clear that I can see the ship and the surrounding cliff side reflected in the water.

  “It’s gorgeous! This is absolutely breathtaking. Where are we?” I ask him, anxious to get off the ship and get my land legs back.

  “The Azores. We are on a little island called Faial not far from Portugal.”

  “Why is that mountain steaming?” I ask.

  “It’s not just a mountain, it’s a volcano,” he answers.

  “Active?” I ask, my eyes bugging out.

  “Yes, but not in a while.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. The last thing I need is for a volcano to erupt.

  “I think you’ll be safe,” he says, laughing at my cowardice. “We will get something to eat, and walk around a bit,” he says.

  “Go shopping?” I ask, hopeful. Mikhail laughs heartily.

  “There is nowhere to shop here. This island is very undisturbed,” he explains.

  “You mean boring.” I say, correcting him.

  “You and Amara are two of a kind. Always
wanting to shop and party.”

  “What else is there?” I ask him, grinning.

  “There is more to life than a good time,” Mikhail says to me.

  “Oh yeah, like what?” I ask him.

  “Like having something or someone else to live for. Like belonging to something bigger than you,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “Coming from a family like yours, I thought you’d understand that.”

  “Let’s not talk about my family unless you’re ready to talk about yours too. You have no idea what it was like growing up in my clan,” I tell him.

  “I’d love to talk about my family, but I have none left aside from Dimitri. We have been each other’s only family for over thirty years. But believe me, Bobbi, I know all about pressure. Not the kind of pressure you speak of, but the pressure to survive. I would have preferred your kind of pressure over the strain of not knowing where my next meal would come from. I wish I didn’t know the pressure of waiting in lines for hours for government rations, only to be refused, while corrupt pigs filled their bellies with the hard work and blood of the common man. You see, my sweet angel, Americans live to enjoy. Russians live to endure,” Mikhail tells me.

  “Damn,” is all I can say, because I feel like a complete and total asshole. I guess it’s written all over my face, because Mikhail kisses me on the forehead.

  “Do not worry. Your spoiled ways do not offend me,” he says chuckling. “You could not have known the struggles I have been through, nor would I wish them on a dog, let alone milaya angelochek moya, my sweet angel. I do not regret my life. My struggles have made me strong.” Then Mikahil swoops me into his arms and twirls me in a circle. “And rich,” he continues. “Rich enough to give spoiled little girls beautiful gifts.”

  Mikhail reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet-covered box.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Open it and find out,” he says.

  I open the box and gasp. Inside there’s an emerald pendant set in gold and attached to a delicate gold chain.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  “Are you kidding? I love it! It’s beautiful. But when did you have time to get this?” I ask him, turning around and lifting my hair so he can place it around my neck.

  “I am a man of many mysteries,” he says.

  “You’ve got that right,” I say, admiring the pendant that dangles between my breasts. I turn to face him.

  “This is the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received. I don’t know what I could have possibly done to deserve this, but thank you. Really. I’ll treasure this forever,” I tell him, staring into his eyes.

  “I know you will,” he says. “And that’s why you deserve it. As spoiled as you are, as charmed a life as you have led, you are still somewhat humble underneath it all. You appreciate me; you don’t take me for granted. That’s why I love you. That is why I am going to open up my world to you.”

  I blush but it’s slightly out of guilt. Mikhail thinks I’m his sweet angel. I do appreciate him, but it isn’t as pure as he seems to think. I admire the pendant once again and feel my guilt slip away like mist. The emerald is hypnotic. “You know, this emerald is the same color as your eyes,” I say absentmindedly.

  “I know. It’s my way of saying I’ve got my eye on you,” he says, grinning.

  “Is that all you’ve got on me?” I ask him.

  “Not for long,” he says suggestively, as he caresses my breasts through the flimsy silk of my gown. And then Mikhail puts everything he has to give on me, just the way I like it.

  Aside from the pendant and the phenomenal lovemaking that follows, the time spent in Faial is pretty uneventful. One thing does stand out in my mind, though, and that’s Amara’s comment about the emerald when she sees it.

  “Mikhail gave you that, baby, no?” she asks while we wait for our food at a local restaurant. Dimitri and Mikhail have gone to the restroom, and we’re seated at a table awaiting an Azorean specialty, a stew that has been prepared by putting the ingredients in a cookery vessel and placing it underneath the ground where it is cooked by the island’s natural hot springs.

  “Of course. I can’t afford anything like this on my own,” I tell her.

  “Bobbi, baby. Nothing in life is free, remember that.”

  I know that what Amara says is true. Nothing in life is free. I just wonder what price I will ultimately have to pay for everything that’s been bestowed upon me.

  THE REAL ADVENTURE BEGINS WHEN WE REACH IBIZA. WE ARrive just as the sun is setting, and we gather on the deck as the ship docks at Marina Botafoch. As dusk draws, the sky is illuminated in a shade of purple, and the entire island seems to be made up of little ivory buildings that are layered and piled up, one on top of the other, causing it to glow like a giant birthday cake. From the sounds of horns, scooters, radios, and laughter, I can tell that there is much fun to be had and I’m anxious to get off the ship. There are tons of people out, milling about the street that runs alongside the harbor.

  We slide into a row of luxury yachts, all lined up in ascending order. There are actually a couple of ships that are even larger than Mikhail’s. I wonder who they belong to, and what the hell the owners do for a living. If Mikhail’s a gangster, these people must be super-thugs.

  We go to our suites to get properly dressed for a night of clubbing. We’re going to go to a club called Pacha later on in the evening, but first we’re going to have a reception on board for Mikhail and Dimitri’s friends. I’m the DJ at this party, which is going to serve as my official overseas debut. When Mikhail first ran the idea by me, I assumed it would be a small gathering since it seemed pretty last minute. But there are over a hundred people on the guest list, including several local promoters, club owners, and other DJs.

  I decide to kick it typical Ms. Bobbi style, over the top and outlandish. In need of a little inspiration, I grab the case that contains my makeup, body paint, crystals, beads, sequins, and liquid latex, and head off to Amara’s suite. I knock on the door to her stateroom, but there is no response. I can hear Amara speaking heatedly to someone, but can’t imagine who. Dimitri and Mikhail are in the business center preparing for the festivities. Ooh, she’s probably going off on one of the staff, I think to myself. Let me go rescue this poor soul. I open the door and pop my head inside.

  “You heard me, I want out! I’m tired of this. I just can’t do this anymore. I want my life back. This doesn’t feel right. This isn’t fair to her. She’s a good person. There’s got to be another way. I’ve held up my end of the bargain, now I want out!” she’s shouting into her cell phone. She must have heard the door or sensed my presence, because she whirls around and faces me. Amara pales like she’s seen a ghost.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says looking guilty, and disconnects the call.

  “Hey, baby! Are you excited about the party tonight?” Amara asks, trying to play things off. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s definitely something.

  “Did I interrupt something? Is this a bad time?” I ask her.

  “No, baby, come on in,” she says, fiddling with the strap on her sexy high heels.

  “Who was that?” I ask. “Are you fooling around on Dimitri with a married man? Dish, girl, tell me what’s up,” I say with a sly grin.

  “Oh, that phone call? That was nothing, baby!” she says.

  “Bullshit!” I tell her. “If you’re cheating on Dimitri I won’t tell. I wouldn’t do you like that, girl,” I say.

  “You got me,” she says. “It was a fling and he won’t let go. Now let’s not talk about it,” Amara whispers. “What are you going to wear for the party?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I say, remembering why I’d come to her room in the first place. I have to figure out a mind-blowing, jaw-dropping getup to rock for the party. But I have no idea where to start.

  “I always perform in costume,” I say to Amara. I wave the makeup case in the air. “I’ve got stuff with me, but I just feel like it
’s been seen and done. I know this sounds crazy, but you wouldn’t happen to have anything, any kind of costume, would you? I wasn’t expecting to work before I got a chance to check out the scene, you know, see what everybody’s into, what’s wild and what’s ordinary,” I say. “I guess I wasn’t thinking, huh?”

  “You have come to the right place. Amara has some costumes. I think we can come up with something unforgettable. Come,” she says dramatically in a throaty voice. We go into her dressing suite, and she starts poking in drawers and sifting through the clothes hanging on padded satin and wooden hangers on the vast racks filled with her ensembles.

  “Is this stuff going to fit me?” I whine as she tosses things at me from every direction. “You’re way taller than me. Hardly anything you have is going to fit me! I need something fabulous Amara. Not cheesy, okay?”

  Amara stops what she is doing. “Amara de Laurenti is never cheesy!” she says. I want to tell her that referring to herself by her full name might be viewed by some people as cheesy, but I keep it to myself. After the mad clothes pull, we begin to narrow down the selection, placing the rejects in one pile and the maybes in another. I say a definitive no to the dominatrix getup. It’s too damn hot to be all laced up and wearing leather. And I don’t even want to think about what Amara was doing when she wore the outfit. Gross! Also in the no pile go the nurse outfit—too cliché—and the French maid costume, for the same reason.

  In a maybe pile I place a suede bikini that is accentuated with feathers and beads. I can do a sexy Pocahontas-type deal with that because I have some turquoise and suede-fringed high heels that would go great with it. I also put a corset made of black satin with colorful ribbons lacing it up in the maybe pile. I can potentially make it Moulin Rouge funky, but I’m not sure if that idea is really shocking enough.

  I pull out a gorgeous piece of turquoise silk, with strands of silver and gold thread woven throughout and embroidered with an intricate pattern of beads and stones. “What’s this?” I ask her. “A shawl, a blanket? It’s pretty.” I feel the quality of the fabric and admire the funky design.