Russian Gold (Russian Love Book 2)

by Holly Bargo

  “Eat your breakfast. Today you rest and eat. And then, if you have the strength, I will fuck you like I’ve been wanting to do for weeks.”

  Her cheeks turned bright pink again.

  “I’ve missed you, too, Pyotr,” she whispered as he returned to his chair.

  He directed a piercing, hard gaze at her, sharper than broken glass. “I will always be grateful to you for these past months, but I am better now. I will act on your good idea to open a martial arts studio and you will work fewer hours for that bolvan, Jaime Tobiano.”

  Cecily wasn’t at all sure what bolvan meant, but she knew from Pyotr’s tone of voice that it wasn’t complimentary. “Jaime’s a good man,” she protested.

  Pyotr’s eyes narrowed. “Has he touched you?”

  “What? No, of course not. I wouldn’t have betrayed you like that.”

  “Khorosho. No man touches you, except for me.”

  “You’re acting like a Neanderthal.”

  He grinned at her. “You like it.”

  Yeah, she did.

  Once Pyotr settled the love of his life onto the sofa with a mug hot tea and a novel to read, he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head and told her he was off to run some errands. Otherwise, he’d have her naked and screaming his name. Her cheeks pinkened yet again and she blinked her eyes against the sudden heat that made her blood sizzle.

  Pyotr did indeed leave her to stew in lascivious thoughts, which did not mean he didn’t have his own desire to manage before he could tumble her into bed. His first step was to visit the restaurant. He headed straight for the back entrance and walked into the kitchen.

  “Hey! You can’t be here!” one of the prep cooks shouted.

  “I am here to see Jaime Tobiano.”

  “Then you wait until we open like everyone else, mister.”

  Pyotr rolled up his sleeves as he approached the smaller man and loomed over him, not frightened even though the cook held a sharp boning knife in his hand.

  “I am Cecily’s fiancé. I must speak with Tobiano.”

  The cook’s gaze flickered over the telltale tattoos inked on Pyotr’s forearms and looked up into the big Russian’s face. His gaze then flitted sideways. Pyotr followed it and nodded.

  “Spasibo,” he murmured and walked toward the doorway the cook had unknowingly indicated.

  “Hey!” the cook shouted again.

  Pyotr turned around and leveled a cold glare at him. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  A squeak burst through the cook’s mouth and he gulped nervously. He mustered a last remnant of courage and threatened, “I’ll call the police.”

  Pyotr sighed with exasperation. “I’m just going to talk to him. Relax.”

  “Relax?” the cook muttered to himself as the big, dangerous looking man turned around again and walked calmly toward his boss’ office. “That guy’s bad, really bad. He’d squash me like a bug.”

  Pyotr paid the little man no further attention as he searched for Cecily’s employer, whom he found in a small office poring over papers. He knocked politely on the door before entering without waiting for an invitation. Jaime looked up, eyebrows raising in surprise.

  “We’re not open,” he said calmly, gaze skimming the big blonde man’s tattoos. He casually rolled his own sleeves back to display his own gang tattoos in silent challenge.

  “We understand each other then,” Pyotr said and took a seat, again not waiting for an invitation. He rolled down his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “I am here to speak to you about Cecily.”

  “You don’t look like an invalid,” Jaime said, assuming correctly who sat in front of his desk.

  “I am much recovered,” Pyotr replied. “I will not waste your time with chitchat.”

  “Thanks,” Jaime said, his tone dry.

  “You will reduce Cecily’s hours.”

  Jaime’s right eyebrow rose at the order. That was no request. “You’re in no position to demand anything, Mr. Idaklyka. Cecily is my employee.”

  Pyotr rose to his feet and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desktop. “She will be my wife and you are working her to death. I won’t have it.”

  “Has Cecily complained to you?”

  “Konechno net.”

  “I don’t speak Russian, Mr. Idaklyka,” Jaime said as he rose to his feet to look the bigger man in the eye. Did Cecily truly love this big brute, he wondered?

  “No, Cecily does not complain,” Pyotr bit off. “But she will not be able to carry our baby if you continue to work her to exhaustion.”

  Jaime’s jaw dropped and he quickly closed it. Was Cecily pregnant? Then his eyes narrowed. The big Russian certain implied at much, but he’d not actually said she was pregnant. Of course, he had to consider that Pyotr meant she was, if only because his command of English appeared to be less than optimal.

  “Mr. Idaklyka, I’m very fond of Cecily. She’s an excellent cook and employee. If she asks me to reduce her hours due to pregnancy, then I will certainly do my best to accommodate her.”

  “Spasibo,” Pyotr murmured. He turned on his heel to leave unsatisfied. He’d seen the concern in the Latino’s eyes and knew that he did have a formidable rival for Cecily’s affections. Yes, he would have to cement their relationship quickly to put her forever beyond the other man’s reach.

  “You do realize she’s been faithful to you?” Jaime called softly after him.

  “Da.” Pyotr’s confidence in Cecily’s fidelity never wavered.

  “I asked her to leave you.”

  Pyotr slowly turned around to face Jaime, fury igniting. Jaime nearly flinched from the icy fire glinting in the bigger man’s eyes. Nearly. But he had his old gang ready to back him up if he called and he took courage in their support.

  “She refused,” Jamie said. “She loves you.”

  Pyotr nodded his head, a curt gesture, and said, “Don’t you forget that. And don’t forget that I’ll kill any man who touches her.”

  Jaime nodded, recognizing a kindred spirit, a hard man whose ties to criminal activity were much more recent and violent than his.

  “I bet on your last match, you know,” he called out, not mentioning that he’d lost his money on that bet.

  Pyotr ignored him and continued on his way.

  His next stop landed him at the bank where he completed the necessary paperwork to transfer to his account. He waited patiently, apparently ignoring the nervous looking account manager whose fingers tapped the keyboard to facilitate the electronic transfer of funds and create a new account.

  “Er... Mr. Idaklyka?”

  “Da?”

  “Your account is set up, but you’ll need to wait three days before making any withdrawals.”

  Pyotr frowned at the delay. The banker turned pale and swallowed audibly.

  “It’s the bank’s policy. I’m sure you understand,” he said, rushing the words together.

  “Da. You are impotent.”

  The banker gurgled on the big Russian’s dismissive statement and clarified, “Er... I have no authority to subvert the regulations, no.”

  Pyotr nodded, enjoying the officious little man’s discomfort. “I will also need credit card.”

  “Ah, yes, let’s get that application started.” Relief manifested in the form of droplets of sweat on the man’s forehead.

  Half an hour later, Pyotr left the bank with one more task accomplished. His next stop was the license bureau to obtain a new driver’s license. That took more time than he thought it should, although every other patron of the bureau seemed to have the same disgruntling experience. He shrugged in philosophical acceptance. Government, whether in Russia or the United States, worked slowly and without regard for the convenience of those they served.

  When he returned to the apartment, Cecily had fallen asleep on the sofa. He gathered her into his arms to carry her into the bedroom. She stirred.

  “Pyotr?” she murmured in a sleepy voice, blinking blurry eyes.

  “Da. Go back to sle
ep, moya lyubov.”

  She sighed and snuggled against him.

  Once he’d covered her up with a blanket and left her sleeping soundly on their bed, he turned his attention to domestic matters. After making sure the bedroom door was closed, he collected and organized dirty dishes and washed them. He put a load of laundry in the washer and folded a load from the dryer. He vacuumed rugs and swept hardwood floors. He dusted furniture and scrubbed the bathroom. When finished with housework, he looked around and decided that he’d hire a housekeeper at the earliest opportunity.

  He loathed housework and Cecily hardly had the time and certainly not the energy to take care of that.

  Then it was time to begin working on supper. Deciding to go simple and hearty, he started a chicken paprikash. While the meat simmered in a sauce of paprika, onions, butter, and mushrooms, he trekked downstairs to check on his landlady.

  “Ah, there you are, my boy,” she greeted him with a vague smile. “Are you here to mow the lawn?”

  Pyotr immediately realized that his kind landlady was not having one of her better days. “I will mow your lawn tomorrow, Mrs. Macdougal. Tonight, I will bring supper.”

  She smiled at him. “Ah, that’s awfully kind of you. Have you met my daughter, Caroline? She’s just about your age.”

  “I’ve already got a woman,” he demurred with gentle patience and made a mental note to call Caroline. Her mother remained sharp much of the time, but those days when she was not grew more frequent.

  “That’s nice then,” she replied, her voice fading as she dropped off to sleep where she sat.

  Pyotr drew an afghan over her so she wouldn’t take a chill while she dozed and returned to his kitchen. He added egg noodles to the pot of boiling water and checked on the cabbage and broccoli. When he judged supper at about five minutes out, he woke Cecily to give her a little time to freshen up. He set the table and carefully plated servings of everything for their landlady, which he took down to her.

  She woke at the quiet tread of his foot on the hardwood floor.

  “Oh, hello there. Are you here to mow the lawn?”

  He gave her an indulgent smile and set the laden plate on the small table beside her chair. “No, ma’am, I’ve brought your supper. I’ll mow the lawn tomorrow.”

  She smiled and said, “You’re such a thoughtful boy. Have you met my Caroline?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I have a girl of my own.”

  “Ah, that’s too bad. My Caroline is such a pretty girl. I raised her right, you know.”

  “I’m sure of it,” he agreed. “I’ll fetch you a glass of iced tea to drink. Be sure to eat before your dinner gets cold.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chicken paprikash. You’ll like it.”

  From the hallway, Cecily watched him take care of the old woman. He blinked in surprise to see her there, smiling at him. Her eyes shined with love and approval.

  “You’re a good man, Pyotr Idaklyka,” she said, entwining her arm with his as they walked back up the staircase.

  The Bratva’s former enforcer felt his heart melt at the praise. He’d received praise for his fighting ability, his brutality, but kind words attesting to his being a good man were unfamiliar. In response, he pulled Cecily around and caught her against him to kiss her senseless. She moaned softly and dug her fingers into his upper arms.

  “Supper can wait,” she murmured. “I need you now.”

  Pyotr wasted no time in turning off the burners. Cecily grabbed his hand and led him into the bedroom. She reached up to latch her hands behind his head and draw him down to her for another kiss. A second later, clothes went flying. Pyotr put Cecily in the center of their bed and crawled over her. She giggled and pulled his head down to hers again.

  The warmth and slightly rough texture of his big hands made her shudder with delight as he swept them down her body, relearning her curves and textures of her body. Cecily gasped when he stroked her breasts, swiping his thumbs over the dusky mauve of her peaked nipples. Pyotr gently squeezed the aching flesh that swelled to fill his hands to overflowing and Cecily’s own hands stroked him, raking her short nails over the hair-roughened satin of his skin.

  She cried out with pleasure when his kisses roamed down her neck, across her shoulder, and down her chest. She moaned deeply and clutched at his head when his mouth latched onto her breast and he suckled her. Her body undulated beneath his when the tip of his tongue flicked the sensitive nipple and then she cried out again when he transferred his attention the other needy breast. Slowly, slowly, he worked his way down.

  Cecily begged, but Pyotr would not be rushed. Determined to savor her, he kissed, nibbled, and licked down to her toes and back up again until he reached her center, already dripping and ready for him.

  “I will feast upon you,” he murmured before licking the length of her slit.

  Cecily cried out, her hips bucking with need. But, still, Pyotr would not be rushed. Her soft cries and desperate pleas were music to his ears as he lapped the sweet musk of her passion. Though he held her where he wanted her, she arched as an orgasm ripped through her.

  Between Cecily’s quivering thighs, Pyotr smiled. He’d yearned for this for too long, waited beyond any normal man’s endurance. The reward of her delicious surrender was so sweet, so gratifying. Soft laps of his tongue gently eased her descent from the high of climax.

  “Let me,” she gasped. “Let me taste you.”

  As usual, Pyotr could deny her nothing. Besides, he missed the heady pleasure of her mouth and hands. He rolled them over and she immediately set to work covering his big, muscular body with kisses, nips, and licks. Pyotr trembled with the effort to let her have her wicked way with him and groaned long and low when her mouth enveloped the head of his cock and her hands rolled his balls. He could not help the movement of his hips, though he did manage to control the violence with which he thrust into her mouth.

  He felt the telltale tingle at the base of his spine and the tightening of his balls. Pyotr reached down and drew Cecily up. Her mouth left his thoroughly wet cock with a soft pop. He rolled them over and pressed his mouth to hers, tasting the salt of himself on her tongue. He bowed his back and rolled his hips and pressed the tip of his penis to the entrance of her body. She tilted her hips and raised them, meeting the slow downward stroke. They both groaned as he sank into her hot, wet depths and she stretched to accommodate his girth.

  A pull back resulted in a mewl of protest and the clutching drag of her body reluctance to let him go. Her need for him pleased him beyond measure and he drilled back down. Pleasure suffused him as he pushed through the hot, wet silk of her body that clamped so tightly around him.

  “Tak khorosho,” he groaned, praising her for the pleasure she gave his body.

  Cecily met him, raising her hips to his on the downward stroke, matching his rhythm. Dear God, she felt so deliciously full when he bottomed out within her body, his balls pressed between them. Her head tilted back and her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Posmotri na menya,” he ordered, his voice guttural and rough.

  Cecily’s eyes obediently snapped open and her gaze locked with the blazing fire of his icy blue eyes. Pyotr held her gaze with his as he rocked into her and once again felt the impending rush of climax. That time, however, he could not stave off orgasm. He grunted and strained against her as hot semen boiled up from his tight balls and sought her womb with mindless intensity. The heated splash of him inside her ignited Cecily’s second orgasm and she cried out, locking her ankles behind his taut buttocks.

  Shudders of pleasure shook them for longer than either would have thought possible.

  “Oh, my God,” Cecily remarked between panted breaths as she reveled in Pyotr’s heavy, reassuring weight resting against her. “That was amazing.”

  “Eto bylo neveroyatno.” He agreed, although the word he used was incredible. Arms and legs trembling, he rolled off to the side. She looked over at him and watched the heavily muscled chest rise and fal
l with his breaths. On impulse, she leaned over and licked the small reddish nipple. Pyotr’s breath caught and his cock twitched with a renewed supply of blood rushing south.

  “Do that again and you won’t get your supper any time soon.”

  “Good,” she said with a wicked grin and fitted her lips over the small nipple and sucked while her hand wandered downward to fondle his renewed erection, sticky-slick with their combined fluids.

  Pyotr chuckled and eagerly gave in to her seduction.

  Chapter 18

  “We must set a date,” Pyotr announced the next morning as he cleaned up the congealed mess of the previous evening’s uneaten supper and the dishes from breakfast.

  “A date?”

  “We must marry.”

  “Must?” Cecily’s eyes narrowed, but Pyotr focused on the dishes in the sink rather than her expression.

  However, something in her tone of voice must have warned him, because his hands stilled and he glanced over his shoulder. Keeping his voice reasonable, he said, “We used no protection last night. You could be carrying my baby even now.”

  The color drained from Cecily’s face as she spewed the mouthful of coffee she’d been about to swallow.

  “Oh, God!”

  “Would it be so bad to be the mother of my children?” he asked, heaviness weighing down his heart.

  Cecily jumped to her feet and fetched a handful of paper towels to clean her mess. “No, Pyotr, I want to have your babies, but now’s not a good time when I’m finally getting my career off the ground.” She dropped the wad of paper towels on the table and plopped down on a chair and leaned her head into her hands and moaned, “Oh, God, what am I going to do if I am pregnant?”

  Pyotr struggled to understand her point of view, but all he could see was her fear and disappointment. He tried to reconcile that with her selfless devotion during his recovery and wondered if, perhaps, she feared that any child would be damaged as he had been damaged. He knew that the trauma he suffered would not be passed to his children, but how to convince her?

  He crossed the kitchen kneeled between her legs. He took her hands in his and said, “Cecily, I love you. I want to marry you.” His kissed the ring on her left hand. “I have wanted to marry you for a long time and I will welcome any children we create.”