Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance

by Watson, Meg

  As Alek drums quickly against my clit, I feel an explosion beginning at the center of me. It's white, hot, and expands like a supernova, blotting out everything. A scream tears from my throat as the explosion blows everything else away, leaving us all together, just ashes. The only things that remain in the universe, just us.

  Roman and Alek both come together, arching their backs simultaneously, plunging into me in one final, majestic thrust. They each roar in my ears, adding their sounds to the explosion in my mind.

  It takes a long time for us to separate. We lay panting and covered in sweat for what seems like half an hour before anyone wants to disengage. And when Roman finally pulls out of me, I feel so absurdly empty that I almost want to cry.

  “Ah, Princess,” Alek murmurs, covering my face in tiny kisses. “That was beautiful. It was perfect.”

  I nod. What else can I say? It was absolutely perfect.

  CHAPTER 21 - EPILOGUE

  ROMAN

  This was all Marie's idea, but I'm starting to like it. I cross my arms and just lean against the doorway, watching. He is smiling at himself in the mirror like some kind of supermodel. That guy. I think he got his eyebrows done special for today.

  “Are you ready yet?”

  He unties the bowtie completely and then starts over. For fuck sake, I think it was perfect the first time.

  “Jesus, Alek. Would you get a move on already?”

  Finally he sighs, nodding to himself in the mirror. I just shake my head and roll my eyes. I understand it's his big day and everything, but he really knows how to make a dramatic production out of everything.

  “You had yours, Roman. Just let me enjoy mine,” he mumbles. But finally he turns around and holds his hands out. “How do I look?”

  “Like the cover of a fucking romance novel. Can we get out there now?”

  “That’s exactly the look I was going for, thank you,” he scoffs. Then he walks to the doorway with his hand out like I'm the one holding up the show or something.

  I don't know why my heart is pounding. Alek takes his place and I stand right behind him, folding my hands in front of me and rocking back and forth just a little bit. My eyes find the door and when it opens, my heart almost falls out of my chest.

  It's just like the first time that I saw her walking down the aisle with her father. It takes my breath away all over again, even though she is already mine. Ours. She is still wearing white, too, though that belly is anything but virginal. Alek’s baby? My baby? It’s all the same. She's the most beautiful wife in the world, standing there smiling at us like an angel.

  There are no guests in the chairs; it's just us on this hillside, in this tiny chapel in Lake Tahoe. Through the windows I can see the mountains and snow, and the faint glitter of the lake below us. It’s beautiful here. Serene.

  Even though we’re alone, Marie walks up slowly anyway, taking that step, together, step thing very seriously. Waiting for her is like torture and I can tell Alek feels it too. The preacher clears his throat, nodding and grinning. Everybody loves weddings, right?

  Finally she takes her place next to Alek, handing off her bouquet to the old lady organ player. Alek holds out his hands for hers and then folds his thumbs over the backs, gently caressing her tiny doll hands in his.

  It is just like the first time, but it's his time.

  “Dearly beloved,” the preacher begins, and I just want to laugh. He doesn't know because we didn’t tell him, but he's joining us in the final piece of our puzzle. Dearly beloved seems like a completely appropriate thing to say.

  As he goes through the usual speech, every word drops into my heart like pennies into a well. It's strange to say, but I can feel it happening. All three of us, together, joined forever. And now with a new life on the way, it's more than any man could ever ask for.

  “I now pronounce you, man and wife. You may kiss your bride!” he declares. The organ player coos and sighs like little old ladies do. Alek tips our bride’s beautiful face up toward his with his thumbs under her jaw and then kisses her for a long time. A long, long time. My heart is full to bursting.

  When they finally separate, I step forward. Marie's eyes are glistening with tears and her chest heaves with every tiny, excited breath that she takes. I slide in next to them, pushing my hand delicately underneath her hair. I’m careful not to mess up the beautiful knot she arranged there, even though I'm really looking forward to messing up her hair in a serious way in as soon as possible.

  But for now, all I want to do is kiss her. I pull her up slightly, tasting the sweet honey flavor of her mouth, feeling the tentative kitten swipes of her tongue as I suck against her lips.

  The organ player gasps again, and when I set Marie down gently, I see the preacher looking at me like with his mouth hanging open, slightly horrified.

  “Spacibo, father,” I say in my best Russian accent.

  “Da, thank you,” Alek repeats behind me.

  The preacher glances, horrified, at the organ player who shrugs as if to say what are you gonna do? Russians? But Marie gives me an exasperated sigh, knowing exactly what we’re going to do.

  “I don’t have to play nice. This was your idea,” I remind her.

  “Yes, it was. Can you just walk us back down the aisle now, please?”

  “Anything for you, Princess,” I say.

  Alek throws his arms around me, crushing me in a bear hug that almost breaks my heart. Finally, we’re home. Finally complete. With Stosh gone and the Pakhan ready to retire, our lives are now on a course toward joy and happiness.

  But Stosh was right about one thing, what else could a man possibly ask for?

  THE END

  Thank you for reading! Please leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon when you are ready. Click this link to go to Amazon.

  Turn the page for a bonus book, “Billionaire Brothers,” the complete serial!

  TAKEN

  Billionaire Brothers - Book 1

  Meg Watson

  CHAPTER 1

  IN MY DREAM, Kevin was saying something about work, some story about a new home listing. I listened politely and he kept talking, getting closer, nodding as he recounted a list of attributes:

  desirable Telegraph Hill location

  nine bedrooms plus one

  triple-wide lot with mature olive trees

  And somehow that all seemed like extremely important information. As he continued, each item took on more meaning:

  butler’s pantry with wet bar

  double-sided fireplace

  travertine marble-tiled loggia

  I was rapt with interest, hungrily wanting to hear more. Something told me if I could put all the separate pieces together, a secret would be revealed and that would change everything. He nodded urgently and whispered into my neck:

  two-story rotunda

  silver-leafed, vaulted living room ceiling

  caterers’ kitchen

  Every detail raised the stakes on our passion. His eyes burned blue and he licked his lower lip, diving to plant breathy kisses all along my collar bones that thrilled me with goosebumps.

  imported Italian spiral staircase

  greenhouse conservatory

  plastered arches

  His arms encircled me, drawing my body closer to fit all along his on the bed. We seemed so perfectly connected. Everywhere our skin touched there were tiny electric shocks. I draped my thigh over his hip and pulled him on top of me, luxuriating in his warm, solid weight pinning me to the mattress.

  bridge and bay views

  hand-laid marble floor medallions

  french-bricked wine cellar

  My body rocked against his as I felt his cock hardening magnificently along my belly. I wanted him inside me so urgently that I wriggled underneath him, trying to reposition our hips to meet. He kissed my chest and the upper swells of my breasts, licking my nipples languorously, luxuriantly.

  But my belly burned with a deep hunger. I needed more contact. I tried to pull him up
to me, but he slipped ever downwards. I wanted to kiss him. My shoulders were cold in his absence. I wanted him to cover me, but he inched toward my feet and wouldn’t respond.

  I wanted to beg him, but the words wouldn’t come. I clawed at his shoulders, but he only did what he wanted.

  I woke up. The spasm of a near-orgasm clenched in my clit and I heard a mewling sound unravelling in my throat. Did I wake myself up whimpering?

  I was so close to coming that my body continued to rock and arch. Kevin’s lips were partly open and slack. His musky scent floated over the sheets like a fog. I wanted to taste him before the dream ecstasy slipped away, to draw it back.

  Wriggling closer to his sleeping form, the heat through his cotton boxer shorts reignited my skin. I needed him close. Much closer.

  Nuzzling under his stubbled, square jaw, I flicked my tongue lightly over the hollow behind his ear. My hand found the hem of his t-shirt and slipped inside, stroking the warm swell of his belly. He sighed and rolled over slightly in his sleep.

  Was he dreaming of me too? I reached to the front of his boxers and found his cock half-hard, curling sideways on its journey to lay upright against his taut belly. That encouraged me. Stroking him through the fabric, he went erect right away and his hips pushed gently against me.

  I threw my leg over him and rose, straddling his hips and moving against him in circles. I wanted to come so badly but I wanted him awake too. His eyelids fluttered and his hands slid along my thighs, gripping them lightly.

  “Margot?” he sighed.

  Flipping my hair to one side, I let the heavy, dark strands trail against his chest. His sensitive nipples stood out in relief against the fabric.

  “Shhh, baby,” I whispered.

  “Margot... what time is it?”

  I didn’t answer and his hands gripped me tighter as I circled my crotch against his.

  “Margot, honey…” he groaned. “I gotta get up.”

  “Shhh it’s early, baby,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, holding my hips harder until they were immobile and finally opening his eyes. He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “What,” I said, trying to control my irritation. He was just going to stop me?

  “Margot...” he started, his voice all impatient apologies. He pursed his lips and looked at me and I saw myself through his eyes: still wearing my dress, makeup smudged and drastic, marks along my forearms from the bangles I hadn’t removed when I fell into bed beside him last night.

  So nothing’s changed, I thought.

  “I just thought a quick hello, as friends...” I trailed off, letting the words wither in the air.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said tersely, lifting me off him and rolling away. I stared at his back as he turned, stretched for a few seconds, and got out of bed.

  Looking around, I saw the evidence from last night and pieced it back together with the bleary memories that remained. His trousers were next to the bed where they had fallen in a heap. His shirt was on the chair next to the folded pajama bottoms he probably would have been wearing if he’d been sober when he went to bed. His shoes were yards apart, capsized like boats.

  I wondered if I was supposed to disappear. Was he hoping I would magically transform into a skinny latte and Greek yogurt before he was done brushing his teeth? The sound of the tap floated through the room, then his masculine, ropy pee in the bowl, then the flush.

  “It was awesome to see you,” he called from the bathroom. I bit back a half dozen snappy, hungover retorts.

  He came out pushing his dark blonde hair back from his forehead. The thick muscles of his arms filled me with longing. I wanted so much to feel those arms around me.

  “Just come back to bed,” I said as sweetly as I could, patting the mattress. “You can spare a few minutes, can’t you? For your best friend and former housemate?” I flipped my hair over my shoulder and practically batted my eyes.

  He hung his hands on his hips and stared at me, shaking his head and smirking. “I really wish I could, Mar,” he said. “I totally forgot I have showings all afternoon. A new listing to check out…”

  “Right, right,” I said gamely, tugging my dress into shape and rearranging my legs primly. He looked at me uncomfortably, obviously wishing I had left already and not sure how far he would need to go to make it happen.

  He went to his dresser and started opening drawers, selecting neatly folded summer-wear from the well-organized piles. Hope crumbled like a sand castle under the tide and I began to feel my stomach clenching as though maybe I could curl into a ball, roll right up and disappear.

  “Your phone,” he muttered, picking his head up.

  “What?”

  “Your phone,” he repeated, looking around. “It’s ringing.”

  “Where?” I said, quickly rummaging through the sheets, flinging aside the duvet and diving to the floor to look for the light or something. Kevin prowled around the perimeter with his head cocked like a Labrador and his hands out, ready to pounce.

  He shoved his fingers under my open and half-emptied purse on the small side table and pulled it out, still jangling merrily.

  “You should keep better track of your stuff,” he lectured as he held it out to me.

  “Yeah thanks,” I mumbled and grabbed it on my way to the bathroom. I thumbed the face to connect the call and turned on the tap for noise.

  “I fucking hate fucking interns and want them all to fucking die!”

  “Morning, Bridget, baby,” I sighed sweetly and then stared, dumbfounded, at my reflection in the wide mirror. One eye had gone all raccoon with mascara and liner. Even my eyebrow hairs were pushed the wrong way and bristled out in all directions. The other eye looked almost normal, with merely a dusting of black flakes on my cheek.

  “If you see Melissa, I want you to run her over with your car.”

  “What did she do?” I muttered as I plucked a facial cleansing wipe from the small box. Scents of cucumber and aloe wafted up my nose and my stomach gurgled ominously.

  “The usual fucking intern bullshit! She was picking up collectors for tonight only she is NOT picking up collectors because she is NOT anywhere. Not answering her phone, not hanging the show, not living at her shitty Venice Beach hash house anymore either!”

  “You shouldn’t hire artists as interns,” I said distractedly as I opened drawers, hunting for toothpaste. Where was my toothbrush? Had he thrown it away already? “We’re notoriously flaky.”

  “Yeah, no shit, Margot!” she bawled on the other end of the line. I heard her breath hitch as she probably lit her twentieth cigarette of the day. “I do not have time for this shit. Can you come in and hang this show?”

  I closed my eyes tightly and prayed for toothbrush clairvoyance. He must have extras, but I didn’t want to leave the bathroom to ask. After scouring the small linen closet, I picked his up from the rack and stared at it.

  “Which collectors?” I asked, squeezing a pile of toothpaste onto his brush.

  “The Burkes. She was catching a Greyhound or some shit to get up to San Francisco yesterday, and guess what, fucking incommuni-fucking-cado after I gave her the fucking fare. Right?”

  “San Francisco?” I echoed dumbly through a mouth full of foam.

  “Probably fucking smoked it immediately.”

  Spit. “You should pay your interns enough to buy their own drugs,” I said.

  “Margot, march your ass in here and hang your paintings!”

  “No way,” I answered automatically. I pulled another makeup wipe out and tried to sculpt the black rings into something that looked fresh and presentable without removing them entirely. “I’m no good with a hammer, and you should have had that done days ago.”

  “Margot!”

  “I could maybe help with the collectors.”

  I heard her grunt. Was she in the gallery? I tried to imagine her stepping onto a small ladder in Louboutin’s with the phone in one hand and a hammer in the other, a gold-tipped cigarette d
angling from the corner of her ruby-red lips.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could be… uh... in San Francisco,” I shrugged, wincing. Her silence was barometric. I swear I could feel the room go colder.

  “Are you in San Francisco?” she growled.

  “I don’t know,” I lied. My hand fluttered out and found the shower tap and flipped it on, full steam.

  There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. “Margot, I have to get going!” Kevin bawled through the door. “I really need to get on the road.”

  “What the fuuuuuuck are you doing!” Bridget growled through the phone line.

  “I’m not doing anything, OK?” I whispered hurriedly as I stepped out of my dress.

  “I hope that was the best sex you ever had!”

  Don’t I wish! I thought ruefully.

  “We didn’t even have sex.”

  “Oh my god!” she yelled, full-throated. “That douchebag can’t even do a bootie call right!”

  “I’m not a bootie call,” I answered automatically.

  “Obviously not,” she sneered.

  “There was a work thing, and people there didn’t know we weren’t together, and he just thought it would be easier if I went. That’s all,” I explained rapidly as I knotted my hair on my head and pulled a fluffy white towel from the closet.

  “And you did not have sex with him,” she asserted.

  “No,” I agreed

  “At all,” she persisted. “Your pretty pink lips did not so much as tickle his furry little chipmunk nutsack.”

  “Ew, Bridge? I gotta go,” I answered.

  “Because that has got to be over,” she insisted.

  “Yes! Over. Completely,” I agreed. “And out. And I really do have to get going.”

  “Jesus, you’re a mess,” she moaned.

  “Whatever, I love you. So where are the collectors?”

  Bridget promised to text me the location, some private airfield on the bay. I hopped into the shower and cleaned off quickly, then got out and slapped some aromatic oils up and down my limbs. A glance in the mirror told me I looked presentable, if slightly trashy and wrung out. Just a glance, though. I wouldn’t be able to withstand close inspection.