by Jenna Rose
The others have seen plenty of good times over the years, but until now, this one was for strictly business.
But having Mia here with me now, on our way to Las Vegas to get married, has me feeling alive in a way I can’t remember feeling in a long time. There’s no real reason to go to Vegas, of course. I could just go get a marriage certificate and be done with it, but she wants to go, so I’m taking her.
And that makes me want to get my head checked.
I’m already doing things for her.
That can’t continue. I’ll do this one thing for her and this one thing only. The possibility of her working her way into my life…well, that just can’t happen.
A woman is a weakness, and a weakness can be exploited. The Todorovs are at the top now, but those at the top have the farthest to fall.
But I just can’t stop thinking about my hands on her…
Those hips, ready to pump out my child after I pump my load in her.
Those breasts…
I need to see them. Tear the dress off her and get her naked. But I made that stupid promise to be a gentleman. And I have to keep it now.
This is all so strange to me. Already Mia is changing me. Making me behave in a way I never do around women. Normally I’m cold. Ask any of them and they’d probably describe me as heartless, an asshole. Detached. But Mia challenges me. She talks back, behaves in ways I don’t expect. I thought she would cower in fear back there when I threatened her family, but she got on her feet and got right up in my face.
What a woman…
This is bad. I can feel myself starting to get attached. My dad sent me on a mission to find a woman who could pass as a wife, and I set out to find a really good counterfeit, but I may have just found myself the real thing.
I should turn the goddamn plane around. Take her back to the diner and let her finish her shift before things get any worse.
But I can already feel a cord binding itself between us. Twisting, tying, pulling us together. Even though she’s sitting on the opposite side of the cabin from me.
And what if I did take her home? Some busboy, some cook gets to be the first one to claim her? No. The thought alone makes me want to go back there and preemptively kill them all. No other male on this planet will ever get their hands on her. I’d spend the rest of my life plagued by the terrible fantasy as it played over and over in my head.
If anyone is going to have her, it’s going to be me.
Those hips in my hands, those sweet plump lips wrapped around my cock.
I need it.
She may be pure, but I’ll be the only man to corrupt her.
But this is new ground for me. I’m not used to this sort of thing. I actually feel like I’m on a date for the first time in my life. Men like me don’t go on dates; we have women brought to us. Whether it was my father or my father’s men, I’ve always had them ready and willing to please me. But now, despite my blackmail, I feel as though I actually need – want – to impress Mia. The only problem is, I have no idea how.
“So why do you need a wife?” she asks. “I’m sure a man like you could find a woman to marry him.”
“Time constraints,” I reply. “If I don’t find a woman soon, the empire goes to my brother. A fuck-up.” She starts to mull this over, but I don’t want to discuss it, so I change the subject. “Why Vegas?” I ask.
Mia shrugs. “That’s what they do in the movies, right?”
“I hope you don’t expect me to dress up as Elvis.”
“Well, I’m going to be Marilyn Monroe,” she says, flashing me a very fake, but very sweet smile. “So unless you want to look stupid…”
The light from outside casts her face in a brilliant glow, illuminating her hair, creating a golden halo behind her head. I can feel gears turning inside of me that have been frozen and stuck for years. This girl is really doing things to me.
“How old are you?” I ask.
For some reason, Mia frowns and scrunches her nose up at me. “Didn’t think to ask that, did you? What if I say sixteen?”
“You are not sixteen, don’t be silly,” I reply. But she doesn’t give. Her face betrays nothing. “Are you?”
Mia laughs. “No, but I got you for a second there. I’m eighteen.”
My hand balls into a fist at my side. Barely legal. I’m dying to bend her over the seat and tongue-fuck her little teenage pussy. Let’s see her keep her cool when she’s screaming my name in ecstasy.
“Why no boyfriend?”
“Boys are a distraction,” she says. “Right now I need to make money.”
“You don’t need money anymore. I have that covered.”
“Right,” she laughs. “As long as I marry you.”
“Yes.”
Mia rolls her eyes, and I can’t help but feel something inside. I want to lie down beside her and confess, lay out all of my sins and beg for her forgiveness. But for the first time in my life, I’m afraid—afraid she won’t forgive me. Afraid she will reject me and leave me alone again in the darkness of my life.
“How romantic,” she mutters to herself, showing—for the first time—a sign of true weakness.
I rise from my seat, go to her, and take her hand. For a moment, she resists. Then I take her gently by the chin and bring her gaze to mine. “Come with me. Don’t worry, Mia. I won’t hurt you.”
Like a timid deer, she hesitates a moment, then gets to her feet. I lead her down the cabin to the private quarters at the back of the plane. As I open the door, she gives me a frightened look.
“Don’t worry, Peaches. It’s clear you do not want to be with me right now, so I will let you stay in here by yourself. When we land in Vegas, I will come and get you.”
Our eyes lock, and it feels like gravity pulling us together. My gaze is pulled down to her lips, plump and wet, calling to me to be kissed.
Although every fiber of my being wants to join her inside, throw her down on the bed, lift the hem of her dress and bury my face between her legs, I return to my seat and open one of my sketches on my iPad. After a few seconds, I hear the sound of the door closing behind me.
I can feel the eyes of my men on me, but they know better than to say anything. But I know what they’re thinking. They were surprised enough when I invited her on this jet and not one of the others, and now I’ve let her into my private quarters by herself.
This was supposed to just be a quick arrangement to appease my father.
I had to find a girl who could pass for a wife.
But this girl is different.
Life made me a devil, but I may have just found my angel.
4
Mia
Thank God Anton stowed me away back here. I couldn’t let him see the look that surely is coming over my face right now.
I’m falling for him.
Yup, I’m falling for a Russian mafia kingpin who is blackmailing me with the future of my family.
But even knowing that this is an arranged marriage, like something out of old England, and that I have no choice in the matter, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve managed to wriggle myself into some hidden pocket of his being that no one else has ever discovered. That the slight smiles he has shown me have never been seen by anyone else.
Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.
I’ve never believed in love, especially Hollywood love or love at first sight. But to think that Anton Todorov just happened to walk into the diner when I was working and just happened to need a wife and I just happened to make him smile…well, it almost feels like destiny.
Maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe he and I are actually meant to be together, and this whole forced-marriage thing is actually just how he and I were meant to meet. Maybe this is how we fall in love.
It sounds insane, and I would never say this out loud to anybody, but I can’t help wondering as I stare at the ceiling of the cabin and listen to the low hum of the engines as we fly toward Vegas and remember the way he touched me.
Hi
s hands, so strong against my waist.
And the things he said to me…
“I would ravish your little cunt until you were screaming my name. I would pound you into submission and force your body to be mine. Even if you did not want to, I would force you to come so many times that you would fall in love with me…”
I’ve never considered myself a sexual person. Maybe that’s one of the reasons it’s been easy for me to go this long without having a boyfriend, but as I close my eyes and think about the way I felt when Anton put his hands on me, a feeling comes over me…
…a heat blooms within me and a thousand little pinpricks break out across my skin. Something stirs between my legs, and like the plane, my body starts humming. Buzzing with energy. I glance at the door, hoping it opens and Anton comes striding in, and ask myself what I will do if that happens.
I stare, but the longer I stare, the more obvious it becomes.
He isn’t coming.
God, what is wrong with me?
I’m fantasizing about my kidnapper, a man forcing me to marry him, sweeping into my room like a Disney prince and taking me in some fiery moment of Hollywood romance.
My stomach sinks, but then I realize no, it’s just the plane starting to descend. The door opens quickly, causing me to jump off the bed where I’ve been lying, and I see one of Anton’s men looking down at me.
“Miss,” he says. “We’re landing soon.”
“Thanks,” I reply, but he’s already closing the door behind him.
Right. Anton can’t even be bothered to tell me himself.
All this fantasizing. I really am an idiot.
I pride myself on staying grounded too. My mom sent me across the border to find a better life for myself, and I promised her I’d work my butt off until I could afford to bring her and my little brother over too. And I’m almost there. Even without Mr. Anton Todorov’s help.
I never looked to any man for assistance. Never wasted money on the lottery. Never gambled or thought any miracles would happen. Yet here I am believing that somehow I’ve just discovered true love.
“I should get my head checked,” I mutter as I step back into the cabin and take a seat across from my future husband. I catch a glimpse of something on his tablet before he puts it away—something that looks artistic.
“Taking Zoom drawing classes?”
Anton flashes me a scolding glance. “You expected photos of murdered enemies?”
I shrug. “Or other women you have chained up across the country.”
“I am a bit of an artist,” he replies. “Perhaps I will share with you sometime. If you are a good woman.”
“A good woman?” I exclaim. The audacity. “This is blackmail, Anton. Nothing more. Don’t expect me to break out the lingerie and start cooking you steak with potatoes.”
Anton leans in with such speed that I flinch as though he’s going to hit me. But he simply buckles my seatbelt and sits back. “Okay, Peaches. I will expect nothing from you.”
For some reason, his dismissal angers me. Reverse psychology? This man is good. I bite my tongue for the plane’s descent but am on my feet as soon as we stop. I’m the first to disembark and am in the back of the fancy car he has waiting for us before any of his men. To my surprise, he joins me in the back seat.
“You can sit up front,” I tell him.
“Thank you for your permission, Peaches. But I like the view from back here.”
I try to keep my eyes off him during the drive into the city. I’ve seen Vegas in the movies, but the lights are far more spectacular in person. I try to pretend I’m just on some kind of tour and am not here against my will being forced into a marriage to one of the most dangerous men in America.
But it’s next to impossible.
Anton simply exudes sexual energy. It’s like gravitational waves that I can practically feel crashing against me like a typhoon pounding against the weak sands of a beach, slowly eroding with each impact.
My eyes seem to move on their own, and I glance over at him, sitting with his legs wide like a king, a bulge in his pants signifying his prowess and reminding me of what he could do to me if he wanted. He explained it to me already…
I can’t help but wonder what he looks like beneath that suit. It’s obvious he has a killer body (and the body of a killer). Does he have any scars? From bullets or knives? Or both? Tattoos? Russian mobsters in movies are always covered in tattoos.
“Pull in here,” Anton barks to the driver. The tone of his voice causes me to start and shocks me out of my daydream (eveningdream?). The driver turns and I see a sign announcing the Graceland Wedding Chapel.
“I thought you weren’t going to dress up as Elvis?”
“And I thought you said you wanted to be Marilyn Monroe,” he counters.
The car stops, and he gets out.
This is unexpected. I get out and follow my soon-to-be-husband into the “chapel.” The neon sign buzzes above us as he holds the door for me. I almost don’t want to let him, but again, I find myself getting caught up in the moment and go in first.
“Why hello there, lovebirds!” a man, who I assume is the salesman/owner/minister announces with a Southern twang. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Graceland Wedding Chapel! The best place on the strip to get hitched!”
I look up at Anton, who is standing beside me with smiling eyes, and again, still having not learned my lesson, I allow myself to hope.
The next hour is a blur of trying on dresses, protocol and legal jargon being rapidly read to me in that same thick Southern accent, forms being signed, and the next thing I know, I’m waiting for Anton to step out of the men’s dressing room like the two of us have just gone shopping together.
“If you don’t mind me saying,” the minister says. “You two make a fine couple. Just dandy!”
“You think so?” I ask.
“I know so! How’d you two love birds meet anyhow?”
I try my best not to laugh and then lie. “Oh, you know. Just one of those boring stories of two people meeting. I’m a waitress. He came into my diner.”
“Ah.” The minister nods and smiles. “Good ol’ Americana!”
I feel kind of bad for lying, but it’s not a complete lie. More like a lie of omission. An incomplete truth. That did happen; it’s just not the whole story.
I can tell he’s about to keep up the small talk, but thankfully the door to the men’s dressing room opens, and Anton steps out. And what I see simultaneously takes my breath away and makes me break out laughing.
Anton looks more handsome than Elvis ever looked in his life, but also like an Elvis that might kill you if you crossed him. I also can’t believe he actually did it. He walks toward me like I already belong to him, takes my hand, and places a ring on my finger. For some reason, this really affects me.
“This is not expensive,” he tells me. “I will buy you a nicer one when we return home.”
I look down. It’s a simple silver band with a small diamond. It may not be nice to him, but to me, it’s incredible.
“Anton…”
“You look beautiful, Peaches. More beautiful than Marilyn herself.”
“Gosh darnit,” the minister says with delight. “You two just made my day. Come on, let’s get you two hitched!”
5
Mia
The ceremony itself is quick and forgettable. Not because it means nothing, but because there’s nothing to it.
What really matters is what’s going on between Anton and me.
Neither of us had vows written, of course, which is fine. A hardened man like Anton dressing up like Elvis for me says more than any words he could ever have prepared. Once it’s all over and we are officially husband and wife, the minister says those fateful six words that cause my stomach to do backflips like it’s doing a balance beam gymnastics routine.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Bride…
Not kidnapping victim. Not blackmailed girl.
Bride.<
br />
Anton leans in, and my heart threatens to burst. “Yes,” he whispers, loud enough so only I can hear him. “Yes, I may.”
When our lips meet, the world suddenly seems to make sense.
Yes, this is how it’s meant to be.
My knees start to shake, followed by my legs, which tremble so hard I’m sure I’m going to fall down.
But Anton wraps his strong arms around my waist and holds me firm as he crushes his mouth against mine.
My first kiss…
And it’s not with a boy behind the bleachers, or in the backseat of my car, or at the school dance.
No. It’s with Anton Todorov, the devil. Lucifer himself. In his arms at the Graceland Chapel in Vegas. Under duress. His bride by blackmail. It’s crazy. It’s amazing. And all I can think is, “What happens next?”
If Anton wants to fuck me right here at the altar, I’m going to let him.
Right in front of the minister. I mean, he’s not a real priest anyway, right? And I’m a mob wife now! Not some Mormon house mom or something.
But, like the gentleman he said he would be, Anton simply takes my hand, leads me from the altar and back to the car.
“We’re keeping the outfits?” I ask. “Won’t the minister be mad? Or did you threaten him too?”
“I paid him,” Anton replies as we pull away. “I do not threaten everyone I meet, Peaches.”
This time, I don’t hide my smile from him. As stupid as it may be, I’m actually swooning right now. I doubt my mom would approve, but who else can say they got married in Vegas to one of the most powerful men in America? No one that I know. The girls in high school would never believe me. No one back at the diner either.
I know I’ve been blackmailed into this, but something is happening between Anton and me. It has to be. Why else would he have dressed up as Elvis and taken me here? He could have easily just had forms brought to us for me to sign and then left me at one of his houses or locked up in a room somewhere or something.
Why go through this effort if not to make me happy?