Andrei circles the little bundle of nerves at the top of my private parts and I shudder involuntarily, feeling close to a climax before he’s even entered me. I am suddenly aware of the soreness between my legs — I am literally aching for him.
He leans over to kiss me again, softly at first, then with a relentless need.
“Please, oh please…” I moan between kisses.
And then it happens. The head of his member pushes into me and I cry out in surprise. My eyes roll back in my head as he rocks back and then pushes into me again and again, only pushing a centimeter or so farther each time. I glance down to see that he isn’t even halfway sheathed inside me yet! I already feel so full, my virgin muscles stretching desperately to accommodate his massive size.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice raspy with need. I can tell that he is straining, using every ounce of his willpower to hold back, to keep from hurting me. From the lust burning in his dark eyes I can tell that it takes everything he has not to simply ram into me and split me in two.
I feel a rush of mingled desire and affection for this powerful, mysterious, shockingly considerate man I now call my husband.
“Yeah,” I reply, the word scarcely more than a pronounced exhale.
And with that, he finally pushes into me completely, filling me to the hilt. A sharp wave of pain electrifies my body and I yelp in surprise and agony. Andrei’s hands rush to stroke my face, his lips peppering my mouth and cheeks with kisses.
“Shh, I will go slowly,” he assures me, resting his forehead against mine. He reaches down to gently circle the inflamed bundle of nerves between my legs, stroking me into a pleasurable oblivion even as his shaft breaks through the barrier and causes me to cry out in pain.
“Ty v poryadke,” he says soothingly, and I don’t understand, but the foreign words soothe me.
He starts moving his hips, pumping into me very slowly and carefully at first. His thumb circling my tingling bud quickens its pace, and before long I can feel an orgasm approaching.
“Ohhh,” I moan, tilting my head back as my body lurches upward of its own volition and my second climax shudders through my veins, despite the dulling pain.
“That’s it, baby,” Andrei mumbles, starting to move faster. “Otlichno.”
He grasps at the headboard, his control beginning to slip. His massive shaft pummels into me, hitting deep inside, filling me up until pain and pleasure reach identical heights. My fingers claw at his back needily, animalistic moans falling from my lips. Finally, I come again, warm honey gushing from between my legs as Andrei pushes into me again and again, my opening convulses around him.
With a few quick, frenzied snaps of his hips, Andrei thrusts hard into me one final time and bellows in ecstatic relief as he fills me up with a hot, thick stream of his seed.
“Ohh, dorogaya…” he moans, collapsing forward onto me, his forearms just barely bracing himself so he doesn’t crush me with his massive chest. His eyes are tightly shut and his breath comes slowly and raggedly, the two of us panting in the charged silence between us. Then he opens his eyes, those dark orbs blazing with a quiet intensity. I stare at his face in wonder and awe — I feel as though suddenly everything has changed.
Am I a woman now?
What does this mean for the two of us?
Our marriage has been consummated! We are now bound to each other by a deeper, more binding connection than a simple piece of paper and an exchange of verbal vows. We are now interlocked, forever, soul and body. I belong to him, and not just because he bought me,
And he belongs to me.
Andrei surprises me with the tenderness of his next move. He leans forward to gently rest his forehead against mine, inhaling deeply as though trying to breathe me in. Holding himself up with one impossibly strong arm, his other hand comes up to lightly cup my cheek, his thumb passing fondly over my lips. Then he kisses me sweetly, his mouth just barely grazing mine in the most delicate of angel kisses.
“Are you alright, lyubov moya?” he asks, his voice so soft and full of genuine concern.
I nod, happy tears pooling in my eyes.
When he sees the shining moisture in my gaze, his face contorts into an expression of worry and he kisses my cheek. “O net, then why do you cry?”
A single tear escapes to roll down my cheek and neck as I lay perfectly still on the bed.
“I am so happy,” I reply, my voice choked with emotion. I feel so complete, so whole, so incredibly swathed in warm, unfailing love — for the first time in my life. I have never felt so close to another human being in all my years, and to think… I have only barely met him.
* * *
We spend the next morning in bed, being lazy and simply enjoying each other’s presence. After our first time together, I am sore, my muscles aching and my newly-christened private parts unaccustomed to such exertion. When we finally get up, I am appalled to see a large bloodstain on the satin sheets from underneath me. I’m so shocked by the sight that I nearly faint, apologizing profusely for ruining the beautiful bedsheets. But Andrei assures me it’s nothing to fret over, that we can just buy new ones. So he pulls the stained sheets off the bed, tosses them in the wash, and runs me a luxurious bath complete with candles and bubble bath he stashed away some time ago.
As I sit in the bath, sinking down into thick white foam that smells of roses and lavender, I smile to myself. I can’t believe my luck. I know it can’t be possible that every girl ends up with a man so strong and doting. I stay in the bath for a long time, my head leaned back and my muscles starting to loosen back up. The toasty water and floral scents soothe my aches and pains until I start to feel like my old self again.
Well, except for the fact that I can never be my old self again. I am a changed woman.
After my bath, I curl up on the couch with a blanket and watch television while Andrei orders us something called “take-out” for an early lunch. I don’t even know what we’re watching — it’s a “soap opera” as Andrei calls it, with a cast of very dramatic, beautiful, immaculately-dressed characters who all seem to be either sleeping with or related to each other in one way or another. It’s an eye-opening experience, watching TV for the first time without parental supervision. And this is a real show, not a news segment or a religious story.
“Do you like Chinese food?” asks Andrei, dialing a number into his cell phone.
I bite my lip, feeling very ignorant for the millionth time in the past few days. Yet another question I don’t know the answer to. I shrug.
“I… I don’t know. I’ve never had it before.”
Andrei raises an eyebrow in a look I’ve been getting a lot from him lately. “You’ve never had Chinese food.” He says it like a statement, rather than a question.
I shake my head sadly, fiddling with the blanket in my lap.
“Do you like chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Rice?”
“Yes.”
“Vegetables?”
“Of course.”
“We can work with that.”
When the food arrives, I have no idea what it is or where to begin. He hands me a pair of long, skinny wooden sticks and tells me to use them instead of a fork. I look at him like he’s lost his mind, suspicious that he must be playing a trick on me. After he places his hand over mine and shows me how to place the chopsticks between my fingers and pinch pieces of chicken off the plate, I start to get the hang of it, though I never quite do it gracefully.
The rest of the day goes by smoothly, the two of us lounging around. In the afternoon, I fall asleep on the couch, and Andrei goes out to buy new bedsheets. When I wake up, he’s come back and changed into an exceedingly handsome suit, his hair slicked back. He gently urges me to get up and put on a gorgeous gown we bought yesterday.
“Where are we going?” I ask, rubbing my eyes sleepily.
“Wake up, sonnyy, we’re going to the opera.”
My eyes go fully wide at this announcement and I imm
ediately leap off the couch, rushing to get dressed. I have never been to an opera, and I have no idea what to expect. Once or twice, my mother left the radio unattended, and I heard a couple songs being belted out by women with powerful voices. I could never tell what they were saying, but that didn’t subtract from the beauty in the least.
Andrei drives us to the massive, elaborate theater, my face frozen in an expression of overwhelmed awe the entire time. Andrei is gallant and prince-like in his suit, tall and noble in his bearing. I know everyone’s eyes are on us, even in the context of the expensively-dressed, high-society crowd. We settle into our seats and watch the opera, his hand wrapped around mine.
It’s an utterly magical night. I am amazed at the power and strength of the opera singers, the beauty of the sets, even the decorum of the audience. Everything is perfect, except…
During the third act, Andrei quietly disappears from my side, offering no excuse. He remains gone for quite some time. I am mostly too wrapped up in the gorgeousness of the opera to pay too much attention, but my husband’s absence does ring like a strange alarm bell somewhere in the back of my mind. Something is off, but I don’t know what, and I am too afraid to ask.
13
Andrei
I hate to leave my wife alone, even in the safety of the opera house. But I have ulterior motives for coming here. My hit on the Frenchman was sloppy, the only kill I’ve botched since becoming a professional. So it tears at my mind.
There’s no way I can risk exposing myself, not when Cassie’s well-being is on the line, so I’ve had to look into matters carefully. Which means slowly. If word gets around that one of the Bratva’s killers is looking into the hit, it’ll incriminate me. And that’s all it takes in my world to be undone. For good.
Finally a source turned up something, a Frenchman was in town with some pull, a rare thing. And he was at the opera, meeting with a powerful local connection about the death of his brother.
I make a detour along the private box seats until I find exactly the one I am looking for. There, I can see the slickly dressed Frenchman, with his silver-frosted tips sat with a sour expression, talking to someone out of my view.
“Mon frère! My own brother, killed in your city,” he says, anger welling up in the well-dressed European, his French accent thick as he spoke in English. “Killed by one of your own, a Russian,” he says with such distaste.
“Not every Russian in the city is on our payroll,” says the other voice, but I can’t see the face of the man saying it, he’s blocked by a red velvet curtain.
The Frenchman curses in his native tongue.
“That is not good enough, Kasym!” he says, but I don’t recognize the name. “Not after all the shit I covered up for you in Paris, and beyond,” he adds with such distaste. “You owe me. And more than that,” he says, grinding his teeth.
“Don’t say anything you’ll regret, Pierre. I know,” Kasym says, holding out a hand bedecked in more rings than any man ought to wear. “I will protect the flow of the goods. And if that means I have to gun down half my fellow russkiye to find the man who did your brother in, then I will. That is a promise.”
Pierre stiffens a little, but then seems to soften, giving a nod to Kasym.
“I have looked over you a long time, on behalf of your father, I consider myself like an uncle. Do not let me down, Kasym. I want this man to suffer. To see everything he ever had taken from him. Anyone he has ever loved to die before his eyes, just as I heard my brother die.”
“Now that, I would relish,” Kasym says with a wicked laugh.
14
Cassie
When Andrei returns, it is as though nothing has happened — except that his eyes have this faraway look, his face hardened against the world once more.
He still takes my arm with a soft touch, guiding me gently through the opera house as we navigate the post-show crowds back to the car. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep on the ride home, though I occasionally sneak a one-eyed glance over at my husband in the passing neon lights intermingled with nighttime darkness.
There is something unnamed consuming him, preoccupying his mind. The thought that he is hiding something from me eats away at my newfound happiness, no matter how desperately I long to ignore it, to put it far from my mind so it can’t plague my joyful heart.
I don’t know what it is, and I dare not ask, afraid to shatter the illusion.
15
Andrei
I know I’m going to be easily the most down-dressed person at this party, but I don’t like looking like a villain from some crime drama on television.
My car pulls up the long driveway after passing security, and for once, every other car on the lot is on par with mine — a lot of sports cars, a lot of black luxury sedans, and a handful of limousines.
I’m on the job again.
This contract could not have come at a more opportune time. Ever since my display at the auction where I bought Cassie, things have been somewhat tense with Sergei Slokavich, to say the least. He regards me with the air of caution he’d long ago thrown to the wind, confident that I was nothing but his lackey.
But I am not so willing to break ties with the Bratva that I will cut out Sergei just yet. He’s a disgusting man, but he has his uses.
He reached out to me, offering me a job as his bodyguard for the evening at a party at Seneca Lake, about five hours from our home in Brighton Beach. It’s a luxurious countryside estate with a gorgeous view of the water, and the climate is perfect for the state’s wine industry. The owner of this particular manor is one such winemaker — one who happens to have very close ties with the Bratva.
But as legitimate as his business is, a significant amount of smuggling takes place within those wine barrels, so nearly every smuggler and human trafficker worth their salt will be in attendance.
And it’s one of those human traffickers who is my target for the evening.
Boris Mikhailov is his name. He’s responsible for orchestrating the sale of hundreds of women from Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia to powerful men here in the USA. He started out as the owner of some kind of loan shark operation that taught him the art of trapping trusting victims in need.
The only ones who will mourn his passing are the wastrels getting drunk on bad wine here this evening. And I have the perfect cover.
I arrive about fifteen minutes before Sergei, as arranged. I step out of my car, clad in a designer leather jacket and snug-fitting jeans that are flexible enough for easy movement. The tattoo of my Russian star is just barely visible under the collar of my shirt.
I lean against my car, waiting for Sergei. It would be bad form for me to make an appearance without him, and I suspect he has this in mind — doesn’t want me getting too far away from my place. All the better he’s totally unaware that I’m using him as a cover for the night.
Some time passes as I check in with Cassie by text; she’s been practicing her newfound painting talents while I’m “away on business.” I often wonder how much she’s guessed about the business I conduct. She knows I carry out some security jobs for the Bratva, and I’ve told her as much on this trip, but I’ve spoken not a word to her about the more...direct business I take care of.
Sergei’s approaching sedan snaps me from my thoughts. He and his other muscle step out of the car; he’s wearing a large fur coat and garish sunglasses, his patchy facial hair as unkempt and greasy as ever. He grins at me when he sees me approaching, but I know it’s forced.
“Andrei, Andrei my boy!” He holds out his arms, and I embrace him out of courtesy.
“Safe trip, I hope?” I ask.
“Bah!” He gives a dismissive wave at his other bodyguard, the car’s driver. “This doorak drives like a blind old man, but here we are, only an hour late, eh?” He gives a cackling laugh and pats me on the back as the three of us head for the estate.
It’s an opulent villa-style property, complete with fountains along the cobblestone walkway to the grand entranc
e and elaborate garden space out front — all patrolled by surly gentlemen carrying guns, of course.
The party is as boring as I expected it to be. Once we’re inside, we’re greeted by a manservant who guides us to a large room occupied by an array of middle-aged and older men every bit as sleazy-looking as Sergei. Each one of them has a scantily-clad young woman or two in their arms, and of course, wine is being shared freely among the guests. The women at these kinds of events are paid workers, though, not slaves, even if few of them look happy about tonight’s gig.
It would kill the vibe of the party to show these flesh-peddlers the consequences of their business.
I’m surveying the crowd when I feel a tug at my arm as Sergei leans in to whisper to me. “Keep your manners in check tonight, Andrei, a few of the guests here haven’t forgotten your reputation for, eh, ‘bravado.’ ”
I arch my eyebrow at him, unfazed by the thinly-veiled threat. “You’d like that? I figured my bravado is why you keep hiring me for these things.”
Sergei gives me a look, moving his lips as though swishing spit around in his foul mouth, and he’s about to reply when he’s cut off by another guest.
“Mister Slokavich!” comes a booming voice a small crowd of large men not far from where Sergei and I have entered. Sergei’s face brightens up as he lays eyes on its source: a tall man in a relatively tasteful suit, relative to the rest of the people here, sporting a clean-cut beard and slicked black hair. Boris Mikhailov. My target.
“Boris, look at you, you bastard, it’s been years!”
Sergei swiftly moves to meet him, greedily hugging him as anyone would embrace one of the richest men in the room.
“Aaah, you’ve lost weight, what are you, working out now?” Sergei’s awkward compliments don’t seem to bother Boris, who laughs it off easily. He’s a shrewd talker.
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