by Paige North
Fire, flames, sun falling out of the sky to crash and burn and flow all over me with liquid heat until I’m sated.
I’m his.
He’s mine.
His skin sticks to my own sweaty flesh as he keeps holding me, his arm still draped over me and bringing me back against him, his face against my neck. We’re bound together like this now, and not just emotionally.
Our bodies, our souls.
He’s still inside me, and he whispers harshly in my ear.
“Squeeze your pussy for me, baby.”
I do as he asks, tightening my vaginal muscles, and he comes once again with a primal growl, then relaxes.
I wait, because there’s one little part of me that fears he’ll go back to being the Cage I knew in New York—the guy who would fuck me, clean up, turn his back on me, then leave.
Slowly, I roll over, knowing in my heart that it will be different this time as I look at him. When I see that he’s watching me with such emotion in his eyes that it suffuses me with sublime warmth, I smile, my chest tight.
He uses his fingers to stroke the hair back from my face, deep adoration still in his gaze, and I sigh.
“And that,” he says, “was only the beginning, my love.”
He glances at something behind me, and I lazily turn to look over my shoulder. What I find on the table by the bed arouses me. It makes me laugh with nervous ecstasy.
Because spread out on that table are all kinds of toys—delicate whips, satin blindfolds, silken bindings, and other things I can’t even guess at.
Anticipation thunders through me as I turn back to Cage.
“You got a gift when I showed up at your door in Miami,” I say. “Now are you giving me gifts of my own?”
“If you want them.”
I give him a confident, turned-on smile.
“Fuck yes,” I say, giddy that the night has only just begun.
And so has the rest of our lives together.
Epilogue
I want everything to be perfect today.
Silver and gold balloons decorate Cage’s Manhattan duplex where I moved in with him after I graduated from college last winter. Birthday banners are hung in the long marble hallway, and the aroma of a Russian feast fills the air. We’ve strung bright white lights here in the living room, and they wink over the pile of gifts we’ve gathered for Igor Vasiliev, whose birthday we’re commemorating in our home, even though Cage’s associate turned sixty-eight a few days ago.
It’s been a crazy ten months for us. Not only did Cage come to Colorado Springs to sweep me off my feet by proposing to me, but then he met my parents and my older sister. Then we had a grand engagement party in my home town with my friends and relatives in attendance. A few months after that my college graduation rolled around. Cage actually booked the resort estate house, using it as a home base as he did business until my commencement ceremony, which he attended with my family.
He was really proud of me—just as proud as I was of him while he continued to come to terms with his past. I was with him all the way, and now we’ve made it.
I adjust a strand of white lights that decorates one of the many potted ficus trees in the sunny living room. My sister Lacey crosses her arms and surveys the results of our birthday decorating. Then she says, “Mr. Vasiliev better be worth all this fuss.”
“You’ll like him when you meet him,” I say. “He’s the last of a dying breed—an old-school gentleman.”
She quirks a smile at me, and I take in her light brown hair and blue eyes. She’s the spitting image of Mom, who wanders over from the neat piles of gifts she’s been arranging so they’ll appear just so. Mom and Lacey are wearing chic summer sheathes that Cage bought for them during their latest New York shopping spree—Mom’s dress white, Lacey’s pink.
Dad even comes over from across the room where he’s been staring out a floor-to-ceiling window at Central Park. He still can’t get over the view, even after so many visits. “Are you sure about these Russian birthday traditions, Karini? I’m not comfortable with the thought of some of the ones you told us about.”
Lacey laughs. “Like pulling Mr. Vasiliev’s ears according to the number of years he’s got behind him? I can’t say I’m looking forward to that either. It’s weirder than any American traditions we have.”
I hold back a laugh. If only they knew how, on my twenty-third birthday, Cage resurrected some kind of birthday spanking tradition we used to do in America. I checked online. It really used to be a thing.
It’s totally our thing now.
I shrug at the looming birthday ear-pulling question. “We might be able to skip that tradition, guys. After all, we’d like to steer clear of any international incidents.”
When my skin awakens with heat, I know that Cage has walked into the room behind me. He doesn’t say anything as he eases his hand to my slightly pooched belly.
Possessive. Loving. He’s already thinking of names for the little baby boy and girl who are on their ways into our lives. Roman and Tatiana (or Alec and Anya?) will be along for the ride when Cage and I get married at the end of the month as soon as the dream house Cage has been overseeing is finished. I didn’t want to be married anywhere else except in the new home that’ll hold and comfort our family for the rest of our lives.
“Hey, Cage,” Lacey says, perfectly at home with her uber-rich future brother-in-law. “Should we pull on Igor’s ears today or what? Evidently, that’s what Russians do to each other on their birthdays.”
Cage laughs. “We can leave that up to Igor. He’s big on traditions. That’s why he wanted to meet my family while he’s in town this time.”
He couldn’t have made my mom any happier by calling them “family.” I can tell that Dad and Lacey are totally on board, too. They accepted him pretty quickly, except for that first meeting when they put him through the wringer by asking him a million questions about the loads of women he used to date and how he got so rich.
Gauche but protective, but hey, he’s the first real boyfriend I’d ever brought home. The only boyfriend who’ll ever matter.
Right now they obviously sense that Cage would like some alone time with me before Igor arrives, and they mention something about checking out what Daphne the personal chef has cooking in the kitchen, then depart. Lacey, the joker, winks at me on her way out, but Cage doesn’t notice.
He keeps rubbing my belly, and I lean back into him, feeling the security of his hard body, resting my cheek against his strong arm.
“Good job with the decorations,” he says. “Igor’s going to be pleased.”
“You know I always do my best for you, baby.”
As he kisses the top of my head, my blood warms. I want him right now just as much as I always do, passionately, insanely. But when he reaches his other hand in front of me to show me a wrapped box, I have to put my need for him on hold.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Open it and see.”
I hate to break away from him to take the gift in my hand, but I’m curious, so I do. And after I turn around to find him grinning down at me with his blue eyes shining, I tear into the ribbon, then the wrapping, stripping everything down to a medium-sized black velvet box.
I slowly open it to find a diamond tiara nestled in velvet cloth, sparkling in the summer light from the windows.
“Cage,” I say breathlessly.
“It’s for our wedding day,” he says. “I know you already have your veil picked out to go with your dress, but I saw this, and it was begging for you.”
Just like I playfully beg for him during our nights together?
He takes the small crown out of its box, then slips it onto my head. I don’t have to see myself in a mirror to know that I’m beautiful, because I see that in Cage’s eyes. I always have.
“My gift,” he murmurs. “My queen.”
When he bends down to scoop me into his arms for a kiss, I melt. I cling to him during this lazy, loving assault of emotions. I feel as i
f we’re in the eye of our own storm, everything whirling around us as the chaos echoes inside of me, too, and when he deepens the kiss by stroking my tongue with his, I’m his erotic slave.
I’m his everything, even after he pulls away to look down into my eyes.
Fire…storms…us. He belongs to me and I belong to him, forever.
He runs his fingers down my neck, over my aching and swollen breast, then to my baby bump. With a naughty glance, he goes lower, skimming under my summer dress to my pussy.
I moan and bite my lip as he teases me there, awakening my clit and the pounding of my blood.
“There’s no time,” I whisper.
“There’s always time for me to take you into our bedroom for—”
The doorbell chimes, and the hot moment between us suspends in the air. We laugh at the timing, but it’s not as if there won’t be other opportunities.
I smack his hand away from me, and he chuckles. Then I slide the tiara off my head, not caring that’s it leaving my hair a mess. I’ll live.
I tuck the headdress into its box, saving it for our wedding day.
Igor is in high spirits, and he’s brought his wife, two children, and grandchildren with him. The kids immediately go for his pile of presents in the living room, inspecting them, politely guessing what could be inside.
As Igor’s family surrounds my own, laughing together, Cage, Igor, and I stand back and watch.
“Ah, family,” Igor says. “I cannot wait until you have your own children to join in festivities such as this.”
He smiles and looks at my baby bump, and Cage can’t help but to touch me there again. I look up at him to see the glowing affection in his eyes, and I almost lose track of where we are and who we’re with until the kids laugh gleefully at the sight of Daphne wheeling the massive birthday cake into the room on a linen-covered cart.
But Igor isn’t watching them. He’s watching us with a satisfied smile.
“I always knew the two of you would work things out,” he says.
He has no true idea. Cage never did lie to Igor about how I had to “take care of my sick mother” and how that resulted in our breakup. Instead, Cage told him something closer to the truth—that he had blown it with me and wanted me back.
And he sure got what he wanted.
“You know, Cage,” Igor continues as the kids surround the cake now, “meeting Karini was actually what convinced me that you could be trusted. She, as they say, was your ace in the hole.”
The air in the room seems to go still as something passes through Cage’s eyes. A memory of how dark things used to be for him, perhaps. But then he looks at me and his eyes are shining.
He slips his hand to the back of my head and gives me a kiss so tender that my knees go weak. Then he smiles down at me.
“Meeting Karini is what convinced me that I could be trusted, too,” he says so softly that I’m not even sure Igor hears it.
But I did, and that’s all that’s going to matter for the rest of our lives.
THE END
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And now, continue reading this ebook to find the excerpt from SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase.
Excerpt: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase
Aubrey
The moment I walk into Outlaws, I instantly realize how much I stick out. Worse than a sore thumb. More like a sore limb, or a sore whole body. Silly me, I thought my skinny jeans and slim-fitting T-shirt would be appropriate for a bar, but many of the women in here are wearing tiny, skin-hugging skirts and sexy shirts that make me look like a nun in comparison.
My face burns when several burly, greasy-looking men turn and stare my way, their gazes raking me up and down for a moment before visually dismissing me, but I make myself continue walking through the propped-open front door into the bar.
The floor crunches underneath my ballerina flats. I think it’s peanut shells I’m walking on but I can’t say for sure, and I’m kinda too scared to look at what it is. Instead, I find a space at the end of the beat-up wooden slab of a bar and slide onto the rickety bar stool.
Some kind of rock with a heavy thudding beat throbs through the large room, which is dimly lit. I hear the crack of a pool cue hitting a ball, dozens of people laughing and talking. The air in here smells like beer and warm sweat—there’s no air conditioning, but thankfully there’s a fresh breeze wafting in through the open door.
I suck in a deep breath, pressing my hand to my lower belly, and steady myself. Today, I begin again.
This is my new life. My new hometown. The place where I can leave my shitty past behind and start over. Rock Bridge, Michigan, a town chosen completely at random. A town that includes the seediest bar I’ve ever seen in my life. I didn’t think joints like this existed outside of movies.
I was totally wrong.
I study the beer to see what’s on tap. Most are the usual offerings, but there are a couple of brands I don’t recognize. Maybe local? I should try one out to help me acclimate myself even more to my new town, my new state.
I peek down the length of the bar but don’t see a bartender. No one else at the bar seems to care, though. They’re all caught up in talking to each other, waving hands in the air, yelling over the music. Their voices mingle around me.
Minutes pass. Nothing happens—I’m completely ignored by everyone, and behind the bar is still empty.
I shift nervously, second-guessing my impulsive decision to stop in here. Maybe this wasn’t my best idea after all. But I spent all day moving into my cheap but furnished apartment, unpacking my meager belongings and getting settled in. I passed the bar on my way to my new place and saw it’s within walking distance.
For whatever reason, I didn’t want to stay in that apartment by myself. Not tonight. I needed to be around other people. To remind myself that I’m safe.
So here I am, sitting by myself at the dirtiest, grittiest bar I’ve ever seen. Like a fucking loser, I think, then correct myself. No, not like a loser. Like a new girl in town—there’s no shame in that. I’m not letting his voice insinuate itself inside my head anymore. He can’t control me, can’t tell me how I should feel about myself. My chest lightens with the realization that finally, finally, I’m out of his grasp.
I take my first real deep breath in what feels like months, and my shoulders relax of their own volition. So what if I’m alone here? I don’t care. I don’t want anyone talking to me right now anyway. I just want to drink a beer and relax. Be around people, but not necessarily worry about integrating myself.
Besides, how would someone “integrate” herself in a bar like this, anyway? Offer blowjobs in the bathroom? The thought makes me laugh.
“Uh, hello,” a deep voice says from behind the bar, clearly irritated.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring blindly at the nocked bar surface, and peer up into the sky-blue eyes of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life. His dark blond hair is clipped short on the sides and pushed up in the front, and his black T-shirt barely fits over his well-formed chest. His curvy lips are pressed together in a thin line, surrounded by a red-blond close-clipped mustache and beard, and he has one brow arched at me.
He doesn’t look happy to see me. So much for customer service, I think.
“Um. Sorry. Yeah, hi,” I stumble. Something about the intensity of his gaze makes me clench, unnerves me. He’s raw sexuality personified.
He quirks his brow even higher. “I don’t recognize you.”
“I’m new to town,” I reply. “Just moved in today, actually. I came from upper New York.” Why in the hell am I telling him all of this? Something about him makes me really nervous. And when I’m nervous, I ramble.
“So, did you come from upper New York to just stare at the bar, or do you actually want something t
o drink?” His voice is flat.
My cheeks burn, and I tilt my chin up. “I would like a beer.”
He just stares at me like I’m a total moron, not speaking.
The heat slides down my throat and over the rest of my face. Dumbass. Of course I want a beer. I’m in a damn bar. He must think I’m a total idiot. I clear my throat. “Something local, please. Not hoppy though. Anything you recommend is fine.”
He doesn’t say a word but saunters away and grabs a thick mug, tucking it under one of the taps. It’s hard to not stare at his ass in those faded, fit jeans. The fabric cups him perfectly; his thighs are strong, too; I can tell that much. My belly throbs in response to his blatant potency—he’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in real life. His arms are covered in tattoos, and I can see another tattoo peeking over the top of his T-shirt at the base of his neck.
So not my type.
And how well has your type worked out for you? I question myself in a stinging inner voice. Because the last guy who was my so-called type, clean-cut with a good job and a polite demeanor that pleased my parents, turned out to be the worst mistake I ever made. The reason I left behind everything and everyone I know to start over in some random town I picked off a map.
After what I went through with my ex, I should know better than to judge a book by its cover again.
At the thought of him, my pulse picks up and my lungs squeeze tight. He isn’t here, I remind myself. He has no idea where I am. I’m fine now.
The mug of beer slides across the bar toward me. I grab it before it spills on my lap, cupping the cool glass in my palms. Hot Bartender is quite the charmer, isn’t he? He didn’t even wait to see if I caught the drink before giving me his back in order to flirt with a woman wearing the smallest tank top I’ve ever seen in my life. I think it was made for a toddler.