He knew. He knew exactly how she felt. The terrible feeling of betrayal, as if everything and everyone she knew, almost from the time of her birth, had conspired against her. This man holding her knew betrayal. He knew treachery at its worst. He knew what it felt like to live a role, to get so mixed up you forgot yourself, who and what you were. He knew all of that intimately.
She let her arms drift up his chest, that solid, hard chest, warm now, comforting, heart beating beneath her ear, strong and steady. She couldn't imagine him any other way but strong and steady. Of course he would be there. At her back. At her front, wherever she needed him.
Lissa let herself melt into his heat, holding him, weeping a storm of tears for both of them, for lost childhoods, for murdered parents and for his long-lost brothers, especially the oldest, who might be - and probably was - a total psycho thanks to a man in St. Petersburg who had murdered the parents of children, dragged them to schools and shaped them into killing machines, only to decide, after years of service, to have them all killed.
Casimir rocked her back and forth, his hands smoothing caresses down her back, fingers massaging her nape and scalp, whispering kisses and love at her temples and down the side of her face to the corner of her mouth. All the while, the water rained down on them, cocooning them in steam and love.
She felt his love surrounding her. Holding her up. Casimir Prakenskii. "All right. All right. I'm all right. I just have to let him go, don't I?"
"Golubushka. My beautiful wife. I love you with all my heart. With everything I am. This man you love, he is an illusion. Luigi Abbracciabene is an illusion. You loved your uncle. There is nothing wrong with that..."
She thumped her fist against his chest. "There is. He's a monster. He killed my parents. Wiped out so many people who were good to us. The gardener's entire family. He had children. They didn't even spare the children. He raised me to be a killer. He's involved in human trafficking. You can't tell me those women want to be doing what he forces them to do. I lived with him all those years, was loyal to him. Loved him. And he wanted me dead as well."
She couldn't keep the sorrow from her voice. Or the pain. She didn't want to feel pain. She wanted anger.
Casimir wrapped her up tight in his arms, just holding her, not arguing. Giving. That was all. Just giving. After a while the hot water ran out, and then her tears. She could only cry so long before there was nothing left.
He dried her body gently, wrapped her hair in a towel and pointed her toward her clothes. He'd packed a small suitcase for her. "The house is mostly empty. Two soldiers left behind. I told them I was going to take the night off, but if Luigi called and needed me, he could reach me by cell."
Lissa's head was pounding, a clear reason why it was just plain dumb to spend half an hour sobbing. Wild weeping got you nothing but headaches. She sighed. "I'm not certain what to do." She sank into a chair watching the play of muscles rippling in his back as he pulled on a tight tee.
"We're going to drive twenty minutes to a little resort right on the sea and we're spending the night there. Clearly Luigi's aware Aldo is dead. The authorities or his widow called Angeline. Luigi will be very caught up with his wife's grief over the next few days. He'll probably even make the funeral arrangements, stepping into the breach for the two grieving women."
"Three," Lissa corrected. "Lydia is grieving as well. I hope Luigi isn't planning on taking her into his prostitution ring."
Casimir completed dressing and caught her hand. "He won't have the time. He's lost Arturo, and his other bodyguards are not that intelligent or trusted. They spent way too much time beefing up. Taking steroids. I don't know if that's true of all of them, but they're definitely lacking in the brain department. I suspect that was a prerequisite to work for Luigi in this home. Word couldn't get back to Angeline. But now, without Arturo he's stuck with a crew that's fairly useless to him."
He opened the car door for her - he'd brought Tomasso's vehicle around to the front of the building so she could leave the gardener's shed, take five steps and slide into the passenger side of the car. "Stay low as I pull out," Casimir cautioned. "I don't think anyone's paying attention, but if so, I don't want them remembering seeing you."
Lissa kept her head and body down as Casimir drove out of the estate and onto the road. She settled into the seat beside him.
"Golubushka, put on your seat belt."
His voice was gentle. Low. Loving. So tender she felt a fresh flood of tears burning behind her eyes. "He thinks I'm dead."
"And he's going to continue to think it. He'll call Tomasso. He'll want to cultivate another man into Arturo's position. My resume's very impressive."
"He was going to kill you as well," Lissa pointed out. "You know he was. You were new. No family. No one you had sworn loyalty to. You were the perfect man to get the jobs done for him that he didn't want anyone knowing about, and then he could make you disappear, just like he does everyone in his way."
"Circumstances changed when Arturo died," Casimir pointed out. "He needs me now. He'll call me. We've got to work out the details and get set immediately."
She let her breath out and leaned toward him. She needed him. She'd never considered that she needed anyone. That was all she had to do, that little involuntary lean, as if he drew her like a magnet. He reached out instantly and took her hand, bringing the tips of her fingers to his mouth briefly before pressing her hand to his thigh in the way he often did.
Need, in a relationship, wasn't good. Need meant weakness to her, but she had to acknowledge, right then, she needed this man in her life. She wanted him there. She chose him and would choose him every day for the rest of her life. "I didn't want you," she blurted out. "When all my sisters were falling in love with Prakenskiis, I ran from the idea. I didn't want a man I knew would be dominant - at least I thought that was the reason."
"You didn't want to love someone that much because you were afraid," he said gently. "You'd already lost so much."
She nodded. "But I'm really glad you're in my life."
"We'll get through this, Giacinta."
"Are you always going to call me Giacinta? Because if you are, I'm going to have to confess who I am to everyone at home."
"That's who you are, malyshka. When we go home to our family, we're going home as us. As Casimir Prakenskii and Giacinta Abbracciabene-Prakenskii, so the people we love know who we are. So they see you and they see me."
She liked that. She had always detested that she couldn't tell the five women who had formed a family with her who her parents were. What her real name was. What her life was before she met them. She pressed her hand deeper into the hard muscle of his thigh. Just being with him comforted her. He didn't have to talk a lot. What he did say mattered.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her. "I was shaped in a hard school, Giacinta. I'm a man. I can't be anything else."
"I don't want you to be." She didn't either. She loved him just the way he was. Even overprotective - or what she thought might be overprotective. She found she loved that he cared enough to worry about her safety. She hadn't had that, not even from Luigi or Arturo. When she went on a job, no matter how dangerous, they didn't take her back - but Casimir had.
"We're going to butt heads occasionally," he said softly. "That's all right. We're both fire elements. We'll both flash hot and burn up in flames. The makeup sex will be phenomenal."
"I'm not sure it's safe to get any more phenomenal than it already has been," she admitted. "You get any better, Casimir, and I might not survive." For the first time, there was a small smile in her voice. In her mind. In her heart. Because of him. Because of man a named Casimir Prakenskii.
He brought her hand to his mouth again, teeth teasing the pads of her fingers. "I have all kinds of better to show you. You'll survive. I'll always make sure of that."
Her heart skipped a beat. She knew what he meant, and he wasn't talking about sex. He was going to make certain nothing happened to her. She to
ok a deep breath and let go of the hard knot of betrayal that had formed in her stomach.
"I'll always make certain the same of you, Casimir. Nothing's going to take you away from me."
They drove the rest of the way to the small resort in silence. He got the key to their cabin while she stayed in the car where no one could see her. The resort had several private little cabins, each with a view of the sea. It was small and exclusive, a tiny little jewel run by a single family consisting of parents, a grown son and teenage daughter. They rented boats and bicycles to their cliental, but few other services were offered.
The cabins were clean and snug, with small porches that held two chairs and a two-person hot tub. The cabins were situated so each had a view of the sea, but complete privacy from one another. There were no phones and no television. It was a place for two people to enjoy each other rather than what was playing on TV.
The moment Casimir had the door closed and locked he turned to her, his face a mask, his eyes dark with hunger. "Strip. Right now. Clothes off."
Instantly her body reacted, melting. Going hot. Going damp. Nipples peaking. She hadn't thought it would be possible to go from a storm of weeping to one of need. Of hunger and lust. He could do that to her with his voice. With that look in his eyes. He stood just inside the door, making no move to undress, his eyes on her, his jaw hard.
Excitement pounded through her. Casimir was making a point. That chapter in her life was gone. Over. He was her life. She was in his world now. He was in hers. Both hands went to the hem of her tee and she pulled it over her head. She stood in front of him in her lacy bra and jeans, looking around for somewhere to put the shirt.
He jerked his head toward a chair as he removed his hair and the thin, realistic mask that covered his face. "Your bra next."
She loved the quiet in his voice. The command. It unleashed something wild in her. Stoked the embers that always seemed to be burning inside her into actual flames. She reached behind her and obediently unhooked the bra, never taking her eyes off of him. While she tossed it to the chair, he expertly removed his contacts and put them in a case. He tossed that aside and leaned lazily against the door.
"Jeans, malyshka. Get rid of them and your panties." Very casually he shrugged out of his jacket and then removed his own shirt. He didn't move fast or slow. Just did it with ease, with his muscles rippling, suggestive of hidden power beneath his skin.
He was making the fire burn so hot she thought she might just have a mini-orgasm from the way his eyes had gone liquid silver. Her hands dropped to the zipper in her jeans and she managed to shimmy them off her hips and down her legs. She stepped out of her sandals and tossed the jeans to the chair. Not once did she take her eyes from him. He hadn't taken his eyes from her. He had barely blinked.
Her heart went a little crazy, pounding like mad in anticipation. Her breath had already gone ragged and he hadn't touched her yet. She was damp between her legs. Her breasts ached. She wanted him with every breath she drew into her lungs. He hadn't even touched her yet. Her mind was filled with him. Only him. There was no room for anything or anyone else.
He moved then. Straightening off the wall. That was all, but her sex clenched and she felt more liquid fire rushing through her in welcome. He held out his hand to her and she immediately crossed the distance to take his. Wordlessly he tugged her to the thick rug in front of the window overlooking the sea.
"On all fours, facing the window," he ordered. His voice was soft. Mesmerizing.
She didn't hesitate. Giving him what he wanted. Going down to her hands and knees. He didn't make a sound. She knelt there, heart pounding. Waiting. When nothing happened, she started to turn her head to see what he was doing.
"Don't."
It was a clear order. She sucked in her breath and kept her eyes on the glass. On the sea. Waiting. Wondering. The pressure inside her coiling tighter and tighter. The burn growing hotter. Her entire focus was on him. Only him. Every sense she possessed straining for movement. For sound. For anything.
Her nerves were at a screaming point, every one on fire, so sensitive that just the air had her close to a climax. She wasn't certain she could keep staring out the window when she wanted to know where he was. What he was doing.
"Put your head on the rug, Giacinta."
His voice came from her left. Her body jerked at the soft command, but she obeyed instantly, grateful for the opportunity to move. To do something when her body threatened to go up in flames. She pressed her forehead to the soft thick wool.
"Turn your head to your left, cheek to the floor."
She did and she saw him. Sitting in a chair, his silver eyes on her. His legs sprawled out in front of him. His cock was hard and thick, enclosed in his fist. His hand moved lazily, pumping while he watched her. While his gaze burned his brand into her.
"Push that sweet ass of yours higher," he instructed.
The sight of his fist sliding up and down the length of his hard shaft was one of the hottest things she'd ever seen. She was certain the sight would be burned in her mind for all time. More liquid spilled.
"Widen your knees for me, malyshka. When I finally get over the sight of you kneeling there, waiting for me, I want to see how wet you are for me. How excited. How much honey you're going to give me before I fuck you so hard you won't be able to get up off the floor."
A low moan slipped out. She couldn't help it. She obeyed him again, widening her knees, but keeping her bottom up in the air. His thumb moved over the flared head of his cock, smearing drops of liquid all over it. She licked her lips, but she didn't say anything. Didn't beg for him in her mouth. His face was etched with lines of pure lust. His hooded eyes had grown more liquid, purely sensual. His fist mesmerized her with that slow, languid slide.
He kept her there for what seemed forever. All the while, her body grew tighter. Felt emptier. Needed more. Waited. She was aware of everything about him. The muscles in his chest and arms. In his thighs. His breath moving in and out of his body. The stillness in the room. The tick of a clock somewhere. Eventually even all that was gone and there were only his eyes and his cock and fist. She couldn't get anything else in her mind. There was no room because he'd driven out everything else and filled her mind with him.
When she was certain she was going to have to plead with him, when she was close to sobbing his name, he stood up with that same casual laziness and walked around her, out of her sight. She desperately wanted to turn her head to see what he was doing, but she didn't dare. She knew, absolutely knew, that he would start all over again.
His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh and her entire sex clenched greedily. Her thighs jumped, fingers of desire dancing up them. She was drenched with liquid heat, with lust. Panting. Desperate for him. His fingers moved away and she wanted to sob. She knew he could keep up this torment for hours. She also knew what he was doing - keeping her mind fully occupied with him so nothing else could get in.
Something velvet soft slid up her thigh. Oh God. Her body wanted to melt into a small puddle of need. His tongue. Touching the insides of her thighs. Barely there, but leaving a long trail of fire burning up her leg straight to the scorching-hot channel that clutched emptily. So in need. She felt the rasp of his jaw, a sharp contrast to the whisper of his fingers and the velvet fire of his tongue.
His fingers dug into her hips and dragged her back almost savagely against his mouth. His tongue stabbed deep at the same time. That was all it took to have her tumbling over the edge, chanting his name, her body going wild. Over and over the waves came, swamping her, a strong quake there was no stopping or controlling. It went on and on. At the very height, the strongest of the contractions, he slammed into her, his body slightly above hers, giving him the best possible angle to go deep. He drove through tight folds, forcing his invasion, while her body clamped down on him like a vise.
He gasped. She screamed. Then he was pounding into her while flames seemed to consume her. There was no getting away from tha
t rhythmic piston. She was helpless to do anything but take it as he gave it to her. There was no way to think, only feel. Only let the scorching fire take her, burn her clean, make her wholly his. She had no idea how many times her body convulsed around his before he finally emptied himself into her.
She would have collapsed, but his arms held her up, held her safe. It was Casimir who somehow found the strength to carry her into the bedroom, sheltering her against his body, holding her so tenderly she could barely believe he was the same man who had taken her body so savagely only a few minutes earlier.
He placed her in bed and came down nearly over top of her, his body to the side, but leaning over her as if he could protect her from everything. As if he would always keep his body between hers and any harm. Her body still rocked with aftershocks, and the more his mouth whispered gently over her face, took her mouth in tender kisses, the more of herself she simply surrendered to him. Giving him everything she was.
Her body sated, completely exhausted, her mind filled only with him, she drifted off, surrounded by his warmth, hearing the soft declaration of love whispered in her ear as she succumbed to sleep.
17
Luigi smoldered with anger. He hadn't been able to grieve. All around him were wailing women, each determined to be more dramatic than the other. Louder. More annoying. Clinging to him until he wanted to pound them into the ground. When he wanted to knock them away from him. His stupid cow of a wife. Aldo's beautiful but idiotic widow who knew all along he had a mistress, but clung to him anyway because she didn't have a backbone. His own sons, weeping like children, following in their mother's footsteps, although he'd tried to teach them to be men.
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