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So when he ordered me out of my clothes and removed his t-shirt to gag me, I only spent a second staring at his powerful arms, the strength of his shoulders, my body humming with need at the sight of the tattoos snaking over his skin like patchwork, the way that patch of hair dips low on his hips.
I’m on my back on the tiny sofa and he towers over me. When he fastened the t-shirt behind my head, my eyes filled with tears.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered. I shook my head. No. I’m not hurt. I’ve longed for this so badly I can’t contain my emotions.
There is no gentle lovemaking or lover’s caress. There are no sweetly whispered words. There will be. But not tonight.
Now that he has me back, he has to stake his claim. Mark his territory. Let me know under no uncertain terms that I belong to him.
“When we move, we get better furniture,” he growls in my ear, pulling me down off the rickety sofa that won’t hold his massive body, and laying me gently on the little sheepskin rug on the floor. I giggle but soon my giggle morphs into a moan when he begins to ravish me.
His mouth on the tender skin at my neck. Kissing, licking, nipping, teasing. Fingers at my back, holding me against him. I close my eyes and let myself feel every blessed moment of this, from the moment his lips touch mine, to when he rocks his hips against my pelvis. His hoarse voice whispers prayers and curses and whatever else pours forth from him, some words I know now for Nikita has taught me. And somehow, in his native language, they mean more.
But he also speaks without uttering a word.
The way he holds my body to his with the touch of a gentle giant. The way he groans with pleasure and relief when he slides into me, united once more. The way he captures my wrists and pins them above my head, a reminder that he’ll always be my master. The way he coaxes my body to bliss until I scream against the gag. The way he holds me on his chest after we’ve made love, panting and flushed but silent.
He weaves his fingers through mine and brings our hands to his lips. A soft, gentle kiss that says it all. We speak no words. We don’t need to.
His kiss tells me I’m his treasure. His everything.
He came for me. He hunted me, captured me, and made me his, but in so doing, he lost himself to me.
We fought for this. We earned this.
And nothing will tear us apart.EpilogueTwo years later
SadieKazimir wakes with a start, sitting up in bed so suddenly, my heart thumps madly in my chest. The two of us breathe heavily in the darkened room, when a little voice calls out with a wail.
“Mama.”
It’s just Karol. It’s been two years since our time in Russia, but old habits die hard.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my robe, but Kazimir stops me.
“No, Sadie. I’ll get him. You need your rest.”
I don’t argue with him. We might be eons away from where we began, but he still expects me to do what he says. It’s just who he is. In his nature. And the truth is, I like it that way.
I slide back under the covers and feast my eyes on his beautiful, powerful body, as he walks out of our room wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He’s unchanged but for the tattoo he now bears on his bicep, our son’s name in script.
I hear him shushing baby Karol and speaking to him in Russian, and close my eyes. The whispered nighttime comforts of a loving father are so foreign to me, I’m sometimes overwhelmed with the emotion it stirs in me.
He’s so good with him. So damn good. I never knew he could be as patient as he is with our child, and though he can be firm, as it’s just part of his nature, he loves our son more than life itself.
Karol’s cries cease, and soon, Kazimir returns to our room.
“His little bear was stuck in the bars of his crib,” he says, his accent thick when he’s tired. “That boy’s a strong one. Likely shoved him in there when he fell asleep.”
I smile. “And you rescued him?”
“Of course.” He lifts the covers and slides down next to me, tucking my body against his chest and wrapping his arm around me.
Sometimes he struggles in his sleep, wrestling demons he won’t share with me. When he wakes, he anchors his arm around me as if I’m his lifeline. And maybe I am.
Sometimes his eyes grow haunted and pained. It makes my heart sing to kiss his temple and hold him to me, to whisper into his ear how much I love him and watch as my gentle ministrations make the worry lines around his eyes disappear. I let him hold me and protect me, ever the old-fashioned husband. He opens doors for me and carries heavy things, makes me lock the door when he leaves, and when I go out I call him so he knows I’ve arrived. Some would find it overbearing. I love it.
