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Viktor
My new wife is proving to be a handful in every way except the one I’d like her to be.
I wake up from a less than peaceful sleep, unused to having someone in my bed again after three years of sleeping alone. Caterina isn’t a restless sleeper, but any slight movement seemed to jolt me awake as if she’d shaken the entire bed. At one point, I simply lay awake for a while, watching her in the moonlight bleeding through the bedroom curtains.
I could not have picked a more beautiful bride. I’d known she was lovely, but somehow seeing her in person seems to make the memory of every other woman I’ve ever found beautiful fade. Everything about her, even in her waifish thinness, is perfection. As I laid there, I found myself wanting to reach over and touch her face, push a curl of dark hair away from her cheek, run my finger over her nipple beneath the thin fabric of her top.
Of course, I did none of those things. I’d promised her that I wouldn’t so much as lay a finger on her, and I am, as I’d said, a man of my word. I lay there with my cock hard and throbbing instead, cursing the fact that I couldn’t simply roll over and take my new bride. At that moment, I began to regret denying her request for a separate bedroom.
Keeping my hands off her would be much easier if she were elsewhere, not sleeping beside me every night. But I made a promise, and I’ll keep it until I have reason to do otherwise. For instance—I’d agreed to try IVF. I didn’t promise how many failed months I’d let it go on before I insist that we try a more natural route. And looking at Caterina lying next to me, her chest lightly rising and falling with sleep, I have a distinct feeling that I won’t last many months before I start pushing for her to come back to my bed in every single way.
I had intended on a marriage of convenience, not one of celibacy. I’ve never been a man meant for monkhood. I can restrain my desires, but I don’t prefer to. Why, when money and power mean that I can satisfy almost every desire I could possibly have?
That power bought me a bride. But apparently, it doesn’t frighten Caterina enough to make her open her legs for me after the first night. And while I should find that offensive, instead, it’s arousing. I don’t think any woman has ever told me no. I’ve never forced a woman, but I’ve never been put in a position to have to. Only Caterina has ever looked me dead in the eyes and told me she would not willingly lay down for me.
And that, in and of itself, has made me want her with a desperation that I’ve never felt before.
It’s also why I’m in the shower, my hand wrapped around my cock while my new wife sleeps peacefully in our bedroom just beyond the door.
Just thinking about our one night together is enough to get me rock-hard, almost painfully so. Thinking about everything we didn’t do, everything that we could still do if she’d just fucking give in, is enough to have me on the verge of orgasm in seconds. I’d planned to do so many things to her after the first night, from finding out how well she can suck a cock to taking that tight asshole of hers and showing her that pleasurecancome from that, whatever she’s been told. Even once she’d made her displeasure at being married to me known, I’d been aroused at the idea of breaking her to my will, forcing her to experience pleasure so great that she’d be begging for my cock before our first anniversary.
But I hadn’t expected her to pull the card that she had, and now I have no choice but to let her call the shots. For now, anyway.
I run my hand down the length of my shaft and back up again, imagining that it’s her hand, her mouth, her pussy. She felt so good when I fucked her, hot and tight and clenching around me when she came like she wanted to milk every ounce of cum out of my cock. The fact that she’d come despite herself, that her body hadn’t been able to resist the pleasure of my thick cock whether or not it was attached to a man she claimed to despise, had made my orgasm all the better.
The princess thinks she’s married the monster instead of being saved from him, I think bemusedly as I stroke myself, picturing Caterina’s small, firm breasts and how I’d like to paint them with my cum. She has a ridiculous idea of me in her head, of a cruel and brutal man to everyone around him, shedding blood at a whim without thought. I’ve been cruel and brutal, though I never do anything on a whim. But I’d never hurt my family. And Caterina, whether or not she likes it now, is a part of that family. My wife. Myzhena.
“Fuck.” I curse under my breath, jerking faster. I don’t have all morning to hang out in the shower, and Caterina will likely wake up any moment. I need to come, and I slam my fist down my cock, biting back a groan of pleasure as I once again summon the memory of Caterina’s tight pussy and the way the heat of it felt gripping every inch of my length as I’d fucked her on our wedding night, nice and slow, with long strokes that let me feel every inch of her—“Oh,fuck, fuck, fuuuck—”
I clench my jaw as I thrust my hips forward, the first spurt of my cum hitting the drain as my cock swells and throbs in my hand, my hips jerking with the need to fuck something, anything. Right now, unfortunately, it’s my fist.
I’d give anything to be inside of Caterina, instead.
By the time I finish, I’m breathless, my cock wilting in my fist as I grit my teeth in frustration. I’ll have to deny myself even this for a few days before our appointments at the clinic, and somehow that feels like adding insult to injury. I can’t fuck my wife, and I can’t even jerk off thinking about her until the appropriate time.
She quite literally has me by the balls.
* * *
There is,however, a tentative peace between us for the next few days until our first appointment. I left her in Olga’s care while I returned to work the day after bringing her home, and by the time I returned that evening, I found our bedroom and bathroom well-stocked with her things. I saw the uncertainty in her face when I came in that evening as if I might be upset by the dresses in the closet and the new books on the shelves, the tampons under the sink, and the hair products in the bathroom but I found it oddly calming. Though I never would have said so out loud to her. For three years, the master suite has had the lingering feminine touches of Vera’s decorating, but none of her things, which made it feel as if the room were missing something every time I walked in. Now, it feels as if an empty space in the suite has been filled.
I am the leader of the Bratva, a man of power. I was never meant to be a bachelor, and I never intended to be one. To have a wife in my bed and in my home is the natural order of things, and rather than be turned off by the sight of womanly things in my private rooms, it makes me feel, in an odd way, comforted. As if all is right with the world again.
If only my wife herself were so comforting.
“I’ve made an appointment at the clinic,” I told her that night. “It’s after lunch, two days from now.”
“Good,” was all she’d said in response, turning away from me and switching off her light.
It’s a relief, at least, that she’s not fighting the idea of carrying my child.Thatwould be a war between us. I’m willing to make sacrifices to keep the peace in my own home and with the Italians and the Irish, but some sacrifices cannot be made. I need an heir, and Caterina’s purpose was always to provide one for me.
Olga proves to be an excellent source of information on how things are when I’m not at home those first few days, meeting me when I walk through the door ahead of my wife and children. Caterina is always there, looking elegant and composed, her face unreadable. The only time I ever see her smile is when I’m interacting with the children or when I catch glimpses of her with them. In that, I find relief too. If she can be a good mother to my girls, and provide me with a son, then anything else in the marriage, I’m willing to write off as a loss.
But Olga is quick to tell on her when she thinks Caterina is spending too much time in her room or to let me know that Anika still doesn’t like her and hasn’t warmed to her in the slightest. “I told you bringing an Italian woman into the house was no good,” she mutters as I come home two nights later, glancing sideways at Caterina, who is standing a little ways back and watching the girls instead of either of us. “Anika might have taken to a good Russian woman better. A blonde, like her mother.”
“Anika is going to have to learn to adapt, as we all do,” I tell Olga sternly. “And the more quickly you treat Caterina as befits who she is in this house—mywife—the sooner Anika will come around.”
“I’m kind to her,” Olga says, pursing her lips. “I haven’t said an unkind word to that woman.”
