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With each touch of his lips, my inhibitions crack, shattering into pieces the longer he spends worshipping my body.
This powerful man, this dangerous man. All he cares about right now is me. It’s an intoxicating feeling.
Men died in this house. He was tortured. When I reach up and feel him, I can feel the marks where he was burned by the electrical cable. The ridges on his back a living testament to the childhood he had.
Is it any wonder he finds it hard to love? To care? After the way his father brought him up, to accept pain, to find it strengthening, to see emotion as weakness.
Then there’s the death of his family. He clearly blames himself for what happened five years ago. I’ve no doubt he thinks he can’t get too close to me in case I die. Yet, he let me go see Diego Garcia, knowing I might be killed.
I glance across at the vodka bottle as his kisses move over my stomach. Can I make him drink it? Should I make him drink it?
I thought about it the entire journey back. If he drinks it, he dies. What happens then? I’m no longer married. I have all the money I could ever want, if I can trust the cartel leader. I bring up a baby alone. I make my own way in the world.
Or I tell him it’s poisoned. He listens as I lay out my suggestion for what to do next. If he, for once, isn’t so stubborn as to refuse to listen, we could make it work. Diego might die. I will have a family, possibly. If he’s willing to stay with me.
A lot of ifs. A lot of maybes. A lot of potential for things to go wrong.
I guess what it all boils down to is whether or not I think Alexsei is capable of real change, of becoming the kind of man who could be a good father. Is that possible?
He moves back up my body, pushing all questions aside as he enters me. I look up into his eyes, seeing the hunger there, my own reflected in his gaze.
My hands run over his scars, my legs wrapping around him as he thrusts faster, his pelvis hitting my clit in just the right way.
“I’m going to come in you,” he says. “Because you’re my wife.”
“You’re my husband,” I reply. “Give it to me. Do it.”
He slams home and a moment later, my climax hits me. He spurts deep into me an instant later and the two of us bask in the bliss of this shared moment. For one second all doubts are gone. We are one. We are in perfect unison.
Then the moment passes and he’s sliding out of me. My eyes remain closed as I pant for breath, waiting for my heart rate to recover. My body aches as I sit up slowly. I open my eyes to see him pouring out a glass from the bottle of vodka.
“I haven’t drunk in five years,” he says, swilling the contents in his hand, examining them and smiling. “You want to know why?” The bicep in his arm flexes as he raises the glass.
“Why?”
“I was drunk the day my family got killed. Hell, I was drunk most days back then. Haven’t touched a drop since. Didn’t want to lose my edge. What do you reckon? Think I should still be scared of alcohol?”
“I didn’t think you were scared of anything.”
He shakes his head. “I guess you were wrong.”
He moves it toward his lips. “Don’t,” I snap, waving a hand toward him.
He turns to face me, smiling coldly. “Relax, I’m just smelling it.”
“Put it down.”
“Why? You don’t think I can handle it?”
“It’s poisoned.”
His smile broadens. “I know.”
“You know? What do you mean, you know?”
“Come on, Mila. You go see my worst enemy. Then you show up with my favorite drink, one that you can’t get hold of anywhere.” His smile fades.
“What?”
