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One song ends and another starts. Obviously, although I don’t know it, it’s a popular tune because people start yelling and singing along with the first note. I try listening to the lyrics, but it’s much harder to understand sung Serbian words than spoken ones. Something about mixing black and gold, then mentioning a . . . frame? Is it about art? A painting, perhaps?
A woman a few seats away abruptly stands and climbs onto the table. I stare, open-mouthed, as she starts dancing, her heels clicking on the linen-clad tabletop, just missing the plates and cutlery. People around her are cheering, clapping their hands. Another woman, further down, climbs onto the table. Then, the bride takes off her shoes and does the same. The crowd goes crazy, and I laugh amid the excitement. Never in my life have I witnessed such a joyous celebration.
I look at my husband and bite my lip. “Can I try?”
“Try what?” he raises an eyebrow.
“The table thing.”
His arm around my waist tightens. “No.”
“What? Why?”
Drago leans forward. “I won’t have my wife mounting a table and shaking her hips with over four hundred people watching.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And what if I dance only for you? Pretty please?”
A low rumble comes from his throat. “All right. But you make sure I keep my eyes on you—only you—because if my gaze wanders, and I notice other men looking at you, the next song playing will be a funeral march,mila moya.”
I squeal in delight and start unstrapping my heels.
Transfixed. Hypnotized. Absolutely mind fucked. That’s how I feel as I watch my wife dance on the tabletop in front of me. I’m not sure what I like more—her perfect little body, which sways slowly and sensually as she moves, her ridiculously sunny personality, or the brilliant intellect that hides behind her sparkling shell.
Last weekend, I walked in on her and Keva sitting at the kitchen table, discussing money laundering. I leaned my shoulder on the wall and observed my wife as she explained in great detail how it’s possible to launder money through renovation work of real estate properties. In the five minutes I spent watching, she gave Keva a step-by-step strategy—starting with the purchase of a derelict building and moving on to the remodeling activities that would allow for the optimum amount of money to exchange hands, and not missing any of the steps in between. And then, she finished by highlighting the estimated timeframe for the whole ordeal. When she was done, she took out her phone and snapped a picture of the pile of carrots she’d finished peeling while she spoke.
But the way she dances now is something else altogether, sending all the blood rushing straight to my cock. I lean back in my chair and let my gaze glide over the long-sleeved blue silk dress. A rather tame choice, given her fashion taste. Well, if you disregard all the sequins and the huge gold heart-shaped earrings.
Sienna places her hands on her waist and, looking straight into my eyes, starts rotating her hips. She’s smiling mischievously, and that smile is doing strange things to my insides. So fucking beautiful. The sight of her almost makes me forget the throbbing migraine that started the moment we approached the wedding venue and exponentially worsened the closer we got to the noise.
My enchanting wife is attempting a pirouette without tripping over a plate when a gunshot pierces the air.
She stops in midmotion, her eyes going wide with panic. Shit. I forgot to give her a heads-up about the celebratory shots.
Bang!
In an instant, I freeze, my heartbeat skyrocketing, and stare at Drago as he slowly rises from his chair. A few more gunshots ring out somewhere outside the tent. A strangled cry escapes me, and I jump into my husband’s arms, wrapping my shaking limbs tightly around his neck.
“It’s okay,” he coos next to my ear. “That was the best man, shooting into the air. It’s a tradition.”
“Tradition?” I look up. “Your people are a bit crazy.”
“I know.”
I should probably get down since people are starting to give us curious looks. Apparently, I’m the only one who wasn’t expecting intentional gunfire in the middle of a wedding. I really should try to regain some sort of decorum, but I like being held by Drago. Maybe he feels the same, because he lowers himself back onto the chair without letting go of me.
“So, shooting into the air happens often at weddings?” I trace the length of his jaw with the tip of my finger.
Drago’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but other than that, he pretends he doesn’t notice my caress. “Every damn time. And at most of the other celebrations held outside. I should have warned you.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug and lean forward a little bit. His eyes are so gorgeous. As is his nose, even though it is slightly crooked. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
Heat races along my spine as Drago’s rough palms slide up my back. “You’re welcome.”
The sensual melody I was dancing to transitions to a fast beat. A new wave of cheers erupts from everyone around us as the band kicks it into high gear with a drum and bass pattern that reverberates through the massive tent. Drago tenses and squeezes his eyes shut. His face twists into a grimace, his lips tightly pursed.
“Drago?” I cup his face in my palms. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His eyes flutter open, and he resumes stroking my back.
