“Aim right where you want that bullet to spray.”
Spraying.
Bursting.
However much I’d wanted to drink his cum last night, I wanted it ten times more right then.
“Fire it off, dragotsennaya printsessa,” he murmured with rough, liquid innuendo.
Squinting, aiming, falling under his thrall again, I finally pulled the trigger.
The second after I shot, Arkady rocked me back into him.
My ass came right against his thickened erection, and I fought down the moan climbing in my throat.
“Safety on now,” he said with silky persuasion, his hand trailing to my tummy to tuck me even more firmly against him.
“Arkady,” I breathed out throatily.
His hand again closed around mine as the gun drooped just like my body wanted to be draped all over him.
A dark chuckle coursed near the side of my neck, and he pushed the safety on before removing the sidearm from my grasp.
I placed my hands on the small counter in front of me, completely undone and entirely too wound up.
The machinery whirred again, and Arkady slid to my side to retrieve the target with our shots. His heated spell still lingered over me, but I turned my attention to the sheet of paper.
On seeing the evidence of my success that he pointed out, I exclaimed, “I hit it!”
“Da.” There seemed to be a note of appreciation in his voice and, when I faced him, he smiled briefly.
“I hit it in the chest,” I said proudly.
“Beginner’s luck.” He smirked tastily.
“Bullshit,” I stated.
The women applauded when he showed them the target, and even Kirill and Maksim looked a tiny bit impressed.
“You do not get your gun back though,” Arkady added as if I expected him to let me play with weapons on a regular basis.
Maybe just his weapon—the one I knew strained in his pants, not the one he holstered.
“Behave now,” he whispered to me as if he could read my crude thoughts.
Before I had a chance to retort, Joanna spoke. “Enough of the guns. If I don’t eat something soon, I’m gonna toss my cookies everywhere.”
“Are you all right, malyshka?” Kirill held her around the waist, one hand on her belly and concern written all over his features.
“I will be.” She looked wobbly for a moment. “After Baba feeds me.”
“Da. Let’s see how Lucia’s pelmeni rate.” He looked at me almost kindly from his olive black eyes.
I could not—would not—like him.
And I should not trust Arkady. I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t even be entertaining such lurid thoughts about him.
Once inside the nightclub, it appeared to be lunchtime with Yury’s mother plating up from the kitchen to the soldiers who rotated through.
Arkady sat me in a black leather booth before disappearing into the kitchen. The others trooped after him, and I was glad when only he returned to our table, relieved I wouldn’t have to endure more of Kirill’s presence.
I hated thinking of the murdering bastardo as a human being, a lovely young woman’s husband, a doting soon-to-be father . . . all the things Bastiano would never become because Kirill had stolen his life in a most gruesome attack.
Then Sasha ambled over, bearing a bottle of champagne and one long-stemmed glass.
Wearing a genuine smile, she set those on the table alongside the food Arkady arranged. “I pegged you for a champagne girl. Enjoy.”
I glanced from the bottle of bubbly to Arkady who had obtained some vodka and a shot glass.
“Why would she do that?” I asked as the woman sauntered away again.
“She likes to get people drunk,” he said dryly, hinting at a sarcastic sense of humor.
“Ahh. In that case, would you do the honors?”
He popped the top off the bottle then poured the expensive fizz into my glass.
We began to eat the rich concoctions Baba had prepared, and I recognized none of them except for the dumplings. There was a cold soup, something similar to potato salad, and stuffed cabbage leaves.
As I tried my first bite of the foreign fare, I wondered why no one had told me about Russian cuisine before. Oh yes, probably because Italians and Russians in the mob life were vicious enemies.
“I asked Baba to give me an extra portion of your pelmeni.” Arkady downed a shot of vodka while I sipped on my champagne.
In some purely female part of my mind, I hoped he enjoyed my cooking.
He popped one perfectly shaped dumpling into his mouth, and I watched avidly as he licked his lips and swallowed with a strong bob of his Adams apple.
“Mmm. Da. Very good.” His azure irises caught me completely. Then he gave me a breathtaking smile. “You seemed very at home cooking with Baba earlier.”
Those moments with Baba reminded me of the most precious memories I had with my mama.
Then my traitorous mouth took over, and I blurted, “Hasn’t a woman ever cooked for you before?”
One of Arkady’s eyebrows quirked up. “Still jealous?”
Sitting back in the banquette, I languidly sipped the bubbly. “Not at all. Just curious.”
He grunted then ate more of the dumplings prepared by my hands.
My eyes narrowed. Watching him eat like that—hungrily, voraciously—reminded me of last night.
Me roped up.
Me helpless and helplessly pleading then Arkady easing everything with his nipple clamps and his whipping and, lastly, his hot mouth sealed over my pussy as he ravenously ate me out.
For once, I didn’t try to quell my attraction to him, and Arkady must’ve sensed the change in my demeanor because he glanced up and mentioned, “My mother never cooked like this.”
I didn’t make a noise. This was the first time he’d spoken of his past the least little bit, and I waited for more.
“She was not”—he finished his vodka and poured some more—“maternal.”
He laughed humorlessly, and something about his wry tone made my gut knot.
“She and my father were garbage.” He gazed around the room, as if making sure no one else listened to his admission, and the brief twist of his lips tore at something in my heart.
“They left and never came back when I was ten. Drug addicts.” Jaw clenching, his eyes connected with mine before sliding away. “Old history. Doesn’t matter now. Probably been dead for years anyway.”
His phrasing broke up and his accent thickened and, I just knew, he had actually been raised in Russia. Or not raised at all, as it were.
“When did you come to America?” I asked softly to coax him to talk more.
“The land of the free?” A tiny amount of amusement filtered through his voice.
I nodded.
“Thirteen years ago. I was twenty.”
“Then what happened before that?” Food and drink forgotten, I just wanted to know more about this mysterious man.
“I raised my brothers. Took care of them.”
“You were only ten though.” Horrified at the notion of a child rearing others, shouldering so much responsibility, I couldn’t stop my eyes from tearing up at the thought of a young Arkady being parent to his unruly brothers.
“Did not matter. We were real scoundrels even back then.” A glimmer of a grin charged across his mouth. “Ran the streets, raised some hell.”