I didn’t like her answer, and I should’ve been determined to give her no more consideration either way.
But then she asked softly, “What does dragotsennaya printsessa mean?”
I hesitated for moment then admitted, “Precious princess.”
“I knew it.” Her eyes narrowed and she started to scoff.
I gripped one of her wrists, bringing my palm to her neck. “Maybe at first an insult, Lucia.” Stroking my fingertips along the fluttering pulse point at her collarbone, I watched as her lashes fluttered too. “Not so anymore. Very precious, to me.” I told her despite the unsettling impulses she evoked.
“Really?” she breathed out quietly.
“Da.” Unfortunately.
Without further discussion, I led Lucia back to bed. I poured her champagne and vodka for myself, and we dined on the caviar and bread, the plump ripe fruit. And, afterward, we shared squares of bitter dark chocolate.
Some appetites sated and others rising, I removed the food and drinks.
I lay her out on the bed and began a massage meant to relax her even more. As my oiled hands slicked across her body, I attempted to ignore my arousal, so base and primal I wanted to mount her again.
“I could do this to you.” Lucia writhed softly beneath my touch.
“No.”
“Afraid?”
“Nyet.”
I dragged my slippery hands up her glistening back and coiled them around her neck.
In immediate reaction, her ass rose. Her head stayed down. Her flesh invited me, and I stopped fighting the impulse to take her again.
Mounted on top of her in the next instant, I fucked her. The slick lubrication of the oil made everything smooth and slippery, and she came fast.
I wasn’t far behind. Cock throbbing, balls tightening, her cunt massaging, I blasted more thick ropes of seed inside of her.
I had not ever lost control like that before.
Sliding off Lucia’s back, I palmed her tits and darkly uttered, “You need to stay still and go to sleep now.”
Even after emptying my balls for the second time that night, I wanted her again. Would always want her—the insistent throb of my cock like an echoing heartbeat—but I had put her through enough for one day.
After turning off the light, I spooned her from behind, and my cock slid between her buttocks.
“That isn’t going to help me sleep.”
“Shh.” I gripped her ass cheek hard, pinching her flesh.
I nipped her neck, then relaxed behind her.
It took several minutes for me to loosen all my muscles, all but the one sandwiched at her ass.
Before long, Lucia slipped into sleep, but no such relief came to me.
I could’ve gotten up to have a drink or smoke a cigarette, but her sumptuous warmth was such that I didn’t move.
Allowing her to overhear her father was part of a plan.
I’d wanted to inject more fear, make her trust me alone.
Show Don Marco I wasn’t playing games.
And now, perhaps, I’d gotten in too deep to make anything lucrative come of Lucia’s abduction.
Eventually, I fell asleep beside her, loathe to let her go.
I woke first again and got in a shower and a shave before Lucia came down from the third floor. I was just finishing my tie when she appeared. I took a moment to appreciate the sight of her—somewhat flushed, disheveled from last night, and slightly unsure—wearing the dress shirt I’d discarded upstairs.
“I like your choice of clothing,” I murmured.
She turned a delectable shade of pink as she fiddled with the collar.
Walking to her, I brushed my fingers down her temple and lightly stroked her cheek.
She gazed at me with liquid amber eyes, her lips looking entirely kissable. But I shouldn’t indulge myself again.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
I left her to bathe on her own, and even allowed her to choose her own outfit that time while I made coffee.
She turned up in the kitchen less than half an hour later, surprising me anew.
Dressed in tailored slacks and a crisp blouse, she looked the very picture of refinement. Even as her hair dried naturally, the silky black sheaf curling slightly, she presented her beauty almost artlessly.
For such a breathtaking woman, she took shockingly little time preening. It was . . . refreshing.
I smelled her perfume and almost moved to kiss her before I pulled myself from such treacherous thoughts.
She was not my lover.
I had not planned to keep her.
Yet, we’d trespassed too many boundaries last night.
“Can I cook breakfast?” Her question broke into my musings.
Sipping my coffee, I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you planning on poisoning me?”
“Would I do that?” she asked mischievously.
I barked an unexpected laugh then waved at her to get on with it.
Worse things could happen than having this gorgeous female making me breakfast.
Da. I could see her in my bed every night. Could get used to her in my kitchen every mealtime. Could definitely envision her strapped to my cross upstairs as she took a lusty beating from flogger, or paddle, or cane.
She had enjoyed it as much as I did. I could tell by the way her eyes kept skidding from mine whenever I sought her gaze.
For once, she seemed nearly demure and entirely domestic, and I liked thinking my unswerving attention made her that little bit nervous.
I stood at the island as she maneuvered around me. She carefully avoided making contact while my eyes lingered on every lush point of her body.
Indeed, she had a mouthwatering figure, and now I was familiar with every inch of her sumptuous flesh.
She found the items she wanted, exploring the refrigerator, drawers, and cupboards. “You have a very well-appointed house.”
It amused me that she attempted small talk after all we’d been through.
“Da.” My gaze tracked her movements as she cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them to fluffiness. “You are interested in design and real estate?”
Her gaze finally landed on mine, excitement evident as she smiled. “I’d actually love to try my hand at flipping houses.”
Then her expression fell, and she went back to concentrating on cooking. “Papa forbade it.”
Papa was a suka as far as I was concerned. He let his only daughter traipse around without proper protection yet had no qualms about selling her off to a rickety old man.
I should not be so curious about her though.
I had not risen from street urchin to Bratva underboss by caring about anyone except family and the business.
In between attending to the food she cooked at the stove, she also prepared little glass bowls of freshly cut fruit.
She even set the table with proper linens and poured glasses of orange juice.
As she made herself at home, I moved only a little every time I realized I was in her way. I made sure she had no choice but to brush against me and, each time, her breath hitched and her spine arched.
“It’s ready,” she said finally, motioning me to sit down.
She even served me as a woman should.
I glanced down at my plate. “French toast? Not what I would expect from an Italian.”
Her fork halted halfway to her mouth. “I didn’t have time to make fette biscottate.”
“I might like to taste your fette biscottate.”