47. Viviana

Mikhail's room is dark, but silvery moonlight streams through the open window. Shafts of it slice across the bed as he lays me back and kisses my neck.

He nibbles down my jaw and my collarbone. When clothes get in the way, we toss them off and find each other again.

It's been days of this. Days of kissing and touching and fucking until we were exhausted. But this time feels different. This isn't Vacation Mikhail. We aren't in some borrowed room with the sound of tropical bird calls and the ocean just outside the window.

This is real life—which makes it so much better.

"I can't believe you did that for me," I pant, kissing his neck and shoulders while I try to catch my breath.

Mikhail slips down my body, his stubbled face scraping over my chest and my ribs. He kisses every inch of me, swirling his tongue across my stomach and toying at my hips with his teeth. I throw my arms over my head, crying out when he jerks my panties down and drags his tongue across my slit.

Ten minutes ago, I thought the best-case scenario involved a divorce and a custody agreement. Now, I'm gripping my husband's hair and riding his face to the world's fastest orgasm.

"This can't be real," I moan, exploding on his mouth.

I'm still pulsing, desperate for something to contract around, when Mikhail presses himself to my pussy and slides in to the hilt.

"Fuck," he growls. "You're still coming."

He pumps into me, drawing out the pleasure until I think I'm going to scream. I scrape my nails through his hair and hold him to me. "I never want this to stop."

I'm talking about him being inside of me, but it's layered. I don't want the sex to end, because, well, like, obviously—but I also want to stay married to him. I want to live in this house with Mikhail and Dante. I want to eat meals together and talk about our days.

I want Mikhail to be the person I fall asleep next to. The first face I see when I wake up.

"I always want to touch you." He sucks my nipple into his mouth, flicking the pebbled point with his tongue. "I think about it all the fucking time."

I grab his face and pull his mouth to mine.

Our lips crash together with bruising force, but that's okay, because I need this to hurt. I need to keep our lips sealed together. If I don't, I'll tell him the truth. I'll utter the three scariest words I've ever thought, let alone said. And I can't do that.

Not when I have no idea how he'll feel about me in the morning. Not when he doesn't know the whole truth of how I escaped from my father and kept Dante hidden.

If he was willing to slaughter the men who kidnapped me eighteen years ago, there's no telling what he'd do to the person who killed his brother.

Mikhail spreads my thighs wider and splits me open. He buries himself deep inside of me and I've never been so full.

"Come for me again," he grits out through clenched teeth. He strokes his thumb over my clit. "Milk mine out of me, Viviana. Come."

My release is instantaneous. It's like my body exists to obey Mikhail. He tells me to come, I ask how hard… Well, I'm beyond the power of speech. But I come.

"Mikhail." I wrap my arms around him, holding myself as close as possible to him as I explode. "I'm coming. Oh, God, I'm?—"

He falls on top of me, his forehead pressed to mine. His blue eyes are wide open and looking into mine as he twitches inside of me.

I curl my palm around his cheek. "I feel you."

His eyes close and the words I actually want to say sit in my throat like a rock.

I love you.

I squeeze my eyes closed to bite them back and ride the release instead, contracting around Mikhail until I'm limp and sated. Until he slides away and lies down on the bed next to me.

We stay like that for a while, quiet and spent.

Then I reach over and press my palm to the warm skin above his heart. "I can't believe you did that for me."

He huffs out a laugh. "That wasn't just for you. It was for me, too, Viviana."

"Not the sex," I chuckle softly. "What you did. The gift. I can't believe you did that."

He wipes his face clean and scowls. "It's what your father should have done two decades ago. I was just cleaning up someone else's mess."

I've never known Mikhail to be humble before. Especially not after he went to so much effort.

"You're right. My father should have done something about those men. But you didn't have to." I can feel his heart thudding out a steady rhythm against my hand. It's grounding. "My entire life, I existed to be used by someone else. It was always what my dad wanted. And then what Trofim wanted. For six years, I was on my own, but even then, my life revolved around staying anonymous and protecting Dante. I think… being here and not having as much to worry about made me realize how much the kidnapping still affects me."

"So I brought up old traumas?" he snorts. "You shouldn't be thanking me for that."

I blow out a breath. "No. It's just… Being here with you has been healing. I feel safe. Protected. I'd feel that way even if you hadn't killed those men."

"I guess it was a waste of time then," he mutters.

I lift myself up on my elbow and look down at him. "It wasn't. Because even though I feel safe here, I know now how far you'll go to protect me. I'm grateful for that, Mikhail. No one has ever cared about me enough to bother."

He's been staring up at the ceiling while I talk, taking my gratitude reluctantly. But suddenly Mikhail jerks off the bed.

"I killed a few assholes," he snaps. "Don't read so much into it."

The whiplash is jarring. I watch him retreat into the bathroom—retreat from me—and I can't do anything to stop it. The confession I've been holding tight for days feels pathetic now. I can't love him. I don't. Whatever I'm feeling is just a residual vacation high. It's exhaustion and relief that I'm not trapped in a dungeon somewhere.

I roll over and face the wall. Hot tears slip down my nose and drip onto my pillow. My shoulders shake, but I fight to keep them still.

This is why I told Mikhail the night we got married that we couldn't have sex: it complicates things. Sex makes me think I feel something for Mikhail when all I really want is meaningless orgasms.

The bathroom door opens and I catch my breath. I listen to his footsteps, some naive part of me expecting him to grab my shoulder and apologize. To roll me over, kiss me stupid, and tell me he loves me, too.

When he settles silently into bed behind me, the tears come even faster.