Chapter 1

Latasha clasped her new husband’s hand and looked out over the unusual collection of faces that watched as she and Iosif walked hand-in-hand down the white runner that led through double doors into bright sunshine. She looked up at Iosif, who favored her with one of his rare smiles.

“Happy?” she whispered, unable to repress her own brilliant smile.

“Da, now you are truly mine,” he replied, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling in his chest. Still holding her hand, he raised it and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. Her answering smile confirmed that he’d made the right decision: this sassy woman’s love and trust would redeem his cold, hard soul.

They took their places in the receiving line, followed by Cecily and Pyotr, maid of honor and best man.

“Pyotr looks good, don’t you think?” she asked, glancing at the handsome, blond giant who had married her best friend.

“He recovered well,” Iosif said, darting a sour glance at Cecily who looked like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe in the elegant dress Latasha had picked out for her. Latasha understood his attitude. Cecily’s abrupt departure and abandonment to pursue her own dreams had hurt all of them, none more than Pytor. Pyotr, however, had forgiven her. She wished Iosif could do the same.

Further down the line stood her other best friend Giancarla and her husband Vitaly, who was also a former comrade—no pun intended—of Pyotr’s. She liked the dour man and heartily approved of the tender care he lavished upon Gia. Latasha’s mother and her oldest living brother also stood in the receiving line, accepting congratulations and handshakes from the small crowd of friends of family who had gathered to witness this odd marriage.

Latasha nearly wept when she spied a guest who was as dear, if not dearer, than her own mother.

“Mrs. Tallimar! I’m so glad you could make it,” she cried and wrapped her arms around her former high school algebra teacher, a woman who had done much more than teach math.

Faded blue eyes twinkled, and the old woman’s wrinkles deepened with her smile as she returned Latasha’s hug. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” she said, pressing a kiss to the bride’s cheek. She looked up at Iosif, who maintained a close watch over everything having to do with his bride.

“You take good care of her, you hear me?” the retired teacher demanded. Her eyes glinted with martial force despite the smile.

“Da,” he replied and gave her a curt nod of approval. So, this was the woman who had saved his Latasha.

“Good,” the indomitable little woman said and moved on to let others offer their congratulations to the newlyweds.

Latasha chuckled and looked up at him again. “Mrs. Tallimar is practically a force of nature. Even the biggest, baddest thugs in school cringed when she called them out for not doing their homework.”

“Is good woman,” he praised.

“The best.”

And then their conversation was postponed by the next guest.

Iosif endured the hours that followed: pictures taken by a snooty photographer, a heavy meal and overly loud music, cheesy games and goading by the false cheer of the deejay.

“These Americans,” Maksim murmured with an air of bemusement.

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Iosif understood the thought and the sentiment behind it. Music struck up again, and he watched Vitaly and Gia take to the floor with their daughter, Emilia. Gia’s growing belly strained the fabric of her gown. She looked ready to pop, but her face glowed with joy and laughter. Iosif’s eagle eye noticed the small clutch of thugs in a corner. They tried to be discreet, but he knew they were conducting business.

“Watch over Latasha,” he murmured to Gennady, whose gaze followed his.

The whipcord lean man nodded and replied, “You want me to take care of this?”

“Nyet. I may yet keep this from becoming a scene.”

Gennady nodded again. Iosif trusted the man to ensure his bride came to no harm as he walked the perimeter of the room, coming to stand behind Leroy. He settled a heavy hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and squeezed. Hard. Leroy’s full lips thinned, the only sign he gave that Iosif’s grip hurt.

“No business today, hm?” he said. “Today we celebrate in peace.”

The sullen faces of the other two men whom Latasha most certainly had not invited to the festivities darkened with menace. One eased his hand toward his pocket.

“Don’t be stupid,” Iosif whispered, enunciating each word perfectly in English. “You pull a stunt in here and what happened to the Culebras will look like a child’s party compared to what will happen to you.”

One of the two hoodlums swallowed audibly, eyes widening in fear. The other, whose pinpoint pupils indicated he was already high on something, shrugged and said, “Fuckers won’t take me alive.”

Iosif’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on Leroy’s shoulder.

“Your sister doesn’t need this, Leroy. Please take your business elsewhere.”

The young man gave a one-shouldered shrug—the other shoulder—and said, “C’mon, guys. Let’s get out of here.”

“Thank you,” the big Russian murmured and released Leroy. He watched the three men, one of them a little too twitchy for his comfort, exit through a back door. He disdained their arrogant swaggers, knowing them for the punks they were: dangerous, but undisciplined. If they spoiled Latasha’s wedding day, he’d murder them all and count it his good deed for the day.

A sometime assassin and current interrogator and enforcer for the Russian Bratva, Iosif didn’t joke when he thought of killing.

He rolled his shoulders to ease the tight muscles and walked back to Latasha’s side. He murmured a thank-you to Gennady, who nodded and meandered off to find a woman who liked her romance mixed with pain. He didn’t particularly understand his colleague’s preferences or share those dark proclivities, but as long as the women with whom Gennady consorted were of legal age and consented to what he did with and to them, then Iosif figured he had no business saying anything about it.

“Leroy conducting gang business?” Latasha murmured as she reached for his hand.

Iosif’s warm hand enveloped her cold one and he looked into her impassive face. Smart woman, my wife. She could not hide the disappointment and sadness that lurked behind the blank expression she assumed when she lost a patient as occasionally happened in the emergency room. “Da. I persuaded them to leave.”

She nodded. “Thanks for avoiding a scene.”

“This is your day,” he said. “I will not tolerate anything or anybody ruining it.”

She gifted him with her brilliant smile, white teeth gleaming against her cafe au lait skin. He thought that smile rivaled the sun the way it illuminated his life. “It’s our day.”

Tenderness welled up in Iosif’s heart and he cupped her face with both hands. Leaning down, he brushed his mouth against her pouty lips. “And it will be our night.”

She blushed. He found it delightful, so he kissed her again.

Finally, the appointed hour came and the newlyweds bade their good-byes. Maksim, leader of the Midwestern branch of the Bratva, thumped Iosif’s back and coughed to hide his emotion. Olivia, his petite wife and quite possibly the only person whom Maksim feared, hugged both of them. Vitaly nodded at him, approval shining in his eyes even as Gia hugged Latasha and wished her a wonderful honeymoon.

“Pyotr, you are well?” Iosif asked, concerned for his friend.

The blond giant nodded and settled a hand around his wife’s thick waist. The loose, flowing dress did not hide the baby bump perhaps as well as Cecily might have wished. In Russian, he murmured, “Do not despise her. She was conflicted. Confused. And it all turned out well.”

Iosif nodded and clasped his friend’s other hand and replied in their native language, “You are a forgiving man. I do not have your large heart. And congratulations, Papa.”

Pyotr gave him a proud smile and wished him well.

“You need anything—anything at all—and you call. Vitaly and I begrudge you nothing.”

“You have already done too much for us.”

“For you. We are brothers, are we not?”

“Always.”

Just like that, any tension between them dissolved. Iosif took comfort in knowing that Pyotr understood his release from the Bratva didn’t translate into abandonment. He drew Latasha aside with a light touch, and they walked to where her mother sat.

“We’re headed off, Mama,” Latasha announced.

Her mother glanced at the table practically groaning with the weight of wedding gifts. Iosif did not miss the spark of avarice in the older woman’s beady eyes. “You got someone to take care of that for you, girl? Iffin you don’t, I will.”

Latasha smiled and replied, “Maksim and Olivia will make sure everything’s taken care of, Mama. I wouldn’t want you to worry.”

The woman laughed a little too loudly. Iosif wondered how much she’d had to drink. Her head rolled back on her fat neck, and she pursed her lips before adding, “Fuck her good tonight, Joe. Uptight girl needs it.”

Latasha felt Iosif stiffen beside her and felt his outrage on her behalf. Laying a hand lightly on his sleeve, she felt the hard muscles tensing beneath the layers of fabric.

“Mama, there’s no need to be rude,” she said. “Just wish us happiness. Please.”

Her mother waved a hand at them—more like flicking her fingers, but Latasha refused to let that ruin her wedding day—and ordered her to find Leroy and send him on in.

“I’m ready to go home,” the woman said, looking around the room where Caucasians mixed with African-Americans, Russian mafia members mingled with gang hoodlums, and middle class workers conversed with welfare recipients.

Latasha thought wryly that it was just as well this eclectic combination of wedding guests didn’t include Gia’s relatives. Grandpa Maglione might have exhibited phenomenal Old World elegance and sophistication, but the capo di capi wasn’t known for his tolerance. And her friend’s cousin, Giovanni, was a lot like him. They would not appreciate some of Latasha’s old neighborhood friends and acquaintances.

She moved off to exchange hugs with old Mr. Jackson who had kindly taken care of the single mother next door by fixing her broken plumbing and replacing roof shingles, because that’s what good neighbors did for one another. He belonged to a less self-absorbed generation, she thought. She bade good-bye to Ms. Calico, the retired baker’s wife who kept the ’hood’s youngsters in cookies and brownies, and to Mr. Battleby, who had turned his tiny yard into a productive garden from which the neighborhood kids were permitted to take in exchange for their assistance in planting, weeding, and other maintenance. The old neighborhood was filled with good people who cared for their community; but, Latasha noticed, they were old, older than Mama.

As Iosif walked her toward the doors, she reflected on how long it had been since she’d outgrown the old neighborhood. She waved at the handful of young women with whom she’d grown up and realized that, of them all, she and Leticia were the only ones who had a career… hell, who even had a job. Two of them lived with their gang boyfriends whom they’d brought as their plus-one guests, much to Maksim and Iosif’s silent disapproval. Two more sponged off their mothers and the government dole and were single mothers themselves. Shi-bobbie couldn’t even identify the fathers of her three kids. Of the old clique, only Leticia Conroy had managed to graduate from high school, although Leticia hadn’t gone on to college. She did, however, hold down a job as a receptionist at some community organization in downtown Cleveland.

Leticia waved back and bustled up to the departing newlyweds. She hugged Latasha one last time.

“You look so happy,” she said, her bright smile illuminating her face. Her dark brown eyes flickered upward, then back to Latasha. “I’m glad you got out of the old neighborhood. This guy looks like he can take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but it’s nicer when you share the burden.”

Latasha gestured with her chin toward the skinny bald man Leticia had brought as her plus-one. “And him?”

Leticia looked back at him. He waved and smiled, eyes brightening behind black-rimmed glasses. She explained, “He manages the Kohl’s store at the mall. He ain’t rich or nothin’, but he treats me like I matter.”

“Sounds like a winner to me,” Latasha encouraged.

“Jojo don’t like him.”

“Jojo’s a meth head.”

Leticia sighed and her plump shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Looks like most of us didn’t do so well for ourselves.”

“Letty,” Latasha said, patting the other woman’s thick arm, “you did just fine. You worry about you and don’t let the losers drag you down to their level.”

Leticia leaned forward and hugged her again. “I’m gonna miss you, ’Tasha.”

“Nyet,” the deep timbre of Iosif’s baritone voice interrupted. “You will visit.”

Leticia shivered and grinned. “God, that accent’s sexy.”

Latasha giggled as Iosif drew her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Raising his lips from her skin, he rumbled, “We go. Now.”

She giggled again and let the tall Russian lead her to the limousine that had brought them to the banquet room of The Matryoshka, the restaurant Iosif’s boss owned and where their reception was being held. The driver ushered them into the vehicle’s plush interior.

“Back to your place, Iosif?” he asked as the groom untied his tie and pulled it free.

“Da. Spasibo.” Iosif unbuttoned his tight collar, rolled his head, and rubbed the tender skin over his Adam’s apple. He loathed collared shirts and ties; but, for Latasha, he’d wear them every day if doing so made her happy.

With cool competence, Bogdan smoothly pulled the long car into traffic and drove them back to Iosif’s small, tidy house. Latasha had never seen any of Maksim’s men do anything with less than cool competence, although each time she used her own skilled hands to treat their victims, she couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could be cool and competent while they were beating another human being half to death with their hands.

But she wouldn’t think of that now.

Today was her wedding day. Two years in the making, starting from the time she and Cecily moved in with Pyotr after leaving the crummy apartment she’d shared with Gia and Cecily. She’d moved in with Iosif after the threat to Gia had been eliminated.

“What are you thinking, moya lyubov?”

“Just that it’s been two years since I met you and, now, here we are,” she replied, giving him nothing less than honesty as she demanded nothing less from anyone else.

“You are happy, da?”

“Yeah. Yes, I am.” She averted her gaze and then looked back at him. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“You had your reasons, and I am a patient man.”

“You might have to be patient a little while longer,” she blurted and squirmed in her seat. “I’m nervous. Scared.”

Fire flared in Iosif’s dark eyes, but he controlled himself to a gentle touch and soft words. “I will give you nothing but pleasure. You need not fear.”

“I—”

“You trust me, da?” He stroked the back of his finger down the curve of her cheek and held her emerald gaze with his.

Latasha sighed. The jewel-tone eyes inherited from a father she’d never known welled up with tears. “I do trust you, da.”

Iosif exerted himself to keep his anxious bride at ease, to give her no reason whatsoever to think that he would break her trust. A controlled man, one whom many accused of having ice in his veins rather than blood, Iosif desperately wanted to make a life with this mouthy, forthright twig of a woman. He cared nothing for her mixed heritage, only seeing that the combination of a Black mother and white father had created a woman of stunning beauty from her curly mocha hair and cafe au lait skin to the big, big heart that beat beneath the slender, delicate ribcage. Where one might compare Gia and Cecily to iconic beauties of Hollywood’s Golden Age, his Latasha defied such categoric descriptions.

Too soon, not soon enough, the limousine rolled to a smooth stop in front of Iosif’s house. Their house, now. Bogdan opened the door, and Iosif extended a hand to help Latasha climb out without getting trapped by the long skirts of her wedding gown. She gave silent thanks for having had the good sense to ignore the temptation of a cathedral train. Trying to navigate with an extra yard or more of fabric dragging at her would have been awkward at best, embarrassing and humiliating at worst.

Iosif thanked Bogdan for driving, and the man returned to his seat behind the wheel. With hands clasped, they walked to the front door. Iosif unlocked the door and led Latasha inside, not subscribing to the silly tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold, since doing so would have made it impossible for him to protect her in case of an attack.

Latasha could not help glancing at the door of what used to be her bedroom as Iosif led her by the hand to his bedroom. Her nervous gulp sounded loud in the silence of the modest house. He glanced back at her, eyes heated, the skin taut across his cheekbones.

“Do you trust me?” he asked once again, his voice showing the strain of iron control. He badly, desperately wanted to ravish his bride, but she needed gentleness from a man who knew little of such things.

Latasha tore her gaze from the king-sized bed to meet her new husband’s eyes. She closed and opened her eyes in a slow blink as she visibly mustered her courage.

“Yes.”

Iosif gifted her with a small smile that he meant to express approval and reassurance. He wanted to curse as he lifted hands that trembled to frame her face.

“You’re nervous, too?” she whispered, eyes wide with incredulity.

“I have not touched a woman in over two years,” he confessed. Ever since helping Vitaly evacuate Latasha and Cecily from their dump of an apartment, he’d known that he’d found the woman for him, his woman. “I am... eager.”

The confession shocked Latasha and made her blood tingle. She hadn’t moved into Iosif’s house until she had graduated, having lived until then with Pyotr and Cecily. She’d never expected him to lead a chaste life, forsaking other women until she agreed to marry him. The men her brothers and childhood friends hung around with wouldn’t have denied themselves.

Pigs.

Her mouth opened and she stammered, “I… I…”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers and then said, “Shh. It was my choice.”

That second confession rocked her to her toes. She’d allowed him nothing more than kisses, and yet he had remained faithful to her.

“What did I do to deserve you Iosif?” she whispered, feeling unworthy.

Struggling to find the right words, Iosif’s accent thickened. “There is no ‘deserve.’ I give my heart to you.”

Latasha raised trembling hands to his face and stroked his lean cheeks, already shadowed with the stubble of his heavy beard. He heard the rasp of it against her palms.

“I should shave.”

“No, don’t,” she whispered. “I… I like it. It feels… real.”

“Will scratch your skin.” Such soft, pretty skin.

“Please, don’t. Not tonight.”

With a shuddering exhalation, he broke to her will. Latasha slid her hands to the back of his head, running her fingers over the sleek strands of his hair to the short ponytail at the nape of his neck. It only took a few tugs to set the long, inky strands free. She ran her fingers through his thick hair, finding herself surprised at its texture.

“Soft,” she murmured.

The quiet word drew Iosif back to her mouth. One big hand wrapped around the back of her head and held her steady as he kissed her, keeping the pressure light until she leaned into him. He deftly pulled the pins from her hair, letting down the elegant French twist and removing her crown and veil. The confection of tulle, faux pearls, wire, and plastic flew into a chair unheeded.

Latasha moaned softly as her groom’s soft lips moved along her jaw to nibble delicately on an earlobe. A few seconds later, her faux pearl earrings landed on the chair. He kissed down the column of her neck, relishing the way she tilted her head to allow him greater access. His hands, gently grasping her shoulders, slid around and slowly drew down the zipper of her wedding gown. Whether the zipper’s sound or a draft of cool air upon her skin alerted her to the seduction, Latasha didn’t know, but suddenly she gasped and stiffened.

“Pleasure,” he murmured as he reached through the gaping back of her dress to rub his warm hand down her back. “I give you only pleasure.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed her lips against his jaw and sighed into his ear. Iosif continued with the slow, sweet seduction of his bride, exerting steely control to avoid frightening her. He knew she had suffered from her first horrific experience and reminded himself to prepare her as though she were an untried virgin. For all intents and purposes, she was.

Latasha wasn’t sure how Iosif had managed it, but she stood wrapped in his arms wearing only her stockings and panties. How he’d divested her of her bra she had no idea, but the tender attention he devoted to the small mounds she called breasts made her delirious with pleasure.

So, this is what making love feels like.

And it was love. The stern, dangerous man she’d married treated her as though she were made of spun glass. Few did not fear him, but Latasha suddenly knew for an absolute certainty that she would never need to fear Iosif Drakoniv. Her hands moved to his shirt and encountered the opened collar.

She giggled as she unbuttoned the shirt, slender fingers moving with nimble speed. “It’s a good thing we’re taking a tropical honeymoon. I can’t imagine you enduring dressing up for dinner and having to wear a tie every night.”

She felt his smile against her skin as she made short work of his brocade vest and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Latasha slid her hands back up his torso, humming with pleasure as her fingers skimmed through crisp hair curling on satin skin stretched taut over hard muscle.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she murmured and leaned forward to press her mouth against one hard pectoral, earning a gasp of pleasure from him.

“Dotron'sya do menya,” he murmured, losing his command of English. He grasped one of her hands and drew it downward, settling it over the rigid length straining against his pants.

Latasha considered herself no stranger to human anatomy; she was a nurse, after all. But men coming into the emergency room didn’t usually sport erections. As her hand rubbed him through the layers of fabric, she marveled at his size. Iosif, taller than Vitaly and leaner than Pyotr, was hung like a horse.

Technically, she knew that the female body could accommodate the rampant monster that strained for freedom. But, really, she was certain it wouldn’t be comfortable.

Iosif quickly unfastened his trousers and shoved them down, peeling his underwear off with them. He moaned when his bride’s thumb swiped across the weeping, purplish head. The turgid length of him bobbed of its own volition. Surprised, Latasha snatched her hand back. Curious, she reached out and touched him again, stroking the heated shaft, and said, “It’s soft, like velvet.”

He wanted to howl, both with laughter at her surprise and with his own impatience.

“On bed,” he growled, unable to speak more softly, more gently, with her hands on his dick.

She looked into his eyes and smiled with the realization of her feminine power. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her in for a deep, drugging kiss that had her stumbling backward and tumbling onto the mattress. Like a predatory animal, he prowled after her. His inexorable strength parted her thighs and held her open to his gaze.

“Um, Iosif,” she stuttered, feeling a rosy blush of embarrassment. No one but her gynecologist ever saw her spread like that.

“Kak prekrasno,” he breathed.

Beautiful was not a term Latasha normally used in association with the feminine core of her body, but she found herself pleased that Iosif liked it.

He ran warm fingertips over the baby-smooth skin of her mound and then cupped the entire area. He glanced at her face, then back at her slick folds.

“Spa day with Olivia,” she murmured, wincing at the memory. “I am never doing that again.”

Iosif chuckled, then bent downward and licked the length of her slit. Latasha shrieked with surprise. Of course, she knew people did that. She read romance. She’d once watched a porno flick. But… wow… words failed her as Iosif settled in to feast upon her.

Latasha found herself clutching at her own breasts and reaching for Iosif’s hair as he lapped and sucked and did absolutely divine and magical things with his tongue, lips, and teeth. She squirmed and shivered. Moans and gasps erupted from her throat. Something coiled deep in her body and she could not help but strain to release it.

With a long groan, Iosif’s bride undulated beneath his hands as her honey poured from her body. The long, low sound reverberated sweetly in his ears even as her thighs squeezed around his head. When she relaxed and trembled helplessly with the aftershocks of her first orgasm, he began again. The second time around, he used his fingers. First, he slid one long finger into her body and murmured encouragement as her body clamped down on the intrusion. Gentle strokes relaxed her tight channel enough for him to dare a second finger and, eventually, a third. He brought her to another orgasm as he stretched her passage and lapped up her copious juices.

“Ochen' vlazhnyy,” he praised her body’s generous response.

Iosif crept up her body, lavishing her with kisses and caresses until his hips settled between the cradle of her thighs.

“Ty moy,” he claimed as he rolled his hips forward. “Ty moya s udovol'stviyem, moy lyubit.”

Latasha whispered, “Yes, yes,” as he murmured his possession of her, his care for her, even as he slowly sank into her hot, wet depths. She gasped as her body stretched around him, wincing a little at the discomfort. It wasn’t pain exactly, but neither was his invasion comfortable.

When he could sink no more deeply into the tight, warm sheath of her flesh, Iosif forced himself to hold still. He could see the worry in Latasha’s eyes, the signs of discomfort. He remained stationary to allow her body time to adjust to his occupation. Sweat beaded on his forehead, misted across his back and chest from the effort not to move.

Latasha lay still beneath her husband, letting herself just feel him buried inside her. She breathed slowly, deliberately relaxing her muscles until the discomfort gave way to an overwhelming urge to move, to feel the drag of his flesh inside hers. Her hips bucked beneath him, and he took it as permission to initiate a slow retreat and thrust rhythm that stimulated nerve endings she never knew she had. Latasha cried out as she moved to meet his strokes and found herself chasing a third orgasm. Her hands clutched at his upper arms and shoulders, fingertips digging in and short nails scratching his perspiring hide.

“Zafiksiruyte vashi lodyzhki pozadi menya,” he ordered.

She obeyed, finding that wrapping her slender legs around him opened her even further to his possession and allowed him to sink even more deeply into her body. She locked her ankles and held on for the ride as he muttered incoherently in Russian, and his hips rocked back and forth, faster and faster.

“Iosif!” she screamed as that third and most powerful orgasm crashed through her. The spasms of her sheath around his cock launched his own climax, and he grunted into the crook of her neck as his seed spurted in hot, thick jets.

Iosif’s trembling arms lost all strength and he collapsed heavily upon his bride. She grunted and lay still, her breathing shallow and rapid. After a few long seconds, he mustered the strength to roll off her. She whimpered as his softening cock slipped from her body and cool air wafted over her sweaty skin.

As soon as he removed his heavy weight from her, Latasha marveled at how she missed it. Contrary woman, she chided herself.

They lay there for a few minutes, Iosif’s hand splayed possessively over Latasha’s belly. She turned her head to face him and met his burning gaze. The fire in his eyes dampened at her slow, sweet smile.

“No need to think of England,” she murmured after a gusty sigh.

Catching the reference to the Victorian cliché of upholding one’s duty to one country while enduring a clumsy husband’s attentions, Iosif chuckled. The unexpected touch of humor eased any awkwardness that may have built between them. He reached over with his other hand and smoothed a sweat-dampened curl from her face.

“Is it usually this good?” she asked hesitantly as his hand slid down to stroke her breast. She found herself sighing and arching into his touch.

“Never before,” he replied, his normally smooth baritone husky and rough. He decided to take pride in having remembered to answer in English.

“You make love in Russian,” she commented with another sweet smile.

“You make me forget English,” he replied and drew her against him. “Spi, moya lyubov. Ty dolzhen otdokhnut.”

Latasha relaxed and snuggled in beside him as he drew the covers over their cooling bodies. She rubbed her thighs together, feeling the sticky wetness of their combined fluids coating her skin. Strangely, she found it reassuring not to feel an immediate need to clean the evidence of their passion from her body. She sighed as Iosif’s muscled arm draped over her, his hand cupping one breast. Her hands wrapped around his arm, and she decided she felt safe and cared for with his big body curled around hers.

This, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, is what love feels like.