Chapter 2

Latasha woke alone. She frowned, thinking that something might be wrong, then rolled over and winced. As though connected to her mind, Iosif appeared in the doorway bearing a mug of coffee and wearing a pair of pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips. His damp hair hung loose, revealing that he’d already showered. In spite of her soreness, Latasha’s emerald eyes fixed on the pronounced slope of his Adonis muscle and she licked her lips. Damn, the man had a beautifully honed body!

Iosif grinned and walked to the bed. He sat down and handed her the mug. He would have liked nothing better than to sink into his bride’s body, but he knew she’d be tender. Latasha sat up and modestly pulling the sheet over her chest with one hand as she reached for the mug with the other.

“Thank you,” she whispered and took a sip, savoring the dark, rich flavor on her tongue.

Iosif ran a fingertip along the edge of the sheet and gently drew it down. Latasha’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled the objection.

“You’re beautiful, so beautiful. Let me admire you.”

Her mouth snapped closed as a blush spread over her face, neck and chest. Shyness demanded she avert her eyes. Desire demanded she meet his gaze. She squirmed, feeling her core go from sticky to slick.

“Never hide from me,” he continued, his hawk-eyed gaze missing no detail. “We are husband and wife now.”

Latasha lifted the mug and hid behind it as she took another sip of the nearly scalding liquid. Drinking also helped her avoid replying to him, a welcome delay because she didn’t know what to say. With slow movements so as not to startle her, Iosif took the mug from her hands and turned it to take a sip, carefully placing his lip to the exact same spot hers had touched.

God, that turned her on! And who said the taciturn, dour Russian wasn’t romantic?

After swallowing, Iosif said, “Your body will be tender. Take a hot bath. I’ll make breakfast.”

Another blush added a rosy hue to her skin just as Latasha was thinking she must look and smell awful.

“I… I, uh…” she stammered and looked around as though her bathrobe would suddenly appear close to hand.

Understanding her shyness, Iosif decided to indulge her and rose to his feet with smooth, strong grace.

“Half an hour,” he said, and left the room to allow her some privacy.

Latasha leaped from the bed and grunted as her body protested. The soreness didn’t prevent her from racing to the bathroom as her bladder suddenly demanded relief. A few minutes later she had scrubbed herself in the shower and washed her hair. Then she let the tub fill and eased down into the hot water to soak, liberally seasoning the water with the delightfully scented bath salts Iosif had set out for her. The warm fragrance of white tea and ginger filled the small room and clung to her skin.

“Five minutes,” Iosif called through the closed door.

Latasha glanced at her fingertips which had gone wrinkly. Ah, well, it was time to get out anyway. She dried herself off, wrapped a towel around her head, and found herself standing in front of Iosif’s closet. Should she? She’d read about women doing this. She’d watched movies in which women did that. Oh, hell, why not?

Suddenly decisive, Latasha tore one of his dress shirts off its hanger and put it on. She inhaled his scent lingering on the fabric and smiled to herself. The fine fabric felt decadent against her bare skin. She took a step and giggled at the intimate caress of cool air that wafted up beneath the shirt’s hem. Rolling up the sleeves to expose her hands, she walked barefoot into the kitchen.

Iosif’s dark eyes widened with both surprise and appreciation to see his bride wearing his shirt. He found it unexpectedly sexy, not presumptuous as he had in the past when lovers had tried the same thing. Once again he lost his English: “Krasivyy. Ty prekrasno vyglyadish' v moyey rubashke.”

“What did you say?”

He coughed to clear his throat and turned around to flip the pancakes before they burned. Because he apparently could not speak English while looking at her, he spoke with his back turned toward her, “You look beautiful in my shirt.”

“You like it?”

“Da.”

She smiled and wondered where this coquettish new personality of hers came from. “I like wearing it. I like wearing it for you.”

“Prikhodite i syest,” he bade her come and eat, gesturing to the table as he transferred the pancakes to plates.

“This looks marvelous,” she complimented him as she sat down and politely waited for him to join her.

“Sirop?” he asked, holding the plastic bottle of maple syrup.

“Da,” she replied with a grin. “What time is it, anyway?”

“We need to leave within an hour,” he replied. “That will get us to the airport in time.”

“I’ve never been outside the United States,” Latasha confessed, although she knew that he’d not be surprised. With her background, having traveled overseas would have been surprising. “Have you ever been to Costa Rica?”

“Nyet,” he replied. “It will be an adventure for us both.”

“I like that,” she said and took a sip of orange juice. “An adventure we can share.”

“Everything is packed?”

“You bet, even some things I probably won’t need.” She smiled when he raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. “Like a nightgown.”

Iosif laughed. No, she would not need a nightgown. They would sleep skin-to-skin. Predictably, his penis twitched at the thought. He ignored it. They had not the time to dally.

They finished breakfast and worked together to clean the dishes and tidy the kitchen. He noticed Latasha moved a little gingerly and handed her a couple of aspirin. She blushed at his perceptiveness and took them.

“Go get dressed,” he said. “I’ll load the car.”

Latasha obeyed, happy enough to leave the heavy lifting to him. Looking in the mirror as she confined her thick, wild curls into a loose braid, she noticed the new sparkle in her bright green eyes. Apparently, marriage agreed with her.

She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her purse, and met Iosif in the living room. He caught her to him and plundered her mouth with the type of kiss that never failed to dazzle her... every damned time. Which was probably why he did it.

“Wait for me,” he ordered, his voice hoarse with desire.

She nodded, and wanted to whimper when he retreated into the bedroom to change into clothes suitable for public viewing. Although it was a damned shame to cover up that fine, fine body, Latasha knew she didn’t want anyone else ogling her man. Probably as much as he detested anyone ogling her.

Not for the first time, Latasha gave thanks for having been given this big, strong, handsome, delicious man. In fact, as soon as the soreness between her legs eased, she wanted to have him there again. And again. And again.

Dear Lord, in the space of one night she’d turned into a nymphomaniac. Wouldn’t her best friends laugh at that? Well, Cecily would probably crow with triumph and Gia would merely smirk. And Vitaly and Pyotr and Bogdan and… oh, dear, they’d all know why her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed like that.

“Ready, vozlyublennaya?” Iosif asked when he emerged from his—no, their—bedroom.

Latasha smiled at him and replied, “Da.”

At the airport, Iosif held her hand as they walked from the parking lot to the ticket counter to check their luggage, through security, and all the way to their gate. They garnered a few curious glances and a handful of disapproving sneers, but he ignored them. Narrow-minded fools held no importance for him. He did, however, see fit to direct the occasional warning glare at those men who allowed their lustful gazes to linger a moment too long upon his wife. It made him look like a possessive lout, but he didn’t particularly care.

He didn’t notice the admiring glances he collected from women passersby until Latasha laughed and pointed it out.

“They are nothing,” he reassured her, wondering if he ought to be irked at his bride’s apparent lack of jealousy or complimented by her trust.

“I know,” she said, giving him a smile and squeezing his hand for emphasis. “If the past couple of years have taught me anything, it’s that you’re cast from the same mold as Vitaly, Maksim, and Pyotr. You’re all loyal to the bone.”

He frowned and thought that over. Although it may have sounded as though he were some blindly loving mutt, he could not deny that loyalty was as much a part of his makeup as were his black hair and black eyes. “Da,” he replied with a satisfied nod. Then, running the back of one finger down her cheek, he asked in a quiet voice, “Are you still very sore?”

A pretty flush darkened Latasha’s cheeks in response to his question and she squirmed. “A little,” she admitted. “The aspirin helped.”

“Shall I leave you to recover tonight?” Iosif thought that his bride would never know how much that considerate question cost him. After two years of repressing his baser instincts, the very last thing he wanted to do was pass a night in platonic friendship with his wife. No, he wanted to wallow in her body, imprint the satiny texture of her skin upon his palms, drink of the nectar that flowed from her pretty pink honey pot, breathe in the heady fragrance of her perspiration when lovemaking made the skin bloom with heat.

Flattered by her husband’s tender care for her wellbeing, Latasha smiled and answered, “Don’t you dare, Iosif.” She squirmed again, feeling the residual effects of her wedding night. “I love the way you make me feel. I love the way my body aches because it reminds me of you.”

Iosif couldn’t think when he’d heard more tender, intimate words. He wrapped a big, warm hand around the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss. Several onlookers frowned at the inappropriate, public display of affection. One elderly man sitting across from them caught Iosif’s gaze with his own twinkling eyes and grinned.

“Newlyweds, eh?” His faded blue eyes glanced down at the coordinating rings the bride and groom wore.

“Married yesterday,” Iosif replied.

“Congratulations, my boy. She’s a beauty.”

The flight attendant called their zone for boarding. Iosif gave the old man a friendly nod as he rose and took Latasha’s hand.

“Enjoy your honeymoon!” the old man called after them.

“Oh, we will! Thank you!” Latasha called back as Iosif led her away.

The flight attendant scanned their boarding passes and ushered them into the jetway. They quickly found their seats and were soon buckled in.

“I can’t believe you got first class seats,” Latasha enthused.

“I am too large for coach,” he said as he tucked her hand into his lap. “And I will not be parted from you.”

What he did not tell her was that the rent money she had paid him had gone to finance their honeymoon. Iosif could have afforded the expense on his own, but he liked knowing that he’d used the money she had paid him—not that he had ever asked for it or even wanted it—to indulge in a luxurious vacation for the both of them.

He watched Latasha watch the activities of the transportation crews and baggage handlers through the porthole. He knew she’d never flown before and took pleasure in her interest in everything going on.

She turned to face him, green eyes sparkling and a bright smile illuminating her face. “This is so exciting!”

He smiled back at her and agreed just as a flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder to ask if he and his companion would like something to drink.

“Champagne,” he replied. “We are celebrating.”

“What’s the occasion?” the attendant asked with a polite smile.

“Our wedding,” Latasha blurted, joy fairly bursting from her.

“Newlyweds? Congratulations!” the flight attendant said with a genuine smile that time. “That definitely calls for champagne. Unfortunately, we only have sparkling wine, but I’ll open up a bottle.”

As soon as there was a break in the stream of passengers creeping toward their cramped economy class seats, the attendant popped into the tiny galley and brought the festive wine to them in plastic glasses.

Bringing the drink to her mouth, Latasha snorted as the fizzy bubbles tickled her nose. She sneezed and laughed at herself as Iosif took a small sip of the inferior vintage.

“You know, I’ve never had champagne before,” Latasha said as she took a small sip to sample the bubbling wine.

“You still haven’t,” he said. Her smile faded, making him feel like a brute for having dashed her high spirits. So, he smiled and said, “I will make sure you do, though.” He lifted her free hand and kissed her palm. “You should have nothing but pleasure and joy, and I will do my best to make it so.”

Latasha set the cup on her leg and leaned her head against Iosif’s meaty shoulder. “Oh, Iosif, I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do. But I’m an emergency room nurse. There won’t be a surfeit of pleasure and joy in my life, but there will be satisfaction.” She lifted her head and looked him in the eye, her emerald gaze earnest. “I can do good in this world, and that’s not to be lightly dismissed.”

Iosif did not take offense at her words, because he knew she meant no comparison between what he did and what she did. He’d learned a great deal from Vitaly and, more often than not, he dealt in blood, pain, and cruelty. He was no one’s savior. It was his job to break the toughest of the tough down into quivering jellyfish and extract all the information they harbored. Sometimes he got to use his skills for vengeance. Seldom were his skills employed to spare someone from harm.

Again, he ran the back of his finger down her smooth cheek. “Perhaps someday the good that you do will balance out what I do.”

“I hope so, Iosif, because you’re not a bad person.”

He raised an eyebrow. There were thugs all over the greater Cleveland area who would laugh themselves silly at hearing that—right before they soiled their pants.

Her expression serious, Latasha’s quiet voice throbbed with intensity: “You do bad things. I know that. But you are not evil. You don’t enjoy your work.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered, “Spasibo, moya lyubov.” He deeply appreciated her faith in his good heart and vowed never to confess to her that he found a certain sense of satisfaction in his violent life. He relished the tactical and strategic skill necessary to eradicate a disrespectful gang from Bratva territory. Maksim kept his territory safe and woe betide the foolish thugs who thought to disrupt that peace. He felt no remorse when he killed to protect his Bratva family’s interests. He took some solace in that he only hurt those who were threats.

Iosif Drakoniv took some small pride in sticking to a rigid code of honor that did not tolerate harm to innocents, which generally meant women and children. Carmen Montoya had been a rare exception.

The captain’s voice broke the hum of passenger conversation to announce the aircraft would be headed toward the runway in a moment and to request that everyone stow his or her tray tables in the upright and locked position and to fasten their seat belts. He enjoined all passengers to pay attention to flight attendants as they recited the usual litany of safety instructions and general prohibitions against smoking anywhere in the cabin. Latasha listened with rapt attention, as Iosif knew she would.

Gripping his forearm, she leaned close and whispered nervously, “Do they really think the plane will crash?”

“Nyet, vozlyublennaya. They merely prepare for the worst. The aircraft is very safe.”

“But what about that airplane that crashed in Brazil not so long ago?”

“They ran out of fuel and air traffic control did not authorize landing.”

“Well, if our plane gets low on fuel, then the captain had damned well better land it anyway. I am not dying on our honeymoon and neither are you.”

Iosif chuckled. That was the feisty woman he loved.

The jet engines whined as the turbines gathered power for liftoff. Latasha’s hand clenched Iosif’s arm. He endured it without wincing, although he silently acknowledged that his skinny bride had a strong grip.

The aircraft left the ground, and Iosif watched his wife’s full lips move silently in prayer. He covered her white-knuckled hand with his big, warm one to help ease her anxiety. Perhaps he should have gotten a prescription of Xanax or something to make the travel less stressful. Knowing his beautiful and opinionated bride as he did, though, she probably would have refused to take it. Oh well, he’d just have to fuck her senseless as soon as the opportunity presented itself. At that idea, his cock thickened and swelled behind the plastic zipper of his dress slacks. He hoped the plastic would hold and why in the hell didn’t fine clothiers use stronger steel zippers anyway?

He heard Latasha chuckle, a sultry, throaty sound that never failed to heat his blood. He met her gaze, which flickered down at his crotch, then back up again. Red tinged the delicate mocha of her cheeks and her eyes gleamed. Iosif’s lips stretched in a smile that could only have been described as wicked.

“If only we were alone,” she murmured, a naughty little smile playing on her face.

“Who needs privacy?” he murmured back.

She inhaled with surprise, not quite a gasp, more than a simple breath. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

Latasha shook her head, that pretty blush spreading down her neck and across the elegant sweep of her delicate collar bones. She knew better than to take that challenge. Iosif Drakoniv did not lose.

Iosif gave his unexpectedly shy bride’s hand a light squeeze. If she were one of the fast and loose women from his past, then he’d ignore the other passengers and the flight attendants and bring her to climax right there in the airplane seat. But Latasha could be very modest, and he would not shame her. To ensure she understood that, he brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the knuckles, and said, his voice thick with emotion and a heavy Russian accent, “You are the one good and pure thing of my life. I will do nothing to sully that.”

A fluttering sigh behind them was followed by a whispered, “Kyle, did you hear that? How romantic. How come you never said anything like that to me?”

Latasha’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she choked on a snicker of laughter. Glad to see that her anxiety had eased, Iosif reached down for his wife’s oversized purse and pulled out a paperback novel. Wordlessly, he handed it to her. Equally silently, she accepted it and settled in to read until they landed.

She gladly let her mind be swept away by the travails and adventures of Elvis Cole and his sociopathic, homicidal sidekick Joe Pike, whose character reminded her more than a little of the man she now called husband. Except that Iosif was almost certainly less sociopathic and definitely sexier.

Iosif drew another paperback from Latasha’s purse and began reading. He did not begrudge his wife her drug of choice for escaping the anxiety induced by air travel. He did not feel the need to fill the companionable silence they shared with inane babble. After two years of living together, they had found comfort in each other’s presence, an enduring place of acceptance and love that needed neither florid poetry nor dirty talk.

They changed planes in Houston. Their layover had been planned to accommodate a delayed flight or to eat supper. As the weather, the aircraft, and the air traffic controllers had all aligned in cooperation, supper remained on their agenda. Latasha gladly settled her hand in Iosif’s firm grip as they walked through the crowded airport to the food court.

“What do you want to eat?”

She swiveled around and looked at the myriad options. “I’ve got to try a place called Cat Cora’s Kitchen.”

Iosif nodded and escorted her there. A hostess soon seated them, and a waiter quickly brought them menus and took their drink orders.

“How much time do we have?”

“About ninety minutes.”

“Okay.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and asked for their menu orders. Latasha just blinked at the menu, silently calculating the prices.

“Zakazhite to, chto vy khotite,” Iosif said quietly, instructing her to order whatever she pleased.

“Eto dorogo,” she answered in the same language, protesting the high prices. “Maybe we should try somewhere else.”

“We are on our honeymoon, lyubimaya. There is no better time to splurge a little.”

She met his earnest gaze and relented. A lifetime of counting pennies and pinching them until they screamed proved a hard habit to break. Mama may not have felt any shame in living off public assistance; but, Latasha had, and she vowed she’d not live that way again. It would have been nice to have pursued a career in art or music, but art and music usually failed to pay the rent or buy the groceries. Nursing, while not her passion, remained a solid career choice. And she was good at it. A good nurse could always find well-paid employment.

Iosif permitted her the independence of ordering for herself, knowing how hard-won that independence had come. Were she another woman, he would have assumed authority and ordered for her. His Latasha would have felt belittled, restrained, and suffocated by such behavior. She would not consider it an alpha male’s care for his woman, but a subjugation or indictment of her inability to make a decision that pleased her.

He hoped that one day she would trust him enough to order for her. A woman such as his wife could be gently led, but never bullied.

Their food arrived in good time. Latasha exclaimed over the Asian fusion cuisine, sampling from Iosif’s plate even as he sampled from hers.

“This is so good!” she enthused. “I’ll have to see if Cece can make this the next time she visits.”

The mention of Cecily dampened Iosif’s mood, although he knew that the plump blonde remained his wife’s dearest friend. Oh, he understood why she had left Pyotr. Few women of good moral character—the phrase tasted sour on his tongue—could tolerate living with a thug. But Pyotr was his best friend, and the poor man had been utterly crushed when the Midwestern farm girl had panicked and abandoned him in a crisis of conscience.

Latasha caught the flicker of emotion that crossed his expression before he concealed it. Setting down her fork, she reached across the table to rest her hand on his forearm. “I know you’re still angry at Cece, Iosif. Frankly, I am too, a little. But we’ve got to understand that she doesn’t have our background.” Latasha shook her head. “It’s so weird, a corn-fed farm girl and an inner city sista becoming best friends, but just as my upbringing is impossible for her to really understand, so is hers to me. I can’t imagine getting up at oh-dark-thirty to slop the hogs or milk the cows or whatever it was she did before breakfast every morning. We just have to accept the differences and be glad that it all worked out in the end.”

“You are forgiving.”

“I have to be. I love her like she really was my sister, except that two of my real sisters are crack whores and the third is showing every sign of following in their footsteps.” She tilted her head. “I hate that my family is a cliché of everything that’s wrong with urban Black America: lazy, ungrateful welfare mom with half a dozen kids from as many fathers. Of my brothers, one died because of gang violence and the other will probably suffer the same fate, but not before he gets a few kids on a few baby-mamas and the public picks up the tab for their care.”

She sighed again. “I got out of there. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got out. If any one of my siblings ever asked me for help to get out, I’d do whatever it took to make it happen.”

“I know, Latasha. I admire your strength. It’s why you will give me strong, smart children.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O of surprise.

“An intelligent man does not want a stupid wife. He wants a smart wife who will give him smart children.”

“So, you married me for my brain?”

“No, I married you because—since the moment I saw you—my cock would rise for no other woman. Ya lyublyu tebya.”

“Aw, I love you, too, you big softie.”

Iosif drew back, puffed out his chest, and pulled his wife’s hand to the rigid length of him beneath the straining zipper of his trousers. “There is nothing soft about me.”

Latasha felt her bones melt and her blood sizzle. She rasped, “Oh, God, no, there is nothing soft about you.”

Their waiter returned, set the check on the table and left, carefully averting his eyes from the randy newlyweds.

Iosif slapped down some money, sufficient to cover the cost of their meal with a healthy tip. He rose, pulling Latasha up with him. She grabbed her purse and he marched her toward a family restroom, keeping her positioned in front of him to conceal his very obvious erection.

The family restroom was unoccupied. He shoved Latasha inside and followed her, locking the door behind them.

“Ty mne nuzhen,” he growled his need, even as he cupped his hand around the back of her head so he could plunder her mouth.

Latasha moaned, tasting wine and lamb on his tongue. She felt him lift her skirt and tug down her panties, which were damp anyway. Her own hands fumbled at unfastening his belt and unbuttoning his pants at the waistband. She moaned again, feeling his warm fingers stroke her, sliding through the slick folds, teasing her suddenly aching center. Iosif broke the ravenous kiss and turned her around.

“Hold on to the sink,” he ordered as he slid downward to draw her panties off her smooth legs. He straightened and used his legs to spread hers apart. She heard the rasp of his zipper and then felt the broad head of him probe her swollen pussy lips.

“Iosif,” she moaned and felt her hips tilt in needy invitation. Dear Lord, she felt empty! She needed him inside her. Now. “Please.”

“Ty moya, vsegda moye,” he growled as his hands settled on her hips, wrapped around the sturdy bones, and held her as he pushed into her body.

“I’m yours!” she agreed with a squeal as he filled her in a single, inexorable stroke. She trembled with the urge to buck against him, but his strong grip held her still. She whimpered as he withdrew and squeaked when he slammed back in. Soon the tiny room’s air filled with the rich, distinctive sounds of vigorous sex and the musky scent of arousal.

Latasha felt her husband thicken and jerk erratically inside her as he ejaculated with harsh grunts, one arm wrapped around her waist to hold her where he wanted her, the other hand clenched on the edge of the sink. She cried out as the flood of hot semen triggered her own release, sending her body into uncontrolled spasms that would have knocked her off her feet if Iosif’s strong arm were not wrapped around her.

Iosif exhaled heavily, his body curled over his wife as he strained for breath and summoned his strength and will to remain standing. Only Latasha had such an effect on him. Only she could make him forget their flight left in ten minutes.

“Blyad,” he cursed as his softening dick slipped from her body. “We’re going to miss our flight.”

“Oh, God,” Latasha whimpered even as she reached over the sink to withdraw several paper towels. She handed a wad to him, withdrew more, and quickly splashed those with water from the spigot. Her hands trembled with the aftermath of their passion.

“Let me,” he said and took the dampened towels from her hand. With deft care, he quickly wiped her clean and helped her back into her panties. He then wiped himself and stuffed his softened penis back behind the zipper.

“Everyone’s going to take one look and know what we were doing,” she moaned when she saw her reflection in the mirror.

“We’re newlyweds,” he said. “We doing what everyone expects newlyweds to do.”

God, he loved that blush!