Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance

She turns her nose up at it. “I can get out of a car just fine on my own, thanks. Been doing it for years.”

She clutches the sides of her door to tow herself upright. She’s slightly unsteady as she gets used to the heels. I take the opportunity to appreciate the dress on her body.

It suits the little kiska perfectly.

The back is completely open, and only two tiny straps hold it up around her delicate shoulders. It’s short, too, making her legs look a mile long.

“You look beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

Grinning, I turn and lead her towards the restaurant.

The ma?tre d’ welcomes us at the entrance and leads us straight to the special table I’d booked for us. It’s a private, open-air patio that sits right on the Thames itself.

Cami is definitely stunned. Not just by the opulence of the restaurant, which is ranked top fifty in the world for good reason, but in the natural beauty of the river sweeping by at our feet as well.

Of course, she doesn’t say a word about either.

She sulks silently opposite me while the ma?tre d’ recites the chef’s specially-curated menu for the evening.

She sulks silently while the wine is brought, presented, and poured.

She sulks silently when the fresh bread is placed at the center of the table and the waiters retreat.

Only when we’re alone again does she finally turn her eyes up to meet mine and scowl. “What are you doing?” she demands.

I take a sip of the wine. Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Fucking perfection in a glass. “What do you mean?”

“I mean all this,” she says, gesturing towards the mighty river and the decadent restaurant. “Why all this fuss and bother? I’m just your prisoner.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?”

“You’re my wife.”

Her jaw tightens. “Do you enjoy provoking me?”

“I can’t say I dislike it.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. It has the not-unwelcome effect of pushing her breasts higher.

“Do you mind?!” she exclaims.

“Mind what?”

“You don’t think I can see you staring?”

“Maybe next time you’ll just accept my gifts the first time I offer.”

“In your fucking dreams,” she laughs.

I chuckle. “Suit yourself. The next dress I get you in is going to be even more risqué.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t go more risqué than this. I’m practically naked.”

I just smile. Her eyeballs take another trip upwards.

Grumbling, she snares a roll of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and tears off a hunk with her teeth like a Viking. Even the way she eats is sexy as sin. She eats like she enjoys eating, like she enjoys food, pleasure, life. It’s far better than seeing a woman nibble at the edges of her plate as though eating is some sort of cardinal sin.

“You had your phone call today,” I say.

She chews another bite of bread open-mouthed, as though she’s absolutely determined to be as unladylike as she can. Problem is, it’s having the opposite effect on me. I’ve been hard since the moment she came down the stairs.

“I did. Did you eavesdrop?”

“I gave you complete privacy.”

“Hm. I told her about you,” she says abruptly.

“Did you?”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because shit like this doesn’t scare me. I can deal with it.”

“Pretty cocky.”

“I’m just speaking from experience,” I tell her. “These scars aren’t just for show.”

Her eyes soften instantly. “I still can’t believe he did that to you.”

Fuck. Bringing up my scars was a mistake. I don’t want the conversation to revolve around me. This night is about her.

“Not everyone has happy, normal, functional families like you,” I say, re-routing as gently as I can.

“Please, you think my family is normal?” She amends that in her head and shrugs lightly. “Okay, my family is comparably more normal than yours.”

I dip my head in acknowledgement. “That’s a low bar to clear.”

“But it’s far from being happy or functional.”

“So you called your sister, but not your parents.”

“Have you been keeping track?”

“Always.”

She sighs. “What are you doing, collecting information on me for your next evil scheme?”

“Maybe I’m just interested.”

“In me?” she asks incredulously, as though the very notion is far-fetched. That takes me by surprise—I hadn’t expected her to have any kind of insecurities like that.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She frowns. “Surely, your life involves more interesting people.”

“You’re selling yourself short.”

She stiffens, blushes, and turns her gaze towards the Thames. The waiters choose that moment to appear with the first course. It’s a seafood bisque with a fat lobster tail taking center stage.

The smell itself is enough to drive a man insane with need. But it does nothing for me right now.

Because my only interest at the moment is her.

“Thank you, darling,” Cami says politely to the waiter. She gives him a smile, which he returns with unnecessary enthusiasm.

My fist tightens under the table. If it weren’t for that fucking smirk of his, I wouldn’t have cared to even notice the little bastard. But as it is, I take note of his light brown hair and his dark brown eyes.

“Leave us,” I snap when he lingers longer than he needs to. “Now.”

He nods and scurries off. Cami watches him go. Then her gaze snaps to me immediately. “You don’t have to be so damn rude.”

“Was I being rude?” I ask, feigning innocence. “I didn’t notice.”

“Hmph.” She picks up her spoon without invitation and ladles it into her mouth.

Watching her eat continues to be a strangely sensual experience. The way her mouth moves, the way her tongue washes over her lips just after swallowing…

My cock stiffens more. It’s damn near painful at this point.

“You’re not hungry?” she asks, breaking the little fantasy that’s starting to take shape in my head.

“I could eat,” I reply coolly. But I don’t divulge the details about what exactly I’d like to eat right now.

Focus, Isaak, I counsel myself. I have a motive for the evening. I can’t let the little kiska tempt me off-track.

“So what did you tell your sister?” I ask.

“That the man who landed me in the Witness Protection Program six years ago was back in my life and determined to ruin the rest of it.”

I laugh. “I bet that was comforting for her to hear.”

“Does nothing faze you?” she demands, abandoning her spoon in her bowl of bisque.

“No,” I answer. “Not anymore.”

“You know,” she remarks, “I actually believe that.” Her voice is soft, mystified. She’s trying to figure me out.

Good fucking luck with that.

“I didn’t tell her that you forced me into getting married,” she adds suddenly.

I raise my eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Honestly? Because I don’t think it’s important enough to mention, considering we’re not going to be married for much longer.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Don’t do that,” she snaps, leaning in. “You promised me.”

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