Page 20 of Brutal Vows

Now his hands are on my legs, sliding up to my knees, caressing the bottom of my thighs, making sure I’m positioned right. Time stands still because it’s the most sensual thing he’s done yet, but also the most innocent in a wicked way. It’s slow and intentional, as if he knows the dance he started when he touched my ankle earlier, having read my mind about his hands drifting higher. And he called my legs pretty.

He tugs me closer, my inner thighs flush with his hips, my crotch snug against his fine ass, my breasts squashed against his broad, muscular back. I gasp at the sudden feel of him, then grip his shoulders in surprise. He’s a solid block of rippling muscle.

Oh, God. So…so wet. The last thing I thought I’d be today.

Now he reaches for my hands and guides them down and around his waist. With a slight pat, instructing me to stay just like this, he lets go, and with a subtle roll of his hips which I only want to copy, he hauls the bike off its kickstand, leans forward, and starts the beast.

It roars to life, and then he revs the engine.

Oh. My. God.

The vibration hits the perfect spot.

Luca peels away. I jerk backwards at the sudden force, but I cling to him, feeling every ripple of his six-pack as he steers the heavy motorcycle out of the compound and onto the road.

10

LUCA

This is the last thing I imagined happening today. The woman I’m practically obsessed with is huddled behind my back and squeezing my hips with her knees as she clings on tight.

Am I in a fever dream? Because in my real life, shit like this doesn’t happen to me. I’m buried in the deepest level of Mafia hell, so to have my dream woman in the flesh, never mind have her on my bike with me, is surreal. If this is my new role Il Consiglio, let’s pray I don’t wake up.

As for Milana, she’s cursing. In Russian. All the way out of the compound’s gate and ever louder as we slip onto the quiet road to the marina. It’s kinda cute. She’s totally oblivious to the fact we can talk to each other through the helmets’ intercom system and the sound is crystal clear, even over the aggressive purr of the engine.

“Sumasshedshiy muzh! Mudak! Chërtova bayka! Luca Scalera!”

At least I understood that last part, but the rest is all Rachmaninov to me.

She carries on like this for a good three miles, arms clenched around my waist, tense body hugged against mine, clearly petrified. I never speed unless on a racetrack; the last thing I want is to attract attention and get pulled off the road by the cops. Now I’ve slowed down to an agonizing ten miles per hour, and she’s stopped yapping, but she’s now breathing shallowly, shifting and fisting her hands and basically feeling me up. It’s freaking distracting, but in her mind, she’s probably looking for a better hold on my body and is having no luck with my fitted shirt. If she carries on like this, she’s going to rip at my buttons. I won’t mind that, not one bit, but my mind can’t go there. It’s hard enough to keep my cock in check as it is.

“Don’t stop your ranting now, princess,” I say, trying to distract myself from her hands. “Get it all out.”

A sharp inhale. “What?”

“I was enjoying that, except I didn’t understand a word. Probably for the best.”

“You can hear me?”

“Uh-uhm. Helmet intercom system. Your voice is music to my ears,” I tease. “By the way, the only Russian I know is Moy starshiy brat mudak yebanyi.”

“My older brother is a fucking dick?” she repeats, sounding stunned.

Yep, I looked that one up and practiced saying it until the words rolled off my tongue like a real Russian.

“I was going for ‘my older brother is a fucking cunt’ but it doesn’t translate well, so dick it is. Isn’t yours? For this little marriage deal they negotiated?”

Her hands shift again, an anxious movement before clenching my shirt, her nails digging into my abs. I need to reassure her she’s safe with me, whatever else is going on in her head.

“Steady now, princess, I’ve got you,” I say in my most soothing tone. “Easy now.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a freaking horse!” she huffs back.

What a comeback. Sharp as a whip and fuck if I won’t admit I love it. “You’d sure as shit be easier to ride if you were one.”

“Nobody is riding—” She breaks off and groans. “You’re incorrigible! And a villain!”

I smirk, but a villain is the last thing I want to be. Not in her story. I bet there have been villains enough, what with those photos of her I scrubbed. She’ll never know, but ever since this marriage loomed on my horizon, I vowed to be my wife’s safe space. I won’t repeat the shit that went down in the Scalera household when we were boys.