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He ducked his head, his jaw pulsing. “Da. It was a hard time. It was cancer; long and painful, and there was nothing I could do.”
Listening to the anguish in his low voice, my heart ached for him.
He blew out a rough breath, pouring more wine into both our glasses.
He swilled the red liquid around, watching the legs left on the glass. “Before she died I spent summers with my father in St. Petersburg. He’s a real piece of work.” His eyes flashed, not with hurt but with . . . hate. “He, of course, has his own family. None of that was pleasant, not what you’d call a summer vacation, but it was the custody agreement and my mother knew he could always just steal me away if she didn’t go along with his demands.”
“He is the one who made you . . . ruthless,” I said simply and without censure.
Aris lounged back in his chair. “Indeed. And now I am pakhan here in Dubai.”
Pakhan.I only understood the word because of my language studies. Mafia boss . . .
There was true pride ringing in his voice, that he’d made something—a dynasty—for himself.
Sipping the wine, I studied the angular Slavic planes of his face, the full sensual curve of his Grecian lips. “Your father taught you the business then.”
“Da. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about his brutal methods.” A short laugh rasped from him then abruptly died. “He is former Soviet Spetsnaz. Do you know what that is?”
I tried not to show shock. “I have heard talk of them.”
Even when I was little, I would hunker outside Father’s study door, listening to secrets, hearing fascinating stories that ranged from countries both near and far.
Aris shrugged. “Elite forces. He became known for his wet work. Off book missions. Assassinations. Perfect breeding grounds to later become a ruthless Bratva pakhan.”
He paused, squinting at me. “Are you done eating already?”
I nodded, too rapt in what he was telling me, willing him to reveal more of himself and how he’d come to be who he was today.
“A soft life was never for me. My mother never would’ve gotten her way.” Stark blue eyes roamed over my face. “After she died, I soaked in every detail I could, learning the hard ways so I could get away. Becoming, almost, like him.”
“Aris, I don’t think you could ever be like him, no more than I could be like my father.” I traced the back of his large hand then linked our fingers together. “Not that you can’t be cruel at times.”
His lips tipped up, his eyes lightening.
Bringing my hand to his mouth, he brushed his lips against my knuckles. “Tell me about your life then. I want to know.”
Even though heat flushed through me at his touch, I tugged away. “No, you don’t. Anyway, you’ll just think I’m spoiled and pampered and a hundred other unbecoming things.”
“There you are worrying about what other people think again.” Aiming a direct look at me above the rim of his glass, he swallowed more wine.
The ruby liquid left his lips glistening in such a way that I wanted to lick him.
Lick him all over.
With every untamed reaction to him came an equal and opposite response. I was supposed to disregard those feelings, shove down my desires, be perfectly poised and never pissed off.
I was not to raise my voice or show real emotion . . . only devotion.
“I’m ashamed,” I admitted softly.
His brows beetled together. “Of what?”
“I’m ashamed that you saw how pathetic I was today with my father. I’ve been taught to do as told and always submerge my own desires. I’ve had it beaten into my brain over and over that I shouldn’t even have desires outside of what is expected of me,” I blurted out in a rush.
Aris leaned closer.
I shut my eyes. “I’m so terribly embarrassed that I couldn’t stand up to him in front of you.”
“Come here.”
I wagged my head, still not looking.
“Please, Roya, come to me.”
When still I didn’t move, his voice deepened to an even more soothing timbre. “No one should browbeat a brilliant beauty like you. Blyad. You have more balls than you give yourself credit for. I mean, you hawked your own jewelry just to get some extra cash. Who else but you would dare to escape the palace and all its guards?”
Warmth began spreading across my skin.
He chuckled briefly then ordered again, “Come here.”
As I stood, a soft wind whiffled across my bare legs. I toed around the table, my gaze latched onto Aris’s.
When I reached him, he guided me sideways onto his lap, scooping my legs over his. “You have no reason to be ashamed or any of that shit. Not with me. Not with anyone.”
My heart halted then skipped then lifted.
His azure eyes landed on my lips, and he pressed the wineglass to them.
I tasted the rich, dark bouquet, reminded of him in so many ways.
Then he turned me so I sat astride him with my back against his front and my thighs widened across his. The night’s muggy zephyrs whirled between my thighs, slickening my sex quickly.
“I think you need dessert,” he murmured in a low, lusty tone.
“This is entirely indecent.” Yet I opened my mouth when he delivered a spoonful of the creamy pistachio dessert I’d made.
“I prefer decadent.” He ate from the same spoon as me, a most intimate gesture.
As he hummed in appreciation, I mentioned, “You never really explained . . . I feel like there’s a reason you speak in Russian sometimes and Greek at others.”
He turned my head. Winked and kissed me.
Gave me another spoonful of the soft confection.
