Page 16

The stem of the wineglass between my fingers feels far too fragile. I tap my finger against it once, twice, considering all the ways I could make that bastard across the room pay for daring to touch Seraphina. Every move he makes—leaning closer, brushing her arm with his hand—grates on me like shards of broken glass.

I don’t know who he is, but the way Seraphina is smiling at him is enough to make my blood burn. Okay, so the smile isn’t the problem. It’s the way he seems to think he’s entitled to her attention.

My grip tightens on the glass as my thoughts spiral. A knife to his ribs? No, too public. A swift punch to his nose? Tempting. But not nearly brutal enough.

For the first time in years, I feel something I can only describe as jealousy. It’s foreign, unwelcome, but undeniable. Jealousy isn’t an emotion I’ve allowed myself before. I don’t share, and I don’t envy. And yet, watching Seraphina stand there with this man who clearly wants her—my wife—makes me want to burn the world down.

“Grigor,” a familiar voice purrs beside me.

I don’t need to look to know it’s Emma. She presses herself closer, too close, and her perfectly manicured nails ghost over my arm.

“You’re far too tense for a party,” she complains. “Let me guess. You’re stewing because of her.”

Her. Seraphina. My wife.

I turn my head just enough to meet Emma’s too-bright smile. Her bright red lipstick has been perfectly applied, and her lips are plump and parted, as though inviting a kiss. I feel nothing but disdain.

“Watch your mouth, Emma,” I warn.

She scoffs, pretending to pout. “You used to like my mouth.”

“Not anymore.”

She laughs, low and patronizing. “I don’t see why you’re so hung up on her. She’s not that pretty, and her family is a mess. What are you doing with a girl like that, anyway? She’s hardly wife material. You could have anyone. Why not someone who actually fits your style? Someone who wouldn’t leave you brooding from across the room while she entertains other men.”

Something snaps. I turn to face her, inching closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear me. “Speak about my wife like that again, and I’ll rip your tongue out myself. Are we clear?”

Emma’s eyes widen before she masks the reaction with a sly smirk. “Always so dramatic.” She steps back, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Have it your way, Grigor. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. A girl like that will never keep you satisfied.”

I watch her slink away, swishing her hips in a way that’s designed to catch the attention of anyone looking. I couldn’t care less about her theatrics. My focus is locked on Seraphina and the bastard who has no business standing so close to her.

The tension ratchets higher when he lifts a hand and brushes her hair back, grazing his fingers across her cheek as he does. That’s it.

I drain the last of the wine, set the glass down on a nearby table, and start moving. If he wants a show, then he’s going to get one.

Seraphina sees me first. She sucks in an audible gasp, and she reaches out for me the second I’m close enough like she’s trying to restrain me without making it obvious. The man turns when he notices her shift in focus, and his smug grin falters the moment he catches sight of me.

“Grigor,” Seraphina greets with a little too much excitement in her tone.

I stop beside her and slide my arm around her waist, pulling her against me. The touch is possessive, and I feel her tense for a moment before she relaxes, fitting her body against mine like it belongs there. Good. It does.

“And who’s this?” I ask, nodding toward the creep.

“Marco,” he offers as his smile slides back into place. “An old family friend.”

“Friend?” I repeat.

“We grew up together,” Seraphina explains.

“Well, we did a little more than that, didn’t we?” Marco teases with a chuckle that makes me want to punch him in the throat. If I do a good enough job on that windpipe, he’ll never laugh again. “It’s been years since I’ve seen her. Just catching up.”

“You’ve caught up enough,” I declare.

Marco blinks and shuffles back a step. “Of course. I didn’t mean to—”

I cut him off with a pointed look. “You didn’t mean to what?”

He stammers, stepping back some more as he raises his hands. “No offense intended, Barkov.”

“Good.”

He lingers for a moment like he’s considering pushing his luck, but one more glance at me seems to kill the idea. With a stiff nod, he mutters something about mingling and disappears into the crowd.

The second he’s out of sight, Seraphina twists to face me. Her lips twitch, and before I can say anything, she laughs.

“What?” I demand.

“You’re jealous.”

I don’t deny it. “Maybe.”

“You don’t even know who he is.”

“Doesn’t matter. He touched you. That’s enough.”

“Grigor, he’s nobody. Just someone I used to know.”

“Not anymore,” I reply firmly.

She shakes her head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But you’re mine, Seraphina. No one else gets to forget that.”

Her smile fades, and it’s replaced by something quieter, more serious. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but I take her hand instead and pull her toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

“Where are we going?” she asks, though she doesn’t resist.

“You’ll see.”

She follows me right through the bathroom doors, and the walls mute the noise of the party. Before she can ask again, I lock the door and press her against the marble counter, bracketing her waist with my hands. Her breath catches, and her hands instinctively come to rest on my chest.

“Grigor,” she begins, though there’s no protest in her tone.

I lower my head until my mouth is inches from hers. “Say it again.”

Her brows knit together. “Say what?”

“My name,” I reply.

“Grigor,” she whispers, and that’s all it takes.

I capture her mouth with mine. The kiss is hard, almost punishing, but she doesn’t pull back. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, gripping the fabric of my jacket as though she’s afraid to let go.

I kiss her like I want to erase the memory of Marco’s hand on her, like I want to remind her of exactly where she belongs. With me. Only me.

Her body is pliant, and she melts against me, parting her lips to welcome my tongue as it sweeps in. My hands roam over her waist, her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space between us.

When we finally break apart, her lips are swollen, and her cheeks flushed. She looks up at me, somehow both dazed and defiant.

“Jealousy suits you,” she teases, though her voice is breathless.

I smirk and brush my thumb over her cheek. “You think so?”

“Maybe.”

I lean in, grazing my mouth against the shell of her ear. “Keep testing me, Seraphina. See what happens.”

She shudders but says, “Maybe I will.”

I straighten, and the challenge in her eyes only fuels the flame of desire burning inside me. Fuck. The party will have to wait. I have more pressing matters to attend to. Right here, right now, and there’s no chance in hell I’ll be waiting until we get home.

I lift her onto the counter and claim her lips again. The kiss is just as brutal, but I don’t stop. Not when she moans and digs her fingers into my shirt. Not when her legs wrap around my waist.

My hands explore every curve, and I slip them beneath the fabric of her dress. Her skin is smooth, and I drag my fingers along the inside of her thigh, enjoying the way she squirms when I trace the lacy edge of her panties.

She gasps and pulls her mouth away. “Grigor, we can’t—not here.”

“Yes,” I growl. “We can.”

“People are—”

“Don’t worry about them.” I kiss her neck, biting the skin hard enough to leave a mark. “I don’t give a fuck about them. Right now, you’re mine, Seraphina. Only mine. And I’m going to make you come until you can’t think straight.”

Her eyes are half-lidded when she meets my gaze, and her lips are parted like the words are caught on her tongue. I kiss her again, swallowing any objections, and she gives in. Her fingers unbutton my jacket, and her hands snake beneath the fabric, tracing the contours of my chest and abs.

She’s hungry, and the feeling is mutual. There’s no point pretending otherwise.

My hand moves up, brushing her inner thigh again. This time, she doesn’t argue. She spreads her legs a little wider, giving me better access.

With her dress hitched around her hips, I can see her clearly. Lace panties that are soaked through. Long legs I’d like to wrap around my head.

Fuck, this woman.

I slip my finger beneath the thin fabric, teasing her clit and drawing a needy whimper from her lips. She’s wet, ready, and my cock throbs, already painfully hard.

“More,” she whispers.

“Ask nicely.”

“More,” she repeats, her tone bordering on a whine.

“Not what I’m looking for.”

“Fuck,” she mutters.

I pinch her clit, and she jerks. “Try again.”

She swallows. “Please, Grigor. More.”

“That’s better.”

I thrust a finger inside her, and her head falls back. She bites her lip to muffle her moan.

“Don’t be quiet,” I demand. “I want everyone out there to hear you. I want them to know what’s happening. That I’m making you come right now. In the middle of this party. That you’re mine, and I can have you whenever the fuck I want.”

She moans as her hips roll against my hand.

“Good girl,” I purr.

I add another finger and hook them, reaching deeper and finding the spot that makes her gasp. Her back arches and her legs tighten around my waist.

The sounds she makes are intoxicating. I don’t give a fuck if the whole goddamn city hears. They need to know that she’s mine.

When her fingers slide down my chest to find my belt buckle, I can’t think straight. All the blood in my body is rushing south, and I’m desperate to get my pants off. To free my cock and fuck her until she can’t remember anything but my name.

I help her with the zipper, and a moment later, her fingers are around my length. I groan, and my eyes nearly roll back at the feel of her delicate touch. She strokes me, and my control slips.

My free hand slides up her back, grabbing a handful of her hair and tugging. Her head tips back, and her lips part, allowing my tongue to sweep inside. The kiss is a mess of teeth and tongue, and I don’t give a damn.

She strokes faster, and I pump my fingers inside her in time. It’s frantic, desperate, and my orgasm is already building, burning low in my gut.

Fuck, I need her. Now.

I pull my fingers out and push her hand away. Before she can react, I grab her hips and drag her to the edge of the counter, where I rip her panties off entirely and line myself up.

“Grigor, I—oh, fuck,” she cries as I thrust inside her.

“That’s it,” I murmur, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. “Moan for me. Scream my name.”

Her arms wrap around my neck, and her legs tighten, pulling me deeper. She’s so fucking wet. So tight.

I’m lost. Completely gone.

I thrust again and again, faster and faster. I fuck her like the world is burning down, and we only have this moment left. Like it’s the end of everything, and this is all that matters.

I lift her hips, tilting her a little more. The new angle lets me reach even deeper, and her nails scrape against the back of my neck as she writhes against me.

“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Grigor, please, don’t—don’t stop.”

“Never,” I promise, my voice rough.

Her moans grow louder, and her breathing is erratic. She’s close, and so am I.

My pace increases, and I feel the pressure build until it’s almost painful. My release is right there, but I don’t let myself fall over the edge until she comes.

It only takes a few more strokes, and then she’s falling apart. Her pussy squeezes around me, and she cries out with her thighs trembling. The sound is the last straw. My own release tears through me, and I slam my mouth against hers, drowning out the roar in my throat.

I keep moving until every last drop is inside her. We’re both panting, sweaty, and spent. When I pull back, I take a moment to admire the flush on her cheeks and the way her dress is ruffled and pushed aside, revealing the curve of her breasts. She looks thoroughly fucked. Mission accomplished.

I lean my forehead against hers, catching my breath. The room feels heavy with the aftermath of what we just did, but there’s a certain clarity coursing through me now. I slide my hands down to her thighs, holding her in place as her legs remain locked around me.

“Don’t ever let another man touch you. If anyone tries, I swear to God, I’ll kill them.”

“Grigor…”

“I mean it, Seraphina.” I pull back enough to make eye contact. “No one touches what’s mine. Not Marco. Not anyone. If they so much as try, I won’t stop until they’re a memory. Understand?”

She swallows hard, and her lips part as though she’s searching for the right response. Then she nods slowly, and her hands slide down to rest on my forearms. “Alright. I understand.”

“Good.” I press a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, savoring the way her body feels against mine.

After a beat, she finally asks, “What about Emma?”

“What about her?”

She lifts one shoulder in a small shrug “Is she… Was she your lover?”

The question surprises me. For a moment, I’m tempted to laugh at how absurd it is, but I hold back. She’s serious. “Do you think she is?”

Seraphina lowers her gaze, and her fingers play with the lapel of my jacket. “I don’t know. She seemed pretty comfortable hanging all over you.”

“Emma’s nothing. She used to be someone I entertained. A distraction when I had nothing better to focus on. But now?” I tilt her chin up with my thumb, forcing her to look at me. “There’s only one woman in the world who matters to me.”

She blinks, as though unsure how to respond. I don’t give her the chance to argue or doubt me. “I’ve never lied to you, and I won’t start now. Emma’s nothing to me, Seraphina. You’re the only woman I give a flying fuck about.”

She searches my face like she’s trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth, and when she finds no trace of doubt, she offers a small, tentative smile.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” she admits.

“You don’t have to say anything.” I press my lips to hers again, this time slower, gentler, letting the heat simmer instead of burn.

As I help her off the counter and smooth the fabric of her dress, a strange thought occurs to me. This moment—standing in the bathroom, fixing our clothes, coming down from the high of our sex—is the closest thing to domestic bliss I can imagine.

Maybe the old men in the mafia were onto something when they said women could change a man. Perhaps they had a point, after all.