Page 14 of Twisted Fate

KONSTANTIN

I dreamed of my new wife all night long.

It would have been all but impossible not to.

I’ve never seen a woman more stunning than Sophia was in that dress, walking down the aisle toward me.

A vision in pearlescent silk, her body made for a man’s hands to explore, those long, delicate fingers clutching her bouquet, her lips curved in a soft smile as she looked at me.

I dreamed of those fingers wrapped around my cock, of those lips teasing the tip of it, licking up salty pre-cum as I groaned and arched underneath her touch. I dreamed of her mouth on mine, of that perfect body writhing on my sheets as I thrust into her again and again, hard and aching for her.

Which is exactly how I wake, an hour before dawn, sweat dripping down my bare chest and my sheets tangled around my legs. My cock has escaped the confines of my boxer briefs, jutting up thick and hard into the air, slick with my arousal.

I grasp it without thinking, letting out a soft groan at the touch of flesh against flesh.

There’s nothing slow or teasing in the way I stroke myself, only the frantic need for the release I was chasing in my dreams. I try to banish the image of Sophia, the picture of her mouth open on a moan of pleasure, of her lips wrapped around the tip of my cock, but I can’t.

And I’m too in need of an orgasm to search for a different fantasy.

I stroke myself hard and fast, one hand gripping the side of my mattress as my head falls back against my pillow, chest heaving as I chase the pleasure I so desperately need. I thrust up into my hand, my palm slick with my pre-cum as I feel myself throb, on the edge of what I so desperately need.

The orgasm, when it comes, is so forceful that I moan aloud through clenched teeth, back arching as my cock throbs and pulses in my fist. Cum arcs from the tip, shooting across my chiseled abdomen and up to my chest, coming in hot spurts that make my toes curl and a moan spill from my lips with every new pulse.

“Fuck,” I breathe aloud as the last drops of cum slide down my softening cock.

I let go of myself, groaning as I sit up slowly, not bothering to flick on the light as I head to the bathroom to shower.

I’ve jerked off plenty of times, especially in the last two years when my bed has been empty, but I’ve never woken from a dream like that.

It felt viscerally real—and the need that I felt when I woke up was even more real, even more palpable.

I’ve never needed to come so badly in my life.

You could have just fucked her last night, I think to myself, running my clean hand through my hair as I stumble into my bathroom and turn on the hot water for the shower. It’s not as if there was any real reason to not fuck my gorgeous new wife other than my own stubbornness.

And that’s what it was—stubbornness. The desire to control some part of this entire arrangement. My father might have picked my wife, but I can decide when I take her to bed.

I can refuse to allow my desire for her to rule me.

I step under the hot spray of water, scrubbing myself clean and washing my hair, before stepping out and drying off, wrapping a towel around my waist. We’re leaving in a few hours for our honeymoon, and I should be asleep right now, getting the last hours of good rest that I’ll have before the long, fifteen-plus hour flight to the resort in the Serengeti that we’ll be staying at.

Another thing that I’ve been maneuvered into agreeing to.

My father made it clear that I was required to go through all of the motions of this new marriage, including sweeping my wife off for a luxury honeymoon.

I’m guessing that his insistence on that was two-fold—he’s hoping that I’ll get my wife pregnant in the next week, solidifying the Abramov family line…

and it will give him time here, alone, to block off avenues that I might use to move my ideas forward.

But I have no intention of getting my wife pregnant this week.

I have no intention of fucking her at all—if for no other reason than I refuse to be forced to fuck on a timeline that isn’t mine.

I’ve been forced to marry, I’m being forced to spend a week away from where I want and need to be…

I won’t be told when I’m going to put my cock in my wife.

I should be here, focusing on business, working on making connections that might allow me to sidestep my father’s wishes and eventually bring the family into the new century. Instead, I’m going to be isolated eight thousand or so miles away.

If she was disappointed last night, she’s going to be far more so over the next week. My father’s words ring in my head— all men disappoint their wives eventually. It’s just a matter of when .

I let out a sigh, dropping my towel to the floor as I go to get dressed. No point in drawing it out, I suppose.

—

The Abramov private jet is luxurious even by my standards—all sleek leather and polished wood, with a bedroom, shower, and fully stocked bar.

Sophia's eyes widen slightly as we board, her gaze taking in the opulent surroundings. I’ve been struggling to keep my own eyes off her since she met me downstairs for breakfast this morning.

She’s wearing dark jean shorts that show off her long, finely muscled, tanned legs, and a clinging red sleeveless top that lets me trace every curve.

I can’t help but think that she’s likely dressing this way on purpose, to tempt me into breaking the rules I’ve set down for myself.

The resentment burning in my chest only builds. Of course she was made to fucking tempt me. It’s as if my father picked exactly the woman I’d have the hardest time saying no to, and then gave me every reason to want to hold her at arm’s length.

Or maybe it’s just the heat. I can feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of my neck as we walk onto the jet.

"Impressive," she murmurs.

“My father does like to be surrounded by the best.” I gesture for her to choose her seat from one of the sleek leather offerings, and she does, crossing her long legs in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

I look away, moving to the bar to pour myself a drink.

It's barely past nine in the morning, but I need something to do with my hands and my mouth that isn’t putting them on my new wife.

"Would you like something?" I ask, holding up a bottle of spiced rum.

Sophia chuckles, a soft, musical sound. "A bit early for me. Coffee would be lovely, though." Her voice is polite, but taut. I can tell she’s not over being rejected last night.

Fine . It’s not my problem how she feels about it.

I nod, signaling to the steward who stands discreetly by the cockpit door. He comes forward, takes Sophia’s coffee order, then disappears again, leaving us alone in the main cabin.

Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken tension. I take a seat across from her, maintaining a safe distance. The rum burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat, warming me from the inside.

“How long is the flight?” Sophia asks, breaking the silence.

“Fifteen or so hours, then another two, I think, on a small plane to the resort itself.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “‘Isolated’ doesn’t begin to cover the description of this place, though it’s apparently very luxurious.”

“I think private is the word you’re looking for.” She takes the cup of coffee that the steward brings to her. She raises it to her lips, brushing them against the hot rim, and my cock twitches violently as my dream comes flashing back.

“Personally, I would have chosen somewhere else.” I tap my foot against the floor, taking another sip of my drink. “I’m not happy that this resort doesn’t allow for private security. No place, no matter how tightly controlled, is safe enough for high-profile guests all on its own.”

“Are you that worried?” Sophia blinks owlishly at me over her coffee cup. “Surely at a place like that—” There’s something almost patronizing in her voice, and it rubs me the wrong way immediately.

I frown at her. “I forget that you weren’t raised as close to the mob lifestyle. In my position, security is always a concern. There are plenty of people who would like to see the Abramov heir dead."

Something flickers across her face—something that I think is concern, but it’s gone too quickly to be sure.

Not concern for my personal safety, I’m sure—more likely concern that her new, comfortable situation might be threatened.

I have no doubt that I’m as much a convenience for her as she proved to be for my father’s needs.

"That sounds exhausting," she says finally. "Always looking over your shoulder, always having someone—or someones—following you around."

“It’s necessary.” I shrug. “Although I’m capable of defending myself, if it comes down to it. More than capable.”

“And me?” Sophia flutters her eyelashes playfully at me, a swift change from her attitude a moment before that I’m sure is meant to throw me off guard, but I feel a strange jolt in my chest all the same.

It’s not as if a woman flirting with me or teasing me is something particularly new, but there’s something oddly different about it being my wife.

Her lips close around the rim of her coffee cup, and I feel my cock swell. I take a sip of my rum, trying to drown the desire that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Of course,” I say stiffly. “You’re my wife.”

She just nods, sipping her coffee delicately, and the sight of her mouth pressing against the cup makes me feel as if I might go mad.