Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (49 page)

I
wake
up on a Wednesday morning to the shouts of people down along the streets. At first, in my barely-conscious haze, I feel panicked. I fall out of bed and rush to the window, afraid that perhaps a riot is taking place just outside my apartment building. But looking down, I see the throngs of people aren’t angry — they’re just a little drunk. Or a lot drunk, judging by the number of them holding huge pints of beer.

Of course. How could I forget? St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow.

Even here in Brighton Beach, with a great number of Russian people, St. Patrick’s Day is a big deal, and people get really into it. In the years before my dad died, I may have taken advantage of the holiday for a little bar-hopping, myself. But nowadays it means one thing and one thing only: the Amber Room is gonna be
packed
.

And even though the holiday isn’t technically until tomorrow, and despite the fact that upon looking at the clock I realize it’s only 9 AM, all the local party crowds are already diving straight into the festivities. After all, there is a 24-hour liquor store down the street from my apartment complex. So naturally this early morning parade of drunkenness would occur practically right outside my window. Either way, I’m up now, so I might as well get dressed and prepare for the day.

In the past month, a lot of things have changed. For example, when I walk by my bed on the way to the bathroom, I run my fingertips along the firm, exposed backside of a Russian hit man. Ivan groans and turns over, rubbing his jaw with one strong hand.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say sweetly, bending down to kiss his forehead.

He smiles up at me, his blue eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He has good reason to sleep so heavily — last night we must have fucked well into the early hours of the morning. My body is still sore from it, but I’ve never been happier. I’m moving into Ivan’s place, and tonight is the last night I’ll spend in my own apartment. In the meantime, we’ve been going back and forth between his place and mine, falling asleep beside each other every single night.

It’s been absolute bliss.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Ivan asks, scowling toward the window.

“Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Ah.” He slowly gets to his feet and pulls me close to him to press a kiss to the top of my head, his hands rubbing their way down my back. I’m wearing a thin robe, and he is completely naked. I don’t know if it’s the chill in the March air, or morning wood, or what… but I can feel his massive cock hard as a metal rod against my thigh. I can’t help but lean into him a little bit, nudging my leg against his shaft teasingly. I can feel little vibrations down my core when he chuckles, his chin still resting on top of my head.

“I hope you know what you’re starting here,” Ivan warns. I press harder into him, and he responds with a deep groan. “Damn,
mishka
, you didn’t get enough last night?”

I shake my head and pull back to look at him. I know exactly what I want.

Luckily, Ivan always knows what I want, too.

He hoists me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him deeply as he carries me to the bathroom. Setting me down so that my toes curl on the freezing tile floor, he turns on the shower, then returns to me and slips the robe off my shoulders. Standing naked in the cold air, my nipples are stiff, goosebumps prickling on my flesh. But the shower quickly heats up and starts filling the little room with steam.

The two of us climb into the shower, standing under the hot stream of water, our bodies flush together. As the moisture slides down my skin, Ivan drags his hands down my back to squeeze my ass, pulling me closer so that his now-slick cock prods me in the thigh. Then he spins me around and tugs me into him, his shaft hard on my ass. Ivan reaches around with both hands to massage my breasts, toying with my nipples, sending little shivers of pleasure down my spine and to my pussy.

My shoulders instantly relax as I lean my head back, tilting to the side slightly so that he can kiss me, the hot water hitting our faces. I reach behind myself to take his shaft in my hand, firmly stroking him and running my thumb over the crown. I feel Ivan shudder with satisfaction at my touch and that alone makes me want him. Now.

I turn back around to face Ivan, and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him, his tongue pushing into my mouth, his hand coming around to tangle in my damp hair. Then I let him guide me down onto my knees. I kneel before him, almost as though in supplication

After admiring the beauty of his engorged cock for a moment, I lean in and pull the head into my mouth, flicking my tongue along the underside. I pump his cock with both hands at first, my lips and tongue worshiping the crown of his glorious shaft. Ivan is moaning my name, and it’s the hottest thing I have ever heard in my life. His fingers are wrapped in my hair and I can feel him tugging at my head, trying to push me down on his cock. So I drop my hands and place them on my breasts, massaging my own nipples as I take as much of Ivan’s shaft into my mouth as possible. He is so big it almost hurts, but I crave the sensation of his hard cock pressed against the insides of my cheeks. I bob back and forth on his shaft, my tongue dragging slick lines along the underside.

“Oh, fuck,” Ivan grunts. “That’s so fucking good,
kroshka
. Your hot, wet mouth…”

Encouraged by his words, I push myself further, taking him into my mouth until the tip of his cock brushes the back of my throat. I can’t help but gag a little, and that only seems to stoke Ivan’s desire, as he lets out a moan and tightens his grip on my hair. I pump up and down his shaft, sucking him hard. He’s bucking his hips and murmuring my name and I know he must be close to coming.

Just then, he pushes me off and pulls me up to my feet again. Just as quickly, he spins me around and presses on my back to bend me over. Luckily, there is a lower railing for me to hold onto as he readies the tip of his cock at the entrance of my dripping cunt.

He rubs a teasing circle around my opening before growling, “Tell me you want it.”

“Oh God, I want it so bad,” I reply quickly, peering back at him over my shoulder and biting my lip. It’s been long enough that I know what
he
wants, too. “Fuck me.”

And then he shoves into me hard, my aching pussy enveloping his rigid, long spear. I cry out in pleasure as he grabs my hips and bounces me up and down against him, his shaft filling me up again and again. At this angle, bent over in the shower, he is able to perfectly hit that secret, sweet spot deep inside of me, and within a couple minutes I already feel my orgasm approaching.

“Oh God, Ivan, sir! Give it to me — oh God!” I wail, the delicious tension building rapidly.

“You dirty little slut,” he murmurs between gritted teeth. His fingers dig into my hips and I find myself hoping they leave marks there. I love it when he fucks me rough like this. I love admiring my bruises and love bites later, being reminded of how good it felt to receive them. And just like that, I come with a little involuntary squeal, throwing my head back in delight.

“Good girl,” Ivan croons, smacking my ass with a hard, wet slap. The stinging sensation only served to push me quickly into a second orgasm, which I released with another shriek.

My pussy gushes with honey and, still grasping the railing with one hand, I reach down between my legs to massage my clit. “I want more, please!” I beg. “Don’t stop!”

“What a hungry little cunt you have,” Ivan groans, slamming harder into me with every thrust. He squeezes my ass and reaches to grab my hair, pulling it so that my head yanks back. His cock rams into my g-spot again and again while my own fingers rub my sopping-wet clit. “You want more? Ask and receive.”

He picks up the pace, his cock spearing into me so quickly, so sharply, that I start to feel the good kind of hurt, and then I come for the third time. My pussy contracts around his cock and before long, Ivan’s thrusts become frenzied and loses its rhythm.

“Fuck!” he roars as he rips his shaft out of me and spills a long stream of hot seed across my back. The act sends a rush of pleasure through me as it washes away with the hot water, and he massages his cock as he lets the rest of his seed pour out over my back. I’m in and out of a daze as I feel his hands, warm even through the hot water, massaging my sides gently as I push myself upright again and lean against the shower wall, breathing heavily along with him before he wraps me in his arms and we linger in the cascading water together.

* * *

I
’m
at the bar of the Amber Room with Natalie that afternoon, and she’s pelting me with questions about what I’m suspecting is in store for me this weekend. It’s still early, and there’s hardly a soul to be seen out clubbing just yet, even if the St. Patrick’s Day crowd is still gathering in the sports bars and restaurants already.

“Well,” she rolls her hand in the air, asking for more. “What do you mean, ‘dropping hints’? Are we talking Post-It notes on your lunchbox, or what?”

I roll my eyes. “They’re
hints
, Nat, it isn’t like he’s spelling out what he wants to do for my birthday weekend.” And it is indeed that time of the year again. The past few weeks had been peppered with, well, cute little dates. I didn’t think this would be something I could expect from a criminal, but I have to admit, he’s good at making me forget what he does.

“Well, it was the French restaurant one night,” Natalie lists off, “and then he made you take that weekend off to go see some of the clubs uptown. So after all that, you think he’s planning something special? What the hell does ‘special’ mean to him?”

“I don’t know, but he seems to mention my birthday every now and then, so I can only guess he’s got something in mind,” I muse.

“Let’s see,” Natalie gets a playful look on her face, “are there any sports seasons happening? Maybe he’ll take you to a game.”

I wrinkle my nose, and Natalie laughs, obviously joking.

“Maybe out on a boat somewhere? Nice romantic tour over moonlit waters…!”

“Wish someone would take
me
out someplace nice like that,” Ashton calls across the room as she passes by with a tray full of glassware to clean for the night.

“And what’s your idea of a ‘fancy’ place, huh? You’d just want to go to Midtown as an excuse to go to the Olive Garden there,” Natalie shoots back teasingly. Ashton scoffs and tosses her hair indignantly.

“Well they
do
have the best one.”

After Ashton passes into the kitchen, Natalie rolls her eyes and lowers her voice to tell me, “I’m taking her to New Jersey next month.”

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head to the side, a grin spreading across my face. “Oooh, Atlantic City?
That’s
romantic.”

“No, asshole,” she’s quick to rebut, pawing at me in annoyance, but her face goes the slightest shade of red as she adds, “My family’s down there, I want my parents to meet her.”

I feel my face spreading into a wide grin, and Natalie suddenly becomes very interested in cleaning the bar and avoiding my gaze, even if there is a suppressed smile tugging at her face. There’s a beat of silence before I break in.

“That’s adorable, Nat.”

“Shut up, boss.”

As I open my mouth to antagonize my employee a little more, the doors open, and I see Ivan striding in with a smile on his face. The moment Natalie recognizes him, she smirks and ducks off to busy herself with something away from the two of us.

“Ivan,” I start, stepping towards him with a smile, “you didn’t mention you’d be dropping by today—”

I’m cut off as Ivan steps up to me silently, takes my hand in his, and slips a single rose into it, closing my grasp around it as he looks down at me with a gaze full of what I soon realize is quiet excitement.

He still looks stony, but there’s a boyish energy under there I’ve come to recognize.

“Turn around,” he says, and blinking, I obey.

“Ivan, is this part of some-”

“Shush, it’s a surprise,” he cuts me off, and the next thing I know, he’s bringing the same strip of black blindfold from our New Year’s night together up and over my eyes, blindfolding me right there in the club. It’s not even my birthday yet!

A
few minutes later
, I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat of Ivan’s car and listening to the rumble of the engine as we go God-knows-where. Trying to lead me by the hand out of the club had worn out Ivan’s patience pretty fast, so I’d ended up being carried out in his arms all the way to the car.

And he still won’t tell me where we’re going.

“Now, now, Katy,” he chides after I ask him for what feels like the tenth time, “what good is the blindfold if you know?”

“Fine, fine,” I pout, crossing my arms, “but seriously, Ivan, I’m not dressed for anywhere fancy, okay?” And I’m not exaggerating. I’m wearing tight-fitting jeans, a red spaghetti-strap top with black lace, and a black knitted cardigan since all I was expecting out of tonight was a routine evening at the club.

After what feels like an hour drive, we pull up someplace where the sounds of traffic tell me we’re well into the city.

“Ivan,” I start as he helps me out of the car before sweeping me off my feet again, “seriously, this is really sweet and romantic but—”

“But nothing.”

He plucks the knot of the blindfold, letting it slide off easily and blinding me with the afternoon sunlight, but as my vision comes back to me and Ivan sets me back on my feet, I see what I’ve been led to.

We’re in Central Park, and there’s a horse and carriage standing expectantly in front of us. My jaw drops, more out of incredulity than anything else.

Oh. My. God. This has got to be the corniest thing in the entire world.

But despite myself, I’m covering a laughing smile with my hand as Ivan cocks his head at me, his heavy brow furrowing.

“You don’t like it.”

“No no, Ivan, I love it!” I laugh and wrap my arms around him, blushing half out of embarrassment and half out of how absurdly cute this otherwise terrifying man was trying to be. It was like he was studying romance movies just to figure out how to surprise me. Me! The girl that is technically his sex slave, but who he treats like a Goddess.

A few minutes later, the two of us are being wheeled around Central Park in the back of a carriage pulled like a couple of tourists fresh off the boat. Rather, Ivan is sitting in the carriage, and I’m squeezed into the space left over by his broad frame, despite his efforts to make room for me.

Sometime after I relinquish myself to being half-wrapped around his body in the seat to get comfortable, my hand is held in his. I look up at him with thoughtful eyes, and I see him looking out on the sights of the park with a genuine smile.

“So,” I finally ask, “why the park, of all places? Doesn’t seem like your usual style.”

He thinks for a moment before responding, “In truth, I’ve never seen the place, for all the time I’ve spent around the city.” He gives me a light squeeze and adds, “I wanted to share something new to me with you.”

To natives, the park isn’t much more than a place to be well clear of by sundown, but seeing someone genuinely taken with the place is kind of refreshing, in its own odd way. I look at him searchingly, like I’m trying to read into him as his dark blue eyes meet mine quizzically.

“Something on your mind?”

“It’s just...I can’t figure you out, Ivan,” I almost whisper, even as I hug his torso tight. “You do things like this for me that are so sweet I don’t even know what to do, but then…” I twirl a lock of my hair around a finger, knowing I’m treading into dangerous territory. The stiff feeling of his arm around me tells me as much, but I press on, nonetheless. “Sometimes I think about what you do when you’re away. Even when we’re together sometimes, I notice when you leave the room to take some phone call, speaking in Russian. And those nights when you slip out of bed when you think I’m sleeping.”

I’m looking up at him now, and his eyes are locked on mine with a warning gaze.

“Do not ask me about my work, Katy,” he says evenly.

“I don’t mean it like that,” I breathe, putting a hand up to his face. He takes my wrist in his hand, and we’re frozen there for a moment before I continue. “Where does this side of you come from, Ivan?” I finally let out.

Ivan’s expression slowly begins to soften. A few months ago, this line of questioning would have earned me a sharp reprimand, but now, he lets go of my hand and lets it finish its course to his face, and I touch the hardened man’s cheek as if it were a statue.

He closes his eyes a moment, then looks back out into the trees, where a few families are enjoying scattered picnics or walks in the fresh springtime air.

“Katy, I’ve always kept you well away from my… usual business.”

He turns to look down at me. “I keep it that way because you bring something out in me that’s different, Katy. I don’t know quite how to say it, but I see things differently with you.” He looks down at his hands for a moment, his brow furrowed as though he’s struggling to find the words. “I do not regret the things these hands do. You know that. But when I’m with you,” he looks back up to me, and I want to melt into his arms, “that feels so far away.”

He suddenly straightens himself up a bit and rubs the back of his neck. “But I know this is only a transaction to you. To me — don’t say anything,” he cuts me off as my mouth opens to speak, “I don’t blame you in the least. But even if this is temporary…”

He takes my hands in one of his before withdrawing a little gray box from his coat pocket. My eyes widen as he opens it, revealing a sapphire pendant hanging from a white gold chain. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

“I just want to thank you for being my light,
solnishka
.”

I gingerly take the pendant from him, holding it in my hands with awe and care, as though it’s a newborn child or something. I’ve never touched something so beautiful, so valuable. The sapphire glitters in my palm and I stare at it open-mouthed, almost afraid to move.

Ivan chuckles, which breaks me out of my reverie. He takes the pendant from me and, holding it up expectantly, asks, “May I?”

After a moment of shocked hesitation, I nod vigorously and lift my hair off my neck so that he can reach around and fasten the necklace around my neck. I look down at the sparkling gem nested on my collarbone and have to stifle an embarrassed smile at how badly it clashes with my too-casual red tank top. It’s sort of like putting a diamond tiara on a clump of dirt.

But when I glance up at Ivan, he’s got this starry look in his eyes. Even though his mouth is still set in a hard line, the warmth in his shining eyes softens his whole expression. He might as well be beaming. “You are beautiful,” he says.

I notice the carriage driver steal a look over his shoulder back at us, and he gives me a quick, unobtrusive wink before facing away again. Ivan kisses me slow and deep, his lips warm and expressive against my own. He cups my face gently with one large hand, and I can feel the callouses there from years of working, of fighting. Distantly, some part of me rails against the fact that these hands have been stained with so much blood, have wrung the life from many a body. But in this moment, in Central Park under the early evening glow, with the whole city in celebration… it’s easier to ignore.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my cheeks burning.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

I nod and smile at him broadly. “Where are we going?”

Ivan puts a finger to my lips, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out the black blindfold again. I start to laugh and protest, but he shakes his head, a bemused look on his face.

“Another surprise?” I giggle.

“I am full of them,” Ivan replies lightheartedly.

“That you are,” I answer softly as he ties the blindfold around my eyes again. I feel him get up and move forward, and I can barely hear him giving some kind of command to the carriage driver, but I can’t make out the words. The driver makes an affirmative grunt and the pace quickens. I can hear the horse chuffing and its hoof beats speeding up.

Several minutes later, the carriage pulls to a stop and Ivan gets up again to pay the driver. Then he takes me by both hands and guides me to my feet. I take a couple wobbly steps forward before Ivan scoops me up in his arms and lowers me out of the carriage with effortless grace.

He leads me for what feels like several blocks, and I just know people have got to be staring at us. A huge, hulking Russian guy leading a petite girl in a blindfold down the street has to be a bizarre sight to behold. But the embarrassment pales in comparison to my excitement. Honestly, I don’t much care as to where we end up, as long as I’m with him.

A few minutes later, he murmurs into my ear, “Okay. We’re here.” He unties the blindfold and I stand blinking under the streetlamps, looking around in amazement and confusion. I know we’re not far from Central Park, but beyond that I have no idea where we are. This isn’t a part of town I can normally afford to visit.

“The bars and clubs will be full of St. Patrick’s Day people tonight,” Ivan explains, “but I doubt any of them will go here.”

He leads me into an opulent restaurant, far too fancy for the way I’m dressed. The sapphire pendant is the only part of me acceptable in a place like this. I look around in stunned silence at the magnificent interior design, the high ceilings and low lighting. The burgundy and mahogany walls are lit by candles and intricate glass fixtures. There are motifs of bears and heavy industrial art decorating the place, and huge, multi-level chandeliers hanging from the arched ceilings. After a few minutes, I finally realize that this is a Russian restaurant, and I feel a rush of warmth toward Ivan. It makes me happy to know that he is so eager to share his identity, his heritage with me.

The maître d’ does give me a look of slight disgust upon seeing my casual, low-quality clothes, but that disappears quickly after a withering glare from Ivan. After that, it’s as though everyone in the restaurant catches on and realizes that if you mess with me, you’ve got to be prepared to tangle with Ivan, too. And nobody really wants to do that.

So they seat us at a corner table with a candle flickering in the middle of it. Ivan guides me through the menu, pointing out items that he used to eat as a young boy back in Russia. We both order vodka to start, and although I am normally not a fan of most liquor on its own, this is so high quality that even I love it. Mine is a vanilla vodka, and his is made with artesian water from Siberian springs. To be honest, I don’t really know what any of that means, but Ivan appears to appreciate it, so I don’t question it. He then orders us borscht, foie gras, braised duck, and several kinds of caviar I’ve never heard of before. I cannot even imagine how expensive this must be, but Ivan looks entirely at ease and I decide it’s probably better not to ask.

Everything we eat is absolutely beautiful in its presentation and even more so in its flavor. I find myself utterly blown away by every bite I lift to my mouth, and warmed by Ivan’s enthusiasm for it. Every different item that I try is met with an excited question from Ivan, wanting to know if I like it and what I think about it. And watching him eat is almost wonderful enough just on its own. I can tell that this food is more than just a meal to him — it’s a taste of home, of a life he can never truly have again. He is transported back to his childhood for the duration of the meal, and it’s a lovely thing to watch. I am seeing a different side of him, full of wonder and lightness. It’s a sharp comparison to the usual cold, no-nonsense hit man the rest of the world sees in him.

I feel honored. It feels truly special to witness such a tender aspect of his character.

For dessert, Ivan tells the waiter to bring us cheese-and-berry blintzes, as well as a bottle of muscat wine from Napa Valley. By this point I am already so full that the idea of trying to ingest anything else is a little intimidating, but the pure joy with which Ivan greets the arrival of our blintzes renders me unable to say no.

“These were my favorite as a boy,” Ivan says. “My father, he worked long hours, so when I was young he often had me stay with an old woman in our building. Her name was Galina, but I called her
babushka
. Grandmother.”

“She was your babysitter?” I prod, hoping for more. It doesn’t happen often, but I adore hearing stories from his past.

Ivan gives me a noncommittal head-shake. “More or less. But she was not paid by the hour like most nannies are here in America. Instead, my father paid her rent and many of her other expenses. She was, you see, closer to my father and I than a mere babysitter. She was the closest to a mother I can clearly recall. She was a very old woman, quiet and reclusive, and fragile. My father knew she was struggling to get by, and she had always been fond of me anyway, so it was an arrangement which benefited us all.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Ivan smiles faintly. “I suppose so. And
babushka
made the best blintzes. I used to beg her for them. So when I made good marks in school, when I behaved myself, she rewarded me with them.”

“What a good woman,” I say. Ivan takes my hand and kisses it.

“One of the best I have ever known. She is the one who taught me to respect and protect women. You see, my father taught me to be a hard man, but Galina showed me how to be soft.”

“Then I have a lot to thank her for,” I reply. Ivan nods.

“She died when I was twelve. But she lived a very long, interesting life. She was ninety-one when she passed, you know,” he adds proudly.

We spend the next hour or so talking and cuddling, slowly draining a bottle of wine between the two of us. By the time the bottle is empty, we are both heavy-eyed and happy. The sharp, intimidating hit man is still present in his rigid, upright posture, and in his occasional dodging glance. He is authoritative when he speaks to the restaurant staff, and his firm hand on my thigh under the table is a reminder of his strength and control over me.

But I see now, more than ever, the genuine human being beneath it all. And I adore it.

After Ivan pays the bill with a thick wad of cash that makes me a little dizzy to look at, he leads me out of the restaurant and down onto the street. He hails a cab and drives me home, stroking my hair and holding me close the whole way back to Brighton Beach. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, and when we arrive at my apartment building he lifts me out and brings me upstairs to bed. I try to wake myself up, certain that he will want to fuck me. After all, it’s his prerogative to use my body however he wants.