Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (38)

I take my time with the second one, too. I’m enjoying how hard she’s fighting not to tip her hand. Not to show to me what I know is raging inside of her.

When both shoes are secured, I get to my feet. My cock is iron-stiff, but I ignore it for now.

“Here,” I say, offering her my hand.

She turns her nose up at it. “I can get out of a car just fine on my own, thanks. Been doing it for years.”

She clutches the sides of her door to tow herself upright. She’s slightly unsteady as she gets used to the heels. I take the opportunity to appreciate the dress on her body.

It suits the little kiska perfectly.

The back is completely open, and only two tiny straps hold it up around her delicate shoulders. It’s short, too, making her legs look a mile long.

“You look beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

Grinning, I turn and lead her towards the restaurant.

The ma?tre d’ welcomes us at the entrance and leads us straight to the special table I’d booked for us. It’s a private, open-air patio that sits right on the Thames itself.

Cami is definitely stunned. Not just by the opulence of the restaurant, which is ranked top fifty in the world for good reason, but in the natural beauty of the river sweeping by at our feet as well.

Of course, she doesn’t say a word about either.

She sulks silently opposite me while the ma?tre d’ recites the chef’s specially-curated menu for the evening.

She sulks silently while the wine is brought, presented, and poured.

She sulks silently when the fresh bread is placed at the center of the table and the waiters retreat.

Only when we’re alone again does she finally turn her eyes up to meet mine and scowl. “What are you doing?” she demands.

I take a sip of the wine. Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Fucking perfection in a glass. “What do you mean?”

“I mean all this,” she says, gesturing towards the mighty river and the decadent restaurant. “Why all this fuss and bother? I’m just your prisoner.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?”

“You’re my wife.”

Her jaw tightens. “Do you enjoy provoking me?”

“I can’t say I dislike it.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. It has the not-unwelcome effect of pushing her breasts higher.

“Do you mind?!” she exclaims.

“Mind what?”

“You don’t think I can see you staring?”

“Maybe next time you’ll just accept my gifts the first time I offer.”

“In your fucking dreams,” she laughs.

I chuckle. “Suit yourself. The next dress I get you in is going to be even more risqué.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t go more risqué than this. I’m practically naked.”

I just smile. Her eyeballs take another trip upwards.

Grumbling, she snares a roll of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and tears off a hunk with her teeth like a Viking. Even the way she eats is sexy as sin. She eats like she enjoys eating, like she enjoys food, pleasure, life. It’s far better than seeing a woman nibble at the edges of her plate as though eating is some sort of cardinal sin.

“You had your phone call today,” I say.

She chews another bite of bread open-mouthed, as though she’s absolutely determined to be as unladylike as she can. Problem is, it’s having the opposite effect on me. I’ve been hard since the moment she came down the stairs.

“I did. Did you eavesdrop?”

“I gave you complete privacy.”

“Hm. I told her about you,” she says abruptly.

“Did you?”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because shit like this doesn’t scare me. I can deal with it.”

“Pretty cocky.”

“I’m just speaking from experience,” I tell her. “These scars aren’t just for show.”

Her eyes soften instantly. “I still can’t believe he did that to you.”

Fuck. Bringing up my scars was a mistake. I don’t want the conversation to revolve around me. This night is about her.

“Not everyone has happy, normal, functional families like you,” I say, re-routing as gently as I can.

“Please, you think my family is normal?” She amends that in her head and shrugs lightly. “Okay, my family is comparably more normal than yours.”

I dip my head in acknowledgement. “That’s a low bar to clear.”

“But it’s far from being happy or functional.”

“So you called your sister, but not your parents.”

“Have you been keeping track?”

“Always.”

She sighs. “What are you doing, collecting information on me for your next evil scheme?”

“Maybe I’m just interested.”

“In me?” she asks incredulously, as though the very notion is far-fetched. That takes me by surprise—I hadn’t expected her to have any kind of insecurities like that.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She frowns. “Surely, your life involves more interesting people.”