Page 67 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

She looks confused until I scoop her into my arms. She giggles while hugging my shoulders, a contented sigh rising from her when I deposit her onto the cushions. I grab a blanket and cover her body.

“I’m thirsty,” she whispers. “I want sugar.”

I kiss her lips. “I have just the thing.”

As I wander back to the kitchen, a pillow nails my upper back. I pause and turn around, noticing the playful glimmer in Liya’s eyes as she sinks behind the blanket.

I squint at her. “You realize that means war?”

“I was hoping for it.”

I shake my head. “You’ll lose,rodnaya.”

“We’ll see.”

I know she’s just joking, but I can’t help but take the initiation seriously. Everything has always been serious for me. But with Liya, it doesn’t have the same sharp twang as it would coming from an enemy—or even a supporter.

It’s different becauseshe’sdifferent.

After collecting the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and two glasses, I return to find Liya fanning herself. I pluck an ice cube from the pitcher and kneel next to the couch. She smooths her fingers under my shirt.

“It’s so hot in here.”

I hold up the cube. “Lie back.”

Without hesitation, she reclines on the couch. I start at her throat, lightly brushing the tip of the cube over her sensitive flesh. Bright red trails erupt wherever I drag the cube, followed by a shudder.

But soon, she’s mewling like she wants me all over again.

I try not to give in to temptation.

She whimpers when I circle her nipple. “This is all I want to do.”

“Lie around naked?”

“Yeah. And get worshiped.” She cracks open one eye. “We could do this.”

The cube shrinks the more I use it. But I can’t be bothered to stop touching my wife with what remains. “It’s impossible to imagine.”

“Is it?”

“We’re not a normal family.”

She smiles as she looks over my shoulder, disappearing into a fantasy. “This marriage was impossible to imagine not too long ago. Right?”

I nod.

“Doesn’t that mean it’s possible, Pavel?”

The cube melts just beneath her breasts, where it turns into a miniature puddle. While dragging my fingers through the wet mess, I bow my head toward her.

I don’t have a good response for that.

Her fingers drift beneath my shirt once more. The softness of the digits draws me back to the present, inspiring me to kiss her stomach.

“What’s this?” she asks as she pushes my shirt back. She runs her fingers over the ink on my skin. “Is that a church?”

“The cathedral of St. Basil.”

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