Page 50 of Keeping Ruby

I’m well and truly on my way to smashed when Kirill sets down his glass of wine and moves to the fridge. He pulls out two steaks that someone has fixed with marinade before staring into the refrigerator, lost.

Look at me. I’m married to a mafia man, drunk as a fish. What would God say if He could see me now? Surely, not a thing. If He cared, I wouldn’t be here at all.

I study my husband, hiding my grin behind my glass as he reaches for a head of lettuce. “How do you feel about Caesar salad?”

“I think if you want Caesar salad, you should use romaine lettuce.”

He gives the head a toss, a proud grin on his handsome face. “Got it. What else.”

I snort. It just slips out. “That’s iceberg.”

His brows snap together. “What is iceberg?”

I point to the head of lettuce sitting in his hand. “The lettuce.”

He blinks. How is it a man can go from being the most terrifying man I’ve ever encountered to—to this endearing man who doesn’t know the difference between iceberg and romaine lettuce? It’s—well, it’s adorable.

I slide off my stool, only stumbling a little. “You don’t cook much, do you?”

“Only here. Only for myself.” He looks almost bashful. I want to poke at him just a little, if only to prolong this sweet side I’ve yet to meet.

“I love cooking.” Sliding by him, I reach into the crisper for the romaine lettuce. “If we want Caesar, we should use this.”

He gives the ball another toss, catching it with his mitt of a hand. Really, the man is huge. “And what are we going to use this for?”

I peer into the fridge, finding it very well stocked. “Do you like pulled pork?”

His voice drops a few notes. “Yes.”

“We’ll do lettuce wraps.”

His bashfulness flips on a dime to distrust. It’s so raw, so unexpected, I laugh.

His lips stretch in response, and he watches me like—he watches me the way I imagine some of the men in my books watch their women. Like they are truly, and completely, in love.

It sobers me, and I murmur decidedly, “How about I take over the kitchen while we’re here? We wouldn’t want anyone going to the hospital for food poisoning, now, would we?”

Twenty-Two

Kirill

There’s a point to this week, alone, with my wife. The point is that I need the time to get to know her, and I need her to know me.

Because the fact of the matter is that I’m leaving for America soon. I don’t want to leave her behind.

No, I can’t leave her behind. I won’t.

I’m not sure that if I did, there would be anything left of her to return to.

I also don’t want to take her to her home country if she’s determined to slip away from me, to escape. It would be much easier for her to wander into a police station, and claim that she’s been stolen in America, than it would in Russia. In Russia, the authorities would simply call myself or Ilya, and she would be returned, no harm, no foul. In America, there would undoubtedly be costly questions. Of course, she wouldn’t succeed in shaking me from her life, even in her home country. But I work hard for my money, and I don’t wish to part with it simply because my wife got it in her head that she could break the bonds that tie us.

So, there is a point to this week.

One I intend to see through to success.

If there is a time to win my wife’s heart, it is now.

She plucks another sour key from the bowl of candy she poured when she discovered it in the kitchen, setting it on her tongue to close her full lips around the treat. My already hard dick hardens as I watch the way she sucks, still holding the ring between delicate thumb and finger. Her honey-colored eyes are wide, and her red hair is twisted into a messy knot on the top of her head. She’s wearing a tank top and no bra with a sweater that hangs open in the front, and a pair of low, loose sweats. With the flashing lights of the movie illuminating her makeup free face, she’s exquisite.

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