Page 39 of Bound Vows
I position myself behind her and slide home in one smooth stroke, burying myself to the hilt in her tight heat. Maya cries out and arches against me, taking me even deeper.
“God, you feel incredible,” I breathe, setting a steady rhythm.
“Harder,” Maya demands as she pushes back to meet each thrust. “I want to feel this tomorrow during the ceremony.”
The image of Maya walking down the aisle with the phantom sensation of my possession between her thighs drives me to increase the pace and force of my thrusts. She meets each one with enthusiasm, her moans growing louder despite the risk of discovery.
“Touch yourself,” I command while reaching around to palm her breasts. “I want to feel you come around me.”
Maya slides a hand between her thighs to stroke her clit while I continue driving into her from behind. The added stimulation makes her inner muscles clench around me, threatening my remaining control.
“Close,” she gasps as her movements become more erratic. “So close.”
“Then let go, Piccola. Come for me under the stars.”
Maya shatters with a cry that echoes off the surrounding buildings, and her body convulses as pleasure tears through her. The sensation of her orgasm triggers my own, and I bury myself deep as my release barrels through my body.
We remain joined for several minutes while our breathing slows. When I finally withdraw from her, Maya turns in my arms and rests her head against my chest.
“Tomorrow formalizes what already exists between us.” I stroke her dark hair while Manhattan lies sprawled below us like a conquered kingdom. “But some things remain constant regardless of ceremonies or witnesses.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that you’ll never be just a possession to me, Maya. Whatever else our marriage becomes, you’ll always be the woman who looked at my scars and saw survival instead of weakness.” I tilt her chin up until she meets my gaze. “That matters.”
Maya studies my face for a moment before nodding slowly. “And you’ll always be the man who saw me as more than just Max Mastroni’s little sister.”
“Much more.” I pull her closer. “Though I reserve the right to remind your brother of that fact if he becomes too troublesome.”
“Just try not to kill him during the reception. It would really put a damper on the festivities.”
“I make no promises about the reception,” I reply while leading her back toward the penthouse. “But I guarantee the honeymoon will be memorable.”
As we return inside, I catch Maya’s reflection in the glass door and note how she carries herself differently—still wary, but no longer quite so guarded.
Tomorrow, she becomes my wife in front of everyone who matters in our world.
Chapter 17
Maya
Standing in the designated bridal suite of the Volkov estate while three stylists fuss over my wedding dress feels like preparing for my execution, except executioners usually have the decency to make it quick.
“The train needs to be perfect,” Katarina declares as she adjusts the cathedral-length silk for the dozenth time. “Every photographer will capture this moment, and the images will be sent to families across the country.”
“How thoughtful. Nothing says ‘romantic wedding’ like ensuring my subjugation is properly documented.” I watch her reflection in the full-length mirror and note how her jaw ticks at my sarcasm. “Tell me, Katarina, does it hurt to plan your dead sister’s husband’s second wedding?”
“My personal feelings are irrelevant to today’s success,” she replies while smoothing invisible wrinkles from the ivory silk.“This ceremony represents a political alliance that will reshape organized crime for decades.”
“Such a lovely way to describe kidnapping and forced marriage.” I adjust the bodice of the dress, which fits like it was designed specifically for me. It probably was, considering Andrei’s attention to detail. “I suppose ‘hostage bride’ didn’t sound as dignified on the wedding announcements.”
The dress itself is stunning—ivory silk that flows like liquid moonlight, with delicate beadwork that catches the afternoon sun streaming through the estate’s windows. The off-shoulder design showcases my collarbones while the fitted bodice emphasizes my waist before flowing into a full skirt that requires three people to manage. A family heirloom tiara that probably belonged to Andrei’s mother completes the ensemble, transforming me into the perfect image of a Russian princess.
“You look beautiful,” one of the stylists offers as she applies the final touches to my makeup. “Like a fairytale bride.”
“Thank you. Though this particular fairytale involves significantly more bloodshed than the Disney versions.” I study my reflection and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. The Maya Mastroni who killed three men in a restaurant not so long ago has been replaced by someone who looks like she belongs in a museum painting. “Is the groom ready to claim his prize?”
“Mr. Volkov is greeting guests in the garden,” Katarina informs me before checking her watch. “Representatives from fourteen families have already arrived, including your brother and Vincent Russo.”
