Page 12 of Owned By her Enemy
There’s no way I could stop him. All my limbs are heavy and tingly. He doesn’t demand anything of me. When he moves me up the bed, sweeps covers over me, and scoops me into his arms, I don’t question that either.
I’m totally naked, and still a virgin. But I’m in his bed, and he holds me to him, one hand in my hair, the other around my waist, and brushing soft kisses over my face. My cheeks, my lips, my closed eyes. It’s so sweet and lovely, his bare chest is rough hair and heated skin pressed to my breasts. Absolutely wrung out, I can’t think why I shouldn’t be enjoying this…
As I slip into unconsciousness, I remember.
For as long as we both shalllive.
I was supposed to kill him…
Maybe tomorrow?
5
NIKOLAI
I knew she’d like the beach house in Cornwall. She was unsure on the journey here, just a quick trip in the jet and then the convertible I keep at the airfield. When we arrive at the old stone cottage with a big light-filled extension at the south side, like a butterfly she gravitates to the French doors and throws them open, walking out onto the decking.
Her sea-green dress is as insubstantial as everything I’ve seen her wear. Silk and skin. She’s a creature made for comfort.
It’s a bright but cool late summer day, and a breeze tugs at Lotte’s hair as she stares out. The sky is blue, with knots of cloud chasing their leader to the east.
A seagull wheels and cries and the scent of salt is heavy in the air.
“Oh my god… I haven’t…”
She hasn’t been outside the tower in a long time, or London for even longer. She doesn’t need to finish that sentence for me to understand. I don’t tell her that I bought this house after seeing her use a background for her videos of a craggy clifftop with golden sand below.
She takes a deep, heaving breath, and darts around the deck and then down onto the lawn that slopes away to a low bank that hides a stone wall and an enticing gap.
“Does that lead to a beach?”
A glance behind is all the permission she asks for, and whatever she sees on my face—I can’t be sure what it is because there’s a tumult of emotions in my chest—reassures her, yes.
She hitches up her skirt and is gone, skipping down the steps. I bite my tongue.
I won’t order her to be careful on the sandy stone. She’s a grown woman. Wanting to be free comes with the risk of getting hurt, that’s part of the appeal. So I follow right on her heels, ready to snatch her up if she stumbles, sharing her joy in this place I bought for her.
There are dozens of steps, descending to a small private beach hemmed in by cliffs that have tough plants clinging to them, defiantly putting out ragged little pink flowers and waving in the breeze.
We reach the bottom, and the sound of happiness she makes as she toes off her shoes and her feet touch the sand has me rearranging my cock in my trousers. Again.
She greedily takes in the view—the white foam, the grey-blue waves, the line of shells and seaweed and flotsam where the high tide dragged in its treasure.
And me? I observe my girl. Just as parched for her company as she has been for the outside world. Something in my soul relaxes seeing her excited and happy in the sunshine in a way not even her singing does.
I stuff my hands in my pockets as—skirt clinging to her legs in the breeze—she runs into the sea. The shriek at the cold and her giggle at the waves soaking the hem of her dress make me smile. But not as much as when she casts a glance over her shoulder at me and jerks her head.
“You can’t go to the beach and not get in the water, Mr fancy Bratva boss Edmonton,” she calls.
“Ah, I knew she was trouble,” I say under my breath as I strip off my shoes and socks, then my suit jacket and tie, leaving them in a neat pile next to where she has haphazardly discarded hers.
I nominally roll up my trousers and I admit, the feel of sand beneath my feet is good. It’s been too long of working too hard, and I’m going to make changes. If I can’t take a day off to come to the beach, what exactly is the point of the blood I shed to be Edmonton’s kingpin and protect Lotte? How will she know she’s mine if I don’t spend time with her in the fresh air, where she needs to be?
“A bit deeper, you’ve barely got wet,” she teases when I stand, arms crossed, with the foamy water lapping at my toes.
“I’m not the one who gets wet, that’s you.”
She blushes, but she’s still smiling as she dances over, hands outstretched towards me, beckoning. My cock responds with a throb of need.
