She regards me coolly, but I can see the wheels in her head spinning. “I don’t trust you,” she says at last.
She crosses her legs, shielding her pussy from view. But the knowledge that it’s there, bald and brazen, is very tempting.
“The feeling is mutual.”
She narrows her eyes. “Oh, that’s rich. What have I done to merit distrust?”
“You spent eleven months with the enemy.”
“Is she an enemy, then?”
“Anyone who is not Solovev is an enemy.”
She considers that for a moment. “She’s also your mother-in-law.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“What happened to blood being thicker than water?”
“She isn’t blood.”
“Right,” she says with a clipped nod. “And as you so astutely reminded me earlier, neither am I.”
I can tell she wants to cover herself, but she’s resisting the urge. She’s backed herself into a corner with this one, and now that the waiters have been exiled from the cabin, the purpose of her mission is moot.
“Would you like to go put some clothes on now?” I ask.
Her eyes spark. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” she challenges.
“Not at all,” I reply. “I’m just thinking of you.”
“Ha! That’s a first.”
“Who else would I be thinking of?”
“Your blonde whore, probably,” she mutters. Her cheeks redden instantly like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
I raise my eyebrows. “Does Brit really bother you that much?”
“Has it ever crossed your mind that she might be a double agent?” she demands.
It’s a perfectly legitimate question. But only to an outsider. Only to someone who doesn’t know the history.
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m sure of Brit. I trust her implicitly. And that’s not something I say about many people.”
She lets that statement sink in. “Who is she to you?” she asks at last, bested by her own curiosity.
“Someone very important.”
I know that in her mind, I’m confirming the suspicion that’s been festering. But I don’t mind assumptions being made, not in this case. In fact, I’m pretty sure it can work in my favor.
Her face is a battleground. Emotions warring for control. Jealousy, anger, lust. I watch her for a long few breaths, curious which one will win out. The eventual victor makes me smirk.
“Don’t be jealous, little one,” I say softly.
“I’m not jealous of her.”
“That spark in your eye says otherwise.”
“You’re a fucking bastard,” she spits.
“You’re hardly the first woman to call me that.”
“Yeah?” she snaps. “Is that what Brit called you, too?”
“No,” I tell her. “But then, I’m not done with her yet.”
Her chest heaves, and it’s difficult not to stare at her breasts. But I also don’t mind being caught. She wants to prance around naked? Then I get to fucking stare.
“She’s probably not going to be too happy about this,” Willow says in a measured tone.
I shrug. “You are my wife.”
“Sure, yeah, whatever the hell that means.”
“In your mind, maybe nothing. In the Bratva? It means everything.”
I can sense the question on the tip of her tongue: But what does it mean to you?
But she stops short of asking. Instead, she runs her hand down her chest, between her breasts. She does it slowly, teasing me.
I stand up and walk around, enjoying how she tenses as I lean on the table’s edge in front of her.
“How about some wine?” I ask.
She eyes the bottle on the table. “Fine.”
I pop the cork with my teeth. But I don’t reach for a glass. Willow watches with curiosity as I bring the bottle towards her. But she doesn’t move. She’s trying to play at control, ease.
It works—until it doesn’t.
Suddenly, I turn the bottle over, allowing a stream of burgundy wine to flow onto her naked body.
“Jesus!” she gasps as she scrambles in her seat, trying to escape the waterfall of wine.
I put my hand on her shoulder and force her back into her chair. Pinned in place, the wine coats her chest and runs down her flat stomach before pooling between her legs.
“I didn’t think your pussy could get any sweeter,” I murmur, setting the bottle back on the table.