Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (5 page)

O
h my God
, Grayson is kissing me.

For one second, I'm full of insecurities: the man of my dreams is kissing me and my place is a mess, my bedroom is a mess, I haven't exactly been dieting, and it's been
many
hours since I brushed my teeth.

Also:
is he
still the man of my dreams?! Or is he a
killer
?

Do I care?

I should care.

I'll start caring in a second.

His lips are so full and surprisingly soft. He's firm but not demanding. He gently presses his lips to mine, holding me in place with the lightest of caresses. He slowly pulls back, just a hair's width, then barely bites my bottom lip. Then he kisses me again, running the tip of his tongue lightly across the place he'd just bitten.

Then he pulls away, still holding my face firmly but somehow delicately—cradling me in his palms like I'm precious, like I could break, like I matter.

All I can see are his gray eyes, that strong jaw, the scar, his full lips that tasted like mint—

"Kat," he murmurs. It hits me that he used to sometimes called me "Kat" when we were little, but mostly Kate or Katie. All day he's called me Kat, Katya…or
babes
.

I shouldn't like that nickname so much. My body shouldn't betray me and shiver with excitement just because he calls me a generic, stupid, ridiculous nickname that implies some sort of intimacy—

"Babes," he says.

Dammit. My body, the traitor, does it again.

I shiver in his arms. He feels it, and if I thought his eyes were intense before, well holy hot damn. When I quiver in his arms, in his hands, it's suddenly like staring into molten steel.

"Babes, get outta your head."

"What?" I say and then he kisses me again.

This time it starts soft but—how can I describe it? How can something be soft but rough at the same time? Slow but demanding. Insistent. Gentle but with a wave of violent longing just underneath the surface?

It hits me that maybe I'm not just describing Gray.

Is this how I feel? Is this what's going on inside of me?

His lips press onto mine, and I can't help but open to him. I part my lips, just slightly—but it's enough. He slides his tongue inside me, just a bit, just a taste.

I moan. I want more.

When I make that sound, he growls back. God, we've barely touched and I feel like an animal already. We skipped right over words into growls, sighs, heavy breathing. Maybe this is what he meant by getting out of my head. Because I'm definitely not thinking right now. I'm just feeling, existing. He's warm and big and cradling me. My body is suddenly
alive
. I kiss him back, fiercely; we're at turns sweet and slow, then violent and hard. Like I can't press enough into him; like he can't touch enough of me.

I could kiss him forever.

He's so tall, so broad. I have to lean back like I'm looking up at the sky, just to meet his lips. He moves and one large hand cradles the back of my head, supporting me…and drawing me closer. His other arm wraps around my middle, and I realize he's angling me closer, pulling me into him, pushing deeper into me.

And he's hard. Oh my God, he's hard
everywhere
. I can feel his hard-on pushing into my stomach, but instead of recoiling, I like it. I move closer. It's huge and terrifying and also awe-inspiring. Did I cause this? Does he get this way for everyone, or just for me?

What would he say if he knew I'd never really dated? That I'm more familiar with my vibrator than any man?

It doesn't matter. I'll never tell him. One month, two tops, and I'm out of here.
I'll
be the ghost now, just like Gray was for the past seven years…

Then he lifts me up in his arms and I wrap my legs around his waist and my words, my thoughts, are gone like smoke. I grasp his shoulders, his arms. The silk of his suit slides under my fingers, but I make a fist and hang on. He must like that, because he growls again, and the sound resonates in my chest, my head, between my legs.

There are people talking outside, somewhere down on the street. Laughter, shouting, a car horn blaring. But none of it exists, not here.

In fact, my shitty apartment is disappearing.

All I can feel is my body moving, writhing, contained in his arms. Trapped, and loving it. His tongue invades my mouth. His large, capable hands are cupping my ass, moving me closer, lifting me up and down so I ride the behemoth I feel between my legs. I press against it, suddenly wanting heat and pressure and friction between my legs. I moan into his mouth when I grind down on his ridiculously hard cock. But it feels so good. I move my hips faster, I bite him like he bit me—

Gray pulls back suddenly, his chest heaving, his molten eyes staring at me.

He looks shocked.

Aroused.

There's color on his cheeks, and I realize his dark blonde hair looks like he's just been wrestling with a woman between the sheets…

And that woman is
me
.

And then it hits me what we're doing. We're one inch away from my bed and I want him to throw me down on it. I want—if I'm honest with myself—I want everything. I want him to pull my jeans off, part my legs, bury himself inside me like I've imagined it over the years.

But what he doesn't know is: imagining is about as far I've gotten in life. I've kissed men, dated, but never let anyone in.

Because I've always wanted him. But what happens if I let him in? It won't just be sex. I'm already half in love with him as it is—or, half in love with a ghost.

I have no idea who this man is. I have no idea what he does, or why he married me.

All I know is he was forced into it and it's just a sham. I can't let myself lose control, because if we become intimate, if we act like husband and wife, once this ends I'll never get over it.

"Stop," I gasp. I put my hand over my wildly beating heart.

"Why?" Gray growls. He hoists me up higher, but I put my hand up. His entire body stills when I do. And I can't deny the small thrill of power in that: this intense, dangerous, gorgeous and
giant
man who could move mountains—he stills instantaneously, just because I held up my hand.

I shouldn't like that, should I?

But I love it.

I struggle for a moment and he releases me, sliding me slowly down his body. I bite back a moan, because he feels so good. He grins, the cocky bastard. He knows what he's doing, tempting me, rubbing up on me.

I need to nip the temptation in the bud. Because if it grows any bigger, I'll be trapped. Maybe forever this time.

"Gray, I can't—I can't do this. This isn't real. I know you were forced into marrying me and I just can't." I shake my head and turn away, pick up the damn plastic bag. I can't tell him I loved him. Might still love him.

I can't tell him how it's not just sex.

I can't tell him I've never
had
sex.

And I definitely can't tell him that soon, I'll be long gone.

"It's real to me," Gray says.

I turn around, my eyes wide.

"What?" He can't be saying that he thinks this marriage is legitimate? That he
wants
to be married?

Gray stands up. He doesn't look me in the eye when he says, "I take my vows seriously. I said I'd protect you. Your piece-of-shit father couldn't. I can."

I nod, and try not to let my face crumble. Of course. This wasn't love. This was charity.

Gray had always said he would try and protect me, but who wouldn't say that if you and your friend grew up as and an adult's own, personal punching bag?

I didn't know if the man before me felt guilt. But he'd told me he was a man of his word. Maybe he was just trying to fulfill what he thought of as an old obligation.

Yeah, we'd made out.

Okay, we'd gotten married.

But just because we'd stood in front of an altar and said a few words, it didn't really make this marriage real.

Gray says he's here to protect me. But, more than ever, now I'll have to protect my heart.

"What the fuck, babes? You look like your pet kitten just died." He glances around the room, suspicious. "Not that we could find it…"

I snort. I forgot what a joy easy-going Gray was. "Did you just make a dead-kitten joke?"

He shakes his head, deadpan. "
Nyet
. Dead kittens are very serious business."

I laugh. I can't help it. And then he cracks a smile and laughs, too.

And I realize that
laughing
, friendly Gray is just as dangerous as big, bad-ass, tattooed Gray. Maybe even more dangerous, as far as my heart is concerned.

He paces impatiently, his big body filling my bedroom. "Kat, I'd love to stay here all night, looking for your kitty."

"I don't actually have a cat, Gray."

"I know." Gray grins, his eyes beautiful steel. "But I need to get you safe to my house. And then I've got a meeting later. Just leave this shit and I'll buy you a new wardrobe tomorrow."

I stiffen. A meeting later? My pussy? What's he saying?

And, he hates my clothes?

I mean, I kind of do, too. They're cheap and threadbare, but they get the job done.

I feel like my emotions have whiplash. We were just making out, and now he's ordering me around and telling me hates all my stuff?

I take a deep breath. I know how to deal with bossy, arrogant bastards. I was raised with one. You simply put your head down, put your mental walls up, and get through the next 24 hours.

"I don't need new clothes," I say, blindly stuffing a pile into one of my bags "And I'm not staying more than a couple days at your place."

Gray opens his mouth to speak—and he looks
pissed
—but a hip-hop song is suddenly blaring from somewhere in the room. Gray stands up, digging his phone out of his back pocket.

Gray scowls at me, or my clothes, or my entire apartment—I'm not sure. "I gotta take this," he says before stalking out of the room, muttering in Russian to whoever was on the other end of the line.

Right before he leaves, though, he leans back in the doorway and points at my floor: "Pack whatever you want, but you aren't coming back here. And that's final."

He gives my floor, also known as my closet, one more pissed-off look. "And if you don't love it, leave it. I'm taking you shopping tomorrow. My wife deserves the best clothing money can buy."

His wife?

That's final?!

What the hell have I said "I do" to?

W
hile Gray's
on the phone, I hurriedly grabbed my toothbrush and razor, and a few of my favorite jeans and t-shirts. I've never really been a dress girl, because I've never really had an occasion to wear a dress. And though I've been working since grade school at my family's bar, it's not like I’d been earning millions of dollars.

And now I know the bar hadn't actually been making any money. Or if it had, my dad had been snorting all our profits up his nose or losing it at the tracks.

He'd given me a small paycheck every week, but I made most of my money in tips. And most of that went to rent, food, and me trying to save up for school.

I was proud of everything I'd accomplished, but I was also seeing my apartment through Gray's eyes. He'd looked horrified. It shouldn't matter to me whether he liked my clothing, my bedroom, or any of my life choices. But the way he'd looked so angry and disgusted by everything—it was just one more reason to keep my distance from this man.

I flashed to me, grinding wantonly against his hard-on.

Yes. I
definitely
needed to keep my distance.

I couldn't imagine he was serious about buying me a new wardrobe, though maybe it was some status thing. Maybe he didn't want to be seen with me if I looked like I normally did.

I tried not to let
that
idea hurt, too.

But really, was there anything here I desperately wanted?

After stuffing three plastic bags full of clothing, I realized I didn't even have that much stuff to begin with. Was just strewn all over the floor. But normally the last thing I wanted to do after working till two or three in the morning was to come home and tidy up.

I had the framed picture of Gray and me stuffed in the bottom of one of the bags. I was just grabbing my toothbrush and razor when Gray stuck his head in the bathroom.

"You ready, babes?"

I scowled at him in the mirror. "Don't call me that."

He grinned, reached around me, and easily hefted all three bags in the air. "Okay, sweetheart, whatever you want."

"You don't have to pretend when we're not in public," I said. Then, before he could respond, I walked out of my front door. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, however, I had the strangest feeling. Like I'd never come home—not to this home—again.

* * *

B
ack in Gray's car
, I closed my eyes and leaned the seat back. I didn't want to talk to him or look at him.

The gentle sway of the luxury vehicle and the gentle beat of whatever music he was listening to makes me zone out for a minute. When I open my eyes, I involuntarily gasp.

I thought we were heading to O'Malley's, my family's bar. Correction: Gray and Viktor Solonik's bar. My place of employment, at least.

But we weren't in Brooklyn anymore. We were on the Williamsburg Bridge, and across the deep-blue water, the New York City skyline spread out before me. The buildings' outlines rose and fell, like glittery, man-made mountains.

"Where are we going? I thought we were going to work? Don't you have—business tonight?" I almost say
I thought you were expecting a delivery
, but it's probably a good idea not to get too involved with Gray's business. At least, not any more involved than I already am.

"
I
have business at O'Malley's.
You
are going home."

I open my mouth to explain that we just left my house, but Gray gives me a look and I give up. It's not worth fighting him on this.
Just bide my time and I'll be out of here soon…

Besides, his place can't be worse than mine. Right?

And, unless he lives in a cabin in upstate New York, all I have to do is wait until he leaves for work, and then I can get out, get on the subway, and take care of my damn self.

It's funny, but even though I live so close to Manhattan, I rarely ever come into the City. As a result, as Gray exits off the bridge and drives through the winding streets, I realize that we're going north and then west, but I have no idea where exactly we are. At first, the buildings are tall, cold monoliths, interspersed with a few older, beautiful arches and tower-topped buildings. Then I know we're heading slightly north, past the Financial District…

As if he reads my mind, Gray glances over and says, "I live in Hell's Kitchen."

I snort. "Of course you do."

Gray gives me a grim grin, then turns back to the road. In the darkening evening, all I can see are the beautiful ridges in his face: his cheekbones, highlighted when we go under streetlights. His strong jaw, his full lips that only an hour ago were all over me—

Don't go there, Kat
, I tell myself.

But it's hard not to.

Just like he was oh-so-hard
—

Oh my God. I mentally slap my libido. "Get a grip," I whisper.

"What?" Gray says.

"Nothing," I say.

Gray flicks the turn signal on, and pulls smoothly into the underground parking garage of a large, high-rise building. All of its windows face west, and reflect the blue night sky, giving the appearance of the building melting into the blue of the heavens above.

It's not gritty. It's not terrifying. It doesn't look anything like the places my dad used to drag me to as a kid, when we took the subway in to Hell's Kitchen.

"Wow, it's so…modern," I say.

"What did you expect? That I live in a tenement welding, where we fight each other with ax handles?" At my confused look he says, "People used to fight a lot here. You can take a walking history tour."

He drives smoothly down and into a pristine parking garage, well-lit and obviously well-moneyed. He's got a reserved spot, and he again walks around and helps me out of the SUV, lowering me gently to the ground.

"You've taken a walking tour of Hells Kitchen? The big, bad
mafia
man likes historic walking tours?"

Gray grins as he ushers me into an elevator off the parking garage. "I didn't say
I
like walking tours. I said
you
could take one." He pauses and punches one of the top floors. Number twenty-eight. As we wait for the elevator, he shrugs and says quietly, "I like the History Channel."

I don't think my eyes could any bigger. I'm trying to imagine Gray coming home from a hard day's work of beating the shit out of people—or whatever he does for a living—then sitting down on his sofa and watching The History Channel.

I'm still quiet when we step into the elevator, and in the silence stretches as we move upward. I shift and glance at Gray. He checks the time on his phone and looks down at me, then up at the ceiling.

Well, living together will be a piece of cake. Totally normal. Totally relaxing.

Geesh. You could cut the tension with a knife.

"I like cooking shows," I finally say.

Gray raises his eyebrows. "You always fed me, when we were younger."

I don't know what else to say. I can't reconcile what we were with what we are.

Then the doors open onto a luxurious hallway with white walls and expensive-looking artwork. Gray steps outside, gestures to the left, and says, "Welcome home."