Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)

SIX MONTHS LATER

“No,” I say, arms folded over my chest, eyes on Jean, who mimics my stance. “That’s not up for discussion.”

She scoffs, blowing an unruly lock of red hair off her flushed face. “You’re right. It’s not. She’s staying with Jess and Anatolij, and that’s not up for discussion.”

“Um, can I say some—”

“No!” Jean and I both snap at Layla.

“You’re staying home, Star.”

“She’s not!”

This might take a while. Jean’s adamant Layla should spend the night at her parent’s house, so I won’t see her all day tomorrow until Anatolij walks her down the aisle at four in the afternoon. I am, obviously, very much against this idiotic idea.

For six months since we came home from Moscow, we spent every night together. Even if I had to fly to Detroit, New York, Dallas, or anywhere, Layla came with me. I’m not letting that girl more than three miles out of my reach, and even when she’s at college or visiting with Jess and Anatolij, one of my men is always there, standing outside the building.

What’s most surprising is that not only does she not mind, but she was the one who asked for a bodyguard. The bounty, shooting, and near-death experience took a toll on her. She still wakes up drenched in sweat sometimes, plagued by nightmares. The scar on her chest reminds us daily how close we were to the end.

Both of us.

As much as I try not to replay the dreadful days I spent at the hospital in Moscow or the sound of the flat-lining heart monitor, I do. My mind was made the second Layla’s heart stopped beating, and my resolution hasn’t changed with time. I’ll follow her out of this fucking world if she checks out before me. I go where she goes. No exceptions.

“I think Jean’s right,” Layla says. Great, two against one. “It’s just one night, and they say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

“See? She’s staying with Anatolij and Jess.” Jean grips the small travel bag she already packed for Layla.

I’ve got a love-hate relationship with Jean. We get along well until we don’t, but I like the verbal scuffles just as much as I like when she’s easy-going. Now that she moved to Chicago two months ago, she became the mama-bear to all my men’s girls, fighting for their rights, which drives her man—Jackson, up the fucking wall.

He knew what he was getting into falling in love with Miss independent, so I don’t feel one bit sorry for him.

“Fine, one night,” I huff, checking my watch. “I’ll bring her over in two hours. For now, you might want to make yourself scarce.”

No way I’ll let her out of the house for a whole night before I get my fill.

The only person not to speak one word for the past twenty minutes rises from the couch. “We better go.” Jackson grabs Layla’s suitcase and Jean’s hand. “You’re not the bride, so why the hell are you staying with—” The door closes behind them.

Layla smiles, already on her way upstairs. She knows what I want. What I crave more and more every day, if that’s even possible. I catch up with her in the bedroom and pin her to the wall, one hand clasped around her throat, the other on her hip.

“I don’t like this idea.”

She rises on her toes to reach my lips, speaking against them. “I know how to make this more bearable.” She slowly pops all buttons on my shirt, her warm fingers ghosting down my chest. “Can I do as I please, or would you rather take over?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” I fucking devour her, slipping my tongue in the silk of her mouth, tasting and teasing. I move one hand to press my fingers against the swollen bud on the apex of her thighs, earning a soft moan in return. “Good girl.” I yank the zip on her dress, tugging so hard the fabric rips, then take off her bra and rip off her white panties. “On your knees for me.”

She sinks. Not a moment’s hesitation. She frees my stiff cock out of my boxer shorts, yanking my pants down. I step out of them, and Layla wraps her fingers around the base, confident, focused, and unmoving as she waits for further instructions.

“Open,” I rasp, watching her lips fall apart. “Good girl. Make me come, baby.”

She guides me into her hot mouth, and my eyes roll back into my head. She’s delicate today, in a teasing mood as she only works the head of my cock. I watch her plump lips pump in sync with her small hand, and it drives me fucking wild. I grip her hair into a tight fist as the orgasm builds, bubbling to the surface like a boiling pot of milk.

“Fuck…” I pause when she takes me deeper, her cheeks hollow, eyes closed. “You’re so good at this.” A low growl leaves my lips, and it spurs her on.

She pumps faster, and the hold I have on her hair tightens, my hips bucking when she claws at my thighs, pulling me closer and deeper until the head of my cock hits the back of her throat, and I’m fucking done for.

“Out,” I rasp, yanking my hips back, but she moves with me. “I’ll come in your mouth if you don’t let me go.”

She sucks harder, holding onto my ass to keep me in place. I pin her head to the wall, pumping in and out of her mouth a few times before a powerful orgasm shatters my entire body, and muscles cramp with my release. Black spots flicker before my eyes, and I hold onto the wall for support, watching Layla swallow. A tiny trickle of cum slides from the corner of her lips. She looks up at me, cheeks pink. She’s so fucking beautiful. I bend down, grip her under her arms and throw her on the bed.

“This is not how this was supposed to go down. I want to feel you come around my cock, Layla, so you’re in for torture before I’m ready to go again.” I cover her body with mine, twirling my tongue over her pebbled nipple.

It doesn’t take long for the first orgasm to run through her body. Two, maybe three minutes of my lips on her clit and my fingers pumping in and out before she gasps, biting on my lip when I try to drink her moans.

We get to three before I’m ready, and the first deep, urgent thrust scoots Layla up the bed. I rest my weight on one elbow while the other hand holds onto her neck.

“Oh God,” she breathes, the words like a breathless staccato when my thrusts gain pace and orgasm number four looms nearby.

I learned exactly where to push and probe to have Layla coming time and time again, and I sure use that skill to my advantage tonight. If I can get her exhausted beyond reason, she’ll fall asleep and stay home tonight.

“It’s too much, Dante, please, enough, I—”

“It’s not too much. Don’t hold back, Star. Let go.”

Seven. Seven orgasms within two hours. Mission accomplished. She’s so exhausted and mellow that her eyes fall shut on their own accord when I get out of bed.

“I know what you’re doing,” she mutters, cuddling one pillow to her chest. “Jean will be here within the hour if you don’t take me to Anatolij’s.”

“Sleep, Star. I’ll deal with Jean.”

She smiles, eyes closed, and by the time I emerge from the bathroom with a washcloth, she’s passed out.

Layla

The smell of freshly brewed coffee pulls me out of a peaceful, dreamless sleep—the kind I like best. I wash up and throw on a robe, heading downstairs.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Jess chirps, rushing around the kitchen, setting cups of coffee in front of Jean and Anatolij.

Dante lost the fight with Jean last night, or rather, I forfeited when she screamed her head-off downstairs and woke me up less than half an hour after I nodded off.

“Good morning.”

“Sleep well?” Jean hides a grin behind her cup.

“I would’ve slept better in my own bed.”

She pulls a face, sticking out her tongue at me, then immediately straightens her spine when Anatolij walks into the kitchen. He bought this house a few days after I was released from the hospital in Moscow so he would have somewhere to stay when he visits. Still, not even three months later, he re-arranged his business in Moscow and moved to Chicago permanently when he and Jess got back together. I’m happy for them, especially since my mother is changing back into the woman Anatolij described a few months ago, passionate and ambitious, no longer focused solely on her looks. It’s all thanks to Anatolij, who, unlike Frank, nurtures Jess’s qualities instead of fueling her flaws.

I’ve been spending a lot of time with both of my parents lately, working through my issues with Jess and getting to know Anatolij better. I’m not ready to call him Dad, and I might never be, but the bond we’ve formed over six months is more than I could’ve hoped for.

With a smile that might not leave my face for one second today, I take a cup of coffee from Jess.

“What are you grinning at?” Jean huffs.

I shrug, smiling wider. “Seven hours from now, I’ll be Mrs. Carrow.”

“If it was anyone else you wanted to marry so young, I’d strongly object,” Jess says, resting her back against the cabinets. “But I won’t because Dante is…”

“The right guy for me?” I laugh, expecting a cliché to come out of her no-longer-pink-and-glossy mouth

“I was going to say scary, but right works too. Jokes aside, this isn’t the life I want for you, but Dante is the kind of a man I hoped you’d find. Take away his job, and he’s all a mother wants for her daughter.”

“What’s so amazing about the guy?” Jean scoffs, shaking her head. “For the lack of more suitable candidates, I guess he’ll have to do for now.”

She’d fall ill if she admitted that Dante’s her favorite person in the world. Most of the time, they bicker and argue, but they’ve become good friends during the past few months of her excessive visits to Chicago while she and Jackson couldn’t stay apart for longer than a week at a time.

That might be why he proposed two months ago and whisked her out of Ivanhoe to live with him. They’re not in a rush to get married, but the engagement ring on her finger meant Aunt Amanda couldn’t oppose. Not that she’s happy her daughter is dating a criminal.

The gravely interesting conversation is interrupted by Mr. Carrow himself when my phone vibrates on the counter. “Good morning,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. “Have you missed me already?”

“You have no idea,” he breaths down the line, sending a pleasant, tingling sensation down my spine. “Did you sleep well?”

A doorbell rings and Jess frowns, looking over my shoulder, down the hallway. “Are we expecting someone?”

“Yes, we are,” Jean smiles. “I’ll get it.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re outside the house,” I tell Dante, watching Jean rush past me to yank the door open.

“No, it’s not me. Who is it?”

“It’s Tyler and Rick.” I smile at the boys, then frown when Jean snatches the phone out of my hand.

“Hey, lover boy. I hope you had your fix because you won’t talk to her again for six hours.” She pauses, listening to Dante as she chews on her lip. “That shit’s getting old. Put your big-boy pants on.” Another pause, accompanied by a cheeky smile. “I’ll take care of it. Bye.”

“Take care of what?”

I’m not allowed in on the secret, although judging by what happens during the next hours, I’d say Dante asked her to make today a stress-free day for me.

Too bad she almost turns gray, panicking that things aren’t ready on time. She rushes around the house, shouting at the make–up artist and the hairdresser every five minutes, taking her role as my maid of honor a touch too seriously.

“We’ve only got an hour left, and you’re not even dressed yet!” she cries, prodding my chest with her finger.

“Stop panicking. God, you’d think you’re the bride. Better go and get me more coffee.”

“How are you so calm! What if you’re late for your own wedding?!”

I smile, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m pretty sure Dante will wait.”