Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance

A few days after Valentin barged back into my life, Merrick shows up at Stove and Smoke again. He wants me to come pose in his studio the following afternoon. “Just don’t wander into some rich psycho’s house and get naked for him again, okay? Unless that’s your thing.”

I refrain from telling him about Valentin’s insane offer.

The sick part is, I’ve been considering it. The more time that passes, the more I start to wonder if I’m making a mistake by turning him down. The mountain of debt is quite literally crushing, and it’s not only just destroying my mother.

She ensured it would destroy me too.

It all happened because my father got sick three years ago. The doctors were not optimistic, but Dad and Mama decided to do everything they could to find a way to save him. They’d always loved each other so much—I grew up thinking their relationship was perfect, but little did I know—and Mama was willing to go to great lengths to find a way to keep him around.

They tried everything.

Conventional medicine. Radiation therapy, chemo, and two different experimental drug trials.

None of it shrank his tumors. He only got worse.

That’s when they went for the nontraditional cures. Acupuncture, herbalists, diet therapy, even exercise regimens. Dad was taking a dozen or more pills of dubious quality and origin in the hopes that something might work.

At one point, Mama spent $10,000 to send Dad to a med bed therapy center—allegedly these mattresses that use alien technology to cure disease—which was a total and utter scam and did nothing to help.

But Mama spiraled. The med beds were just the start. If there was a grifter with a way to cure cancer, Mama was sending them money.

She took out credit cards in her name. She took more out in mine.

And in the end, Dad passed away, and a big part of Mama died with him.

That’s why Valentin’s offer is so tempting. The idea of being married to that total psychopath for two years is honestly terrifying, but it can’t be worse than the nightmare I’m living in right now.

Caught in a cycle of debt and desperation.

Living at home with the husk of my once-vibrant mother.

I like to tell myself that if we can claw our way out from under all this debt, maybe one day I can bring more of my mother back from wherever she disappeared.

Whatever hole inside of herself she crawled inside.

I show up at Merrick’s on time. This time, I come in clothes. He makes a few jokes about flashing strangers and maybe I picked the wrong door, which was expected. I laugh along with him, even though I’m thinking about Valentin’s massive hands on my flesh, his fingers dimpling my thighs as he spreads them⁠—

“All right, darling, I’ve got this for you,” Merrick says, giving me a silk robe. “Go ahead and get comfortable.”

I strip down and put on the robe. Merrick has me keep it on for a while as he sketches, then I take it off, a little at a time. “This is the slowest striptease ever,” I tell him, feeling weird and exposed in his attic art studio. I’m surrounded by his canvases, most of them in various states of half-finished.

“Good thing you’re not remotely my type,” he murmurs, frowning to himself. “You have all the wrong parts. It’s the way the silk drapes. I really love it. Very sensual. Has anyone ever told you that you have that look?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“It’s sexy, you know, but also classic. Like a Greek statue.”

“I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is.”

He laughs and waves his brush in the air. “Darling, I’m a painter, not a writer. Oh, yes, keep giving me that moody little pout, I love it.”

He works for a while longer, then suddenly checks the time and calls for a break. I pull my robe on as he disappears downstairs, promising to come back up in ten minutes.

I fish my phone out of my pants pocket and sit on a stool near the window. The light really is gorgeous up here. And I have to admit, Merrick is insanely talented. He can do ultra-realistic when he wants, but mostly he works in a strange, modern impressionist style he developed for himself, lots of daubs of paints and smooth lines, more a suggestion and a feeling than a perfect composition. He’s all the rage these days, and I understand why.

Posing for him was really stressful at first, especially after that bizarre mix-up with Valentin, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I’m getting more comfortable standing around naked in front of Merrick. In fact, I let my robe slip open slightly, the sun pouring in across my breasts. It’s warm and comfortable, and I lean back with a smile on my face and my legs crossed as I scroll through social media, feeling lazy and sleepy.

I gradually become aware of a presence.

“Are you ready? I swear, I’m going to fall asleep. I think I need some caffeine.”

“I can make you tea if you wish, malishka.”

I flinch sideways and drop my phone. It clatters away across the floor.

Standing near the stairs is Valentin.

He’s watching me with a carefully composed look. His eyes move down my lips to my exposed breasts, still naked in the sun, and down to the puff of black hair between my legs.

I hastily wrap myself. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap at him.

“Merrick told me you were coming by.”

“That asshole,” I hiss, leaping to my feet. I tug the silk robe closed as tight as I can, but I’m extremely aware of the way the fabric hugs my body.

It drapes, in Merrick’s words, and he’s right. It’s way too sensual.

I feel it now that Valentin’s staring at me like he wants to devour me.

If only I really was a statue—then Valentin could break his teeth and jaw on my rock skin.

“Don’t be angry with him. I bought two of his paintings as compensation. After all, a man must make a living.” He steps into the room and shrugs off his jacket. “You haven’t called.”

“Why would I?”

“I thought I made my intentions clear.” His voice is liquid gold and honey, and he doesn’t look away as he drapes his jacket over a chair.

“And I thought I made mine clear as well.” He tilts his head, an amused smile on his face as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “What the hell are you doing?” I say, not happy with how high-pitched my voice sounds.

“You don’t know me. I understand that. To you, I am some stranger. A dangerous man, perhaps. A man that aimed a gun at you. But you should know that I am only used to hearing the word no when it’s a part of a bedroom game.”

My mouth drops open. He removes his shirt and tosses it aside. A pulse hammers down into my core thinking about what kind of games this man plays in bed—apparently, the kind that involve the word no somehow, whatever that means—and my filthy brain decides to fill in all the livid, lurid details.

Which is easier now that he’s shirtless.

Tattoos cover his broad, muscular chest. A spider, a rose with a knife, a skull mid-scream dripping blood. His abs are perfectly chiseled, and that gorgeous, insanely sexy V disappears into his low-slung suit pants. His narrow hips are sharp, and I can picture myself biting them and running my tongue along his firm skin.

Then he begins to unbuckle his belt.

“What are you doing?” I nearly shriek, backing away. I bump into the window, gripping my silk robe tightly.

“You are too hung up on bodies,” he says dismissively as if this is completely normal. “I saw you naked. I watched you lounging naked again just now. I think if you see me naked as well, it will break some of this tension you feel.”

“Valentin, absolutely not, that’s literally insane.”

“Should I stop then?” His belt slides out. He stands there, pants half open, and I catch a glimpse of his black boxer briefs and his thick bulge.

“I don’t—I mean, this is weird, I can’t⁠—”

But I don’t say the words. I don’t tell him no, please stop, like I really should, because I’m wildly turned on and sickeningly curious.

What does a god look like naked?

He lets his pants fall away.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone remove their clothes with grace before. At least, when I do it, I’m stumbling around the room, falling into the bed, crashing into dressers, like I’m drunk or something.

Valentin slides out of his clothes. He’s in control of himself even as he watches me the whole time.

When he’s done, he stands before me in only his underwear.

My mouth fucking waters at the sight of him.

The man is obscenely cut. His muscles are built on top of more muscles. The man is big and he’s solid, with thick thighs and strong calves.

He could pin me down and I’d never be able to escape. Not from a man like that.

“You’re not naked,” I say, blinking rapidly. My eyes drift to his bulge—his thick, very large, very half-hard bulge, holy mother of crap—before snapping back up. Heat fills my cheeks.

He takes a few steps toward me. “Is that what you want? You want to see my cock? I’ll stand here and stroke myself for you, is that something you’d like?”

Oh, fuck me.

The image of him staring at me as he slides his massive hand along his even more massive shaft makes my heart skip in my chest.

Saliva pools in my mouth and arousal builds between my legs.

This can’t be happening. Seriously, this is so beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. Gorgeous, enormous, terrifying men aren’t supposed to appear out of nowhere when I’m at my most vulnerable and start taking off their clothes.

And they’re sure as hell not supposed to offer to jerk off for me.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and needy.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. My knees feel like they might give out.

His expression darkens. “There’s that word again. Do you like teasing me, malishka?”

“This isn’t about you. I mean, Merrick, he can come back⁠—”

“He’s gone until I call him. Come here. Don’t make me come to you.”

“Why? What’ll happen if you do?”

“I won’t be gentle.”

Oh my god. My heart’s racing into my throat. He’s looking at me like he’s about to burst, and I feel like I’m floating outside of myself. I should be running—screaming—jumping out a window⁠—

Instead, I take a step. I take another.

The dark beast watches. I expect him to seem satisfied. Instead, one of his big hands moves to grip his cock through his boxer briefs.

A whimper wrenches itself from my lips, and I loosen my grip on the robe.

He doesn’t move his hand. He isn’t stroking himself. He’s only holding it, forcing the fabric of his underwear tighter around his thick shaft, and I’m dying. I’m absolutely dying.

The man’s huge.

My gaze lingers on his thick thighs. I look at his flat, rippling stomach, and my mouth is hanging open by the time I stare at his lips.

This can’t be happening. But I take another step closer anyway.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, whispering and sinful. “Now I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me no one more time. And when you say it, what I really want you to mean is make me come. Do you understand? Say that word. Tell me no.”

The choice is mine. I can stop this if I want. Back away, refuse to speak, tell him off, throw a canvas, do basically anything other than what he’s asking.

But my heart’s racing so hard my head feels dizzy and I’ve never been this turned on before in my life.

All he wants is one simple word.

What a mistake. What a terrible, incredible mistake.

“Valentin,” I say, running my tongue down my front teeth. “No.”