Page 34 of Baby for the Bratva

As I open the door, my heart jumps into my throat, and I feel like someone has sucked the air out of my lungs. She’s so beautiful that it hurts to look at her. Something deep within me aches at the thought of sharing a bed with her, but not because I’m so eager to claim her.

It’s because once I have her, I’m terrified of what’s going to happen to me when I lose her.

It’s not if. It’s never if.

I know it’s when, and when is only a few weeks from now. I’m usually good at pushing past the need for instant gratification for better long-term prospects, but I’ve been getting more impulsive lately. I almost want Stella to break my heart and teach me a lesson before I take things too far.

“You look amazing,” I say to her, and she turns red instantly.

A smile creeps onto her face, and it’s like we’ve just met all over again. “Thank you,” she mutters, looking down at her feet.

She’s wearing red high heels and her toenails are painted white. The combination screams at me to bend her over the bed the moment we’re in the room together and fuck her hard. Doing so would be a little too impulsive, though, and I need to slow down.

There’s nothing worse than jumping the gun and getting shot in the chest in return. She’s shy, and if I rush, she’s going to get overwhelmed and leave.

I grit my teeth, opening the door and letting her in. I check the hallway instinctively before closing the door. Chekhov is nowhere to be found, and that’s a good thing. I told him to get lost for the evening, and he’s finally starting to listen.

As I close the door and turn to face Stella, my mind goes blank. I had a million and one things I planned to do tonight, and I can’t think of a single one. She’s going to think I invited her here just to have sex, which isn’t the case.

I want more than that from her, even though I should be cutting her off after a one-night stand. I’m playing with fire by considering anything different, but seeing her like this has my mind jumping so far into the future that it scares me.

I snap out of my mental cycle of panic, moving toward her until I remember what I had planned. There’s a cold metal bucket on the bed with a bottle of champagne buried in ice. Two crystal flute glasses sit on the bedside table.

“Care for a drink?” I ask as I remove the frosty bottle from the bucket. Beads of water roll off the glass onto my feet.

Stella nods, holding her fingers up to show how much she wants. “Just a little.”

“Double that and we have a deal,” I say, popping the cork.

She jumps at the sound. “Okay, but you’re not getting me drunk tonight.”

I smile as I pour the champagne into the flutes. There’s something to be said for drunk sex, but if I’m taking Stella tonight, I want to be as close to sober as possible. I don’t want to miss a single sensation, not the lightest touch or the softest word whispered into my ear.

The booze is just to loosen us both up. The nerves in this room are worse than a high school dance.

I hand Stella a glass and take one for myself, sitting on the edge of the bed. I pat the mattress beside me, and she shuffles over, sitting down carefully. Her dress rides up so high that it’s almost impossible for me to keep my hand off her thigh.

Not yet. We have the whole night ahead of us.

I raise my glass. “Cheers to new beginnings.”

A smile stretches across her face, and she raises her glass high. “I’ll drink to that.”

With a luxurious ring, our glasses bounce off each other, and we drink our champagne. I only take a sip, but when I look over at Stella’s glass, I see that it’s empty already.

“Let me top you off,” I say, going for the bottle.

Stella laughs and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I can’t decide if you’re spoiling me or turning me into an alcoholic.”

I pour her glass and top mine off with it. “Welcome to Russia.”

“It’s not quite cold enough,” she says, taking a smaller sip of her drink this time.

“I could make it colder, but then I’d never get you out of that dress.”

“Who said you ever were?” she asks. There’s that sass again. She has more of that than I have patience at times.

I stand up from the bed, pretending like I’m going to the thermostat. “I could turn it down,” I say, fishing for a reaction.

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