Page 191 of The Lazarov Bratva

“Oh, fuck.” Never mind, it’s definitely not over.

Kristof kisses over my mound and laps through my wet folds, sucking over my clit and diving his tongue inside me, all while stroking my thighs with his hands. His touch leaves a trail of fire across my skin, throbbing in time to my rampant heartbeat, and I writhe on the grass.

He’s leaning into the over-sensitive nature of my post-orgasm bliss, and a stronger, almost painful sensation builds around my clit. It’s like a want is being placed directly against my G-Spot and the lingering twitches of pleasure dancing around my body surge south to my core.

Kristof literally pulls a second orgasm out of me, leaving me screaming in ecstasy on the grass as my climax takes me—and the guards—by surprise. By the time I come down, my heart is pounding and grass clings to my sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” I whimper, cradling Kristof’s face as he leans over me with a grin. “I really like meetings.”

He chuckles. “Me too.”

Too lazy to move, we cuddle together on the grass for a while longer and stare up at the pretty blue sky. I count the fluffy clouds as they roll on by while my body twitches every so often from lingering pulses of pleasure.

We stay there until the tickle of the grass and the cooling of our bodies makes the cool breeze almost unbearable. As we get dressed, there’s still one thing on my mind. The one thing I’d been planning on bringing up during our meeting before things got heated.

“I overheard you last night, talking to Andrev about the final plans for the assault on my father’s drug deal.”

Kristof, in the middle of buttoning his shirt, pauses his hands and glances up. “I was going to tell you when everything was ready.”

“I know.” He’s taking my team request seriously, so I don’t doubt it. “I just… I have a request.”

“You can ask anything of me.” Finishing with his shirt, he slides his jeans back over his gorgeous legs while I slip back into my skirt and ruffle my hair to free the strands of grass.

“It’s about my father.”

Kristof pauses. He looks at me calmly, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes as he tries to work out exactly what I could be about to ask for.

“I know he’s done awful things,” I begin, taking Kristof’s hands and slowly resuming our walk. “Unforgivable things, and I have no desire for him to face anything other than what he deserves.”

That part is true. The pain he’s caused not just to me and Kristof, but to August and everyone else who’s suffered because he saw fit to focus only on the Family in the States. He cut off his roots for reasons unknown, and I no longer care. There’s too much pain lingering from him, and I know there’s no forgiveness.

Kristof walks beside me in silence, his thumb running repeatedly across my knuckles as he waits for me to continue.

“When it comes to it,” I say, and my voice has an unexpected tremble, “and you have to kill him, can you make it painless? I know that’s a big ask after everything he’s done and after what happened with Ivan and Nastja, but I…” I pause and take a deep breath, unsure why even talking about this has tears warming behind my eyes.

“He’s still my father, and I don’t want him to suffer.”

We stop near the square fountain surrounded by rose bushes, and in the distance, the willow guarding the graves of Ivan and Nastja catches my eye. I have no right to ask such a thing, yet there’s still a part of me that can’t bear for him to suffer. That little girl in me who yearns for parental love just wants everything to work out fine.

“You can ask that of me,” Kristof replies finally, and he swivels to face me. One warm hand cups the side of my face, and he strokes my cheek with a small smile. Then he leans in and kisses me slowly. I curl my hands into his shirt and hold on as the upset fogging my mind fades momentarily.

“But,” he says as the kiss breaks, “I’m not making any promises.”

26

KRISTOF

Leaving Andrev at the mansion to protect Alena was giving me an uncomfortable sensation of Deja Vu, broken only by August’s presence when we rolled up to the warehouse late at night a day later.

“You look stressed,” August comments as I climb out of my car.

Pulling my handgun out of my waistband, my eyes narrow slightly. “Nervous? No. Excited, maybe. It’s just…”

August’s large hand falls on my shoulder and squeezes tightly. “Talk to me, Son. I need your head in the right place before we walk in there.”

“We’re so close to the end of all this, but it almost doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “Months of fighting to survive, of watching people we love and care about suffer. One bullet between that fucker’s eyes and it’s finally all over.”

“The closer the end feels, the harder it is to accept,” August agrees.

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