Page 55 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

Every time her body is close to mine, I struggle to step away.

“You may do the honors while I start unpacking these groceries.”

She reaches over to the drawer next to her and pulls out the bottle opener.

I watch her while she fiddles with the wine bottle, her tongue just poking out the corner of her mouth and her brows knotted with concentration.

“Ha,” she declares when she gets the cork to pop up.

I chuckle.

She is so fucking cute.

She glances at me. “What’s funny?” she asks, clueless as to how beautiful she is.

“Do you want the Thai red curry spicy or spicy?”

“Jee, those are two really different choices. I think—I think I’ll go with spicy?”

“Excellent choice. I knew you were a girl after my own heart.”

I start pulling apart the bok choi and rinsing off the bright, fresh green leaves.

“So, did you even celebrate birthdays? I mean—with your uncle?”

“Yes, but they were always dinners or parties with his clients or friends. He would arrange these elaborate parties and I think the entire purpose of them was to show off how awesome he was at being an uncle—when in actual fact he didn’t even give a shit about whether I was having fun or not. I mean, I don’t think it is fair of me to complain. He took care of me. There was no one else who stepped up to do that. He raised me after my parents died. I should be grateful, not talking badly about him.”

She pulls her lips tight, I can see the guilt in her eyes.

Walking over to her, I place my finger beneath her chin, lifting her face up so that I can see those gorgeous brown eyes.

“Clara, just because he took you in doesn’t mean he had a right to treat you the way he did. You deserve the world. One day—" I stop talking. One day, I want to show her that.

“One day what?” she asks softly, her eyes piercing into me.

“One day, you will see that you deserve more than the bare minimum that he gave you.”

She smiles gently and nods against my hand. “One day,” she replies.

I step away from her and pick up my wine. My body is misbehaving again, and if I don’t get some distance between us, I am going to be fucking her on the kitchen counter. But I can’t—I can’t just assume that because we had sex once, she will allow that to happen again.

I want her to make the first move.

If she wants to.

I toss a little butter into a pan and throw the green onion and chives into it, flicking the pan to toss it all together.

“When did you learn to cook?” she asks, wiggling along the counter to get a better view of what I am up to.

“I don’t know, I have just always enjoyed it. I don’t like to follow recipes, though—too many rules. I like to make things up as I go along. Create my own versions of things.”

She grins, watching me closely. “And birthdays?”

“What about birthdays?”

“You have a lot of brothers, and your sister—what were birthdays like in your family?”

I laugh as a memory comes to me.

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