Page 35 of Sold to the Russian
His fingers splayed on her lower back, tracing circles on her spine. “You like it when I call you my wife.”
Maeve scoffed breathlessly, eyeing him like he’d lost his mind even though her stomach was flipping up and down. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
The words barely registered in Maeve’s brain. She blinked, her lips parting as she looked up at him. “What?”
His hand was already curling around her neck, tilting her head towards his. “Viktor’s watching us. We need to convince him.” And then he was guiding her mouth to his, sealing the space between them without an extra warning.
There was nothing slow about this man or his kisses. It was firm and possessive, hard and immediate. He barely let her gasp before swallowing it with his warm mouth. Maeve could taste the rich wine on his tongue at the same time that his other hand tightened around her waist. And her body was betraying her yet again, melting into him, into his kiss, into the way his mouth moved, the way his tongue wrapped around hers.
She was kissing him back harder than she should’ve. More honestly than she meant to.
Both of her hands were fisting his shirt with an aggression she hadn’t felt for anyone before, her heart racing a mile a minute in her chest, her breasts heavy, her tongue tingling. He did not kiss her gentle. He kissed her like he wanted anyone who saw to know she was his. His tongue licked into her mouth, his teeth pulled and nipped at her lips, and his hand on her waist slid to her ass, cupping firmly, roughly, hard enough that Maeve could feel liquid heat splattering between her thighs, slick with arousal.
Oh god, in that very second, she wanted him with an aching desperation, too dazed by the electric rush she felt to remember that she was supposed to hate the man. That she had a mission against him.
Her thighs squeezed together, her clit pulsing between her legs like it had a life of its own. And all he was doing waskissing her—no, it was more than that. He was devouring her mouth.
All too quickly, the music came to an end. The room blurred in and out of focus as he pulled away. His eyes were dark, desire etched on every line of his face, carved into his hand that was still on her ass, fingers digging into her flesh. His lips, like hers, were wet, red, swollen, and her fingers were still clutched in the front of his suit when a smattering of applause rose around the dance floor, snapping them both out of the spell.
Maeve blinked, lips tingling, dazed, having forgotten where they were. Her heart thudded painfully in her ribs as her hands fell from his shirt. She remembered the first time he kissed her, right in front of her father, hard and fast. Then she’d felt repulsed by it, by the feel of his tongue against hers, by the curve of his mouth.
And now that she’d just had his tongue down her throat a few seconds ago, she wanted more. More than his tongue in her mouth. She wanted it between her legs, licking the hot, slick wetness from her pussy.
Jesus fucking Christ.
But she could barely say the words, could barely think, before the unmistakable bang of a gunshot echoed across the hall.
Chapter 11 - Fedya
Fedya was no stranger to chaos.
The moment the shot rang out, his hands were around Maeve, securing her firmly behind him. The gunshot hadn’t come from the crowd, but near the bar, where Kostya stood with a snarl on his face and a smoking pistol in his hand, aimed at the chandelier above another man’s head. Crystal shards rained down onto the floor like hailstones, scattering like ice across the room. There were a few gasps here and there, but no significant screams. As much as the Nikolais knew how to put themselves together and manage chaos, situations like these weren’t unusual.
Maeve was deathly silent behind Fedya, but he could feel her anxiety, the tension rolling off her shoulders as her chest heaved behind him.
Fedya didn’t need to go closer to realize what had happened. His brother had been provoked, a common experience with the cousins, by family members who didn’t think they were up to the proper Nikolai standard. The brothers and cousins themselves were never really at odds with each other, but the extended members liked to pick up fights where there was none, cook up tension for their selfish entertainment.
“Kostya!” Ilya’s voice—Fedya’s oldest brother—boomed across the hall. His hand left his wife’s waist as he strode towards the scene playing out in front of everyone.
It had been a while since Fedya had seen any of his brothers lose control like this, especially in public. But Kostya was angry—so angry he barely turned at the sound of his brother’s voice. His eyes were locked on the other guest, a broad, dwarf of a man in an expensive three-piece suit. Entitlementwas written all over his sneer, all over his relaxed stance, as if Kostya hadn’t just attempted his murder. He was merely a long-time associate, privileged enough to be accepted into the family, judging by his accent and thinly veiled arrogance. Fedya was genuinely disgusted by the nerves he had.
“Back the fuck up, Julio,” Ilya warned, his voice low but traveling across the room. Fedya’s eyes moved to Mikhail, who stood next to his consigliere, watching the scene unfold.
“Is this how the cousins behave now?” Julio mocked, turning his attention to Mikhail. He was bold, alright. Extend your elbow to a man, and he wants your entire arm. “Firing shots over spilled drinks and bruised egos?” He had a good mind to take a cautious step back when Ilya stepped between them, but his shoulders were still raised high. “You’re not your fathers. You never will be.”
Irina and Viktor had flanked Kostya and Ilya from the side. Fedya would have, but his siblings would be fine without him. His primary purpose was to protect his wife, and he wouldn’t leave her side, no matter what.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Ilya said calmly, taking another step towards the angry guest. “You should leave before you embarrass yourself any further.”
But Julio didn’t budge. Instead, his eyes flicked past Fedya’s siblings, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone, and then they landed on Fedya, on Maeve, who was now standing by his side instead of hiding away.
“And now strangers walk freely into our family’s walls,” the man sneered. Fedya thought it’d be fun to watch him beg for death. “What’s next? Bringing in the press? Or is she just your newest conquest, Fedya?”
All eyes turned to them, and Maeve went rigid beside him.
And for the first time in Fedya’s life, his anger was directed solely at the Pakhan. Julio would not be standing with them, spewing heavy words like ‘our family’ if Mikhail hadn’t let him in. Fedya did admire Mikhai’s leadership and how he seemed to form eternal bonds with outsiders whose loyalties forever belonged to the Bratva, but assholes like Julio were the exception. Assholes who had no regard for his wife.
