Page 33 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“I can handle all parts of you.” There’s heat in her voice, and she glances at my crotch before looking at me again with her own air of challenge. “The real question is if you can handle me.”
She’s doing it again, refusing to back down and pushing boundaries even when wisdom would suggest retreat. It should irritate me. Instead, it makes me want to pull her against me and kiss her until neither of us can think straight. “Careful, Zita.” My voice comes out harshly. “We have work to do, and if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to get any of it done.”
“Maybe work can wait.” She reaches up to straighten my tie, brushing her fingers against my chest in a touch that’s ostensibly innocent but loaded with intent. “Maybe we have more important things to figure out first.”
“Such as?”
“Such as this.” She leans down to kiss me almost on the mouth. “Or this.” This time, her lips brush against mine before she pulls away.
“Viktor is waiting for me,” I say, though I make no move to push her away.
“Viktor can wait fifteen more minutes.” She moves closer, eliminating the last few inches between us. “Can’t he?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with invitation and challenge in equal measure as she straddles my lap. I should say no and focus on business. Instead, I lower my head and capture her mouth with mine.
This kiss is slow and deliberate, more of a conscious choice than an instinctive reaction. She tastes like coffee, and when she makes a soft sound against my lips, my chest aches withemotions that are as intense as the physical reaction that makes my cock hard.
When we break apart, she’s breathing hard, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright. “Fifteen minutes,” she says against my mouth. “That’s all I need, but I’ll let you get back to Viktor if you promise to give me much more time tonight.”
I nod, mouth too dry to speak for a moment as I imagine how tonight will unfold. “I promise.” The words are raspy, which makes her smile.
She looks pleased by how she’s made me respond. She moves toward the door, then pauses to look back at me. “Next time you have a meeting about territorial disputes or shipping rights or whatever crisis requires your attention, I want to be there.”
“Zita—”
“As your partner,” she continues, cutting off my objection. “As someone who might have insights you haven’t considered, and as your wife, who has every right to understand the business that could get her killed.”
The logic is sound, even if the idea of having her in those meetings makes my protective instincts howl in protest. She does have the right to understand the threats we’re facing, and if I’m being honest, her perspective in the earlier meeting wasn’t entirely without merit.
I’ve already agreed to keep her informed, so what’s another step toward disaster by letting her be included, not just told about it all later? “All right, but you follow my lead. If I tell you to leave, you leave. If I tell you to stay quiet, you stay quiet. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.” She pauses with her hand on the door handle. “Can you trust me enough to actually mean it?”
The question cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Trust doesn’t come easily to men in my position. It’s a luxury that can get you killed if extended to the wrong person, but looking at Zita, seeing the determination in her posture and the intelligence in her eyes, I realize I’m already farther down that road than I thought. “I’m learning to,” I say honestly. “Ask me again in a month.”
“I will.” She smiles. “Try not to miss me too much while you’re dealing with Viktor.”
Then she’s gone, leaving only the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of her lips on mine. I stare at the closed door for a long moment, trying to process what just happened between us.
This is dangerous territory I’m entering with her. My father’s warnings echo in my mind, reminders that emotional attachments have been the downfall of more than one powerful man, but as I wait for Viktor to arrive, I think not about the risks of caring for Zita, but about the possibilities of having a partner who thinks for herself, refuses to be intimidated, and might actually be strong enough to stand beside me in this world instead of being crushed by it.
I think my father was wrong about love being a weakness. Maybe the right woman can be the greatest strength a man like me could have.
Or maybe she’ll be the death of me. Either way, it’s too late to turn back now.
13
Zita
The Russian lesson ends with a soft chime in my earbuds, and I pull them out as I walk through the mansion’s quieter wing. I’ve been working through basic conversational phrases for the past hour, trying to master the pronunciation of words that feel foreign on my tongue. If I’m going to be Tigran’s true partner in this business, I need to understand when his men speak in their native language around me.
The hallway here is dimmer than the main areas of the house, lined with smaller sitting rooms that I assumed were rarely used. One of them has its door slightly ajar, and warm light spills into the corridor. I wouldn’t have paid attention except I hear Tigran’s voice carrying through the opening, speaking in English rather than Russian.
I pause, not intending to eavesdrop but curious about why he’s meeting here instead of his usual office when he promised to include me in future meetings. My steps slow as I recognize Viktor’s gravelly tone responding to something Tigran said.
“She’s not like the other wives, boss.” Viktor’s voice carries concern that makes me freeze completely. “The men are talking.”
“What are they saying?” Tigran’s response is calm and measured.
