Page 65 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
I’m not sure how true that is. I never had him in my life until a couple weeks ago, but I recognized the distinct ache between my legs that he has rubbed away.
He might’ve replaced it with an Andrej-shaped ache in my chest, one that’s just waiting to turn into the crushing despair of emptiness when this is all over and we have to return to normality. But I knew what I was missing from all the romance novels I liked to read. I just never acknowledged how much it hurt before.
“So, there isn’t a Christmas tree in the house?” I ask.
He sets two plates on the counter and sits opposite me, digging into his food with a silver fork which is probably, you know, real silver. I’ve noticed this about him since we’ve been holed up in Narnia. He eats when he wants to eat without conforming to any kind of regular routine. If he’s thirsty, he drinks. When he’s tired, he closes his eyes and sleeps, although I swear he has the hearing ability of a hyper-sensitive dog and sleeps with one eye open.
“There are plenty outside.”
I glance at the window, at the snowflakes that haven’t abated since we arrived. Or at least since I woke up from my drug-induced stupor.
“Let me guess, you have your own Christmas tree farm.”
He laughs, and the sound makes my heart flap about like a chicken who spotted a gigantic pile of buttery sweetcorn on the ground.
“Not exactly.” He gestures to my plate with his fork. “Eat.”
And I do. Not because he’s the dominant Bratva sex god and I’ve instinctively adopted the submissive role within this relationship. But because something about the way he calls me his ‘good girl’ literally has my pussy purring like a cat and rolling over for belly rubs in an instant.
“Can we bring one inside?”
We haven’t spoken about when it will be safe to return to Chicago. When I woke up and discovered that I was in Russia, I’d have done anything to escape and get back home. But now… It feels as if I was always meant to be here. With Andrej. In the middle of winter. Snowed in, warm and cozy, the rest of the world spinning on its axis while ours stands still.
Maybe this was the universe’s way of throwing us together. I don’t know.
But I do know that it’s December, and regardless of where we are, if I’m living out some weird Bratva Hallmark movie, I’m not doing it without a Christmas tree. And fairy lights.
“You want me to chop down a fir tree?”
My pussy rears her pretty head at this suggestion. “You have an ax?”
And Andrej grins at me as if he knows exactly where my thoughts are going with this. Of course he does. The guy doesn’t miss a thing.
“I can find one, Cartier. If that’s what you want.”
Now I have an image of him in an open flannel shirt, chopping up wood in the middle of a forest likeLady Chatterley’s Lover. I lick my lips.
“Yes, you can come and watch.” He flashes me a lopsided smile. “I might even let you stroke the ax if you’re a good girl.”
I shovel scrambled eggs into my mouth and swallow without chewing.
Our faces arerosy from the cold by the time we haul the ten-foot-tall tree inside and through to Andrej’s childhood den at the back of the house. This is where we spend most of our time when we’re not in the library, or the bedroom, or any of the other rooms where Andrej has pulled me inside so that he can fuck me on the rug in front of a roaring fire.
His men drag a huge terracotta pot into the room from outside, and we wedge the tree between piles of snowy-wet rocks to prevent it from drying out.
I stand back and check that it’s straight.
Andrej joins me, his arms snaking around my waist from behind. He nibbles my ear. “I never knew it was such serious business choosing a tree for the holidays.”
“It’s the most important part.” I twist my face around so that our lips are almost touching.
I feel sad that I’m not planning the holiday celebrations with Mika and Gianna like we’ve done for the past few years. Butanother part of me, the part that has already accepted that we’re not leaving Russia anytime soon, wants to make our time here special for Andrej. I want him to experience my version of the holidays.
“Can you take me somewhere to buy decorations?”
“Cartier…” He wrinkles his nose and squeezes me tightly. It means that he’s about to let me down. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
I swivel around in his arms, our hips touching, the bulge in his pants pushing against my abdomen. “Why not? What’s happened? Has someone tried to find me?”
