Page 69 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“I can fetch one from the pantry.”
The snowman is missing a lot more than a nose, but I don’t have the heart to spoil Cartier’s fun. When she woke up this morning and saw the clear blue sky, she leaped out of bed and declared that it was the perfect day to build a snowman.
Who am I to argue with the woman of my dreams?
She studies the rear façade of the house, eyes flickering from window to window until she finds what she’s looking for.
Ivana. Watching us from a distance as always.
“Why don’t you text Ivana and ask her to bring one out?”
Cartier’s nose is pink from the cold, but her cheeks are rosy, and I imagine myself unbuttoning our coats, our bodies coming together inside a furry cocoon. My dick responds appropriately inside my pants.
She and Ivana seemed to turn a corner on the day the Christmas tree arrived in the den. Not friends exactly, but tolerant of one another. Which is testament to Cartier’s patience and understanding. Ivana has the warmth of an icicle; the only person I’ve ever seen her become animated around is her sister, Tamara.
I remove my gloves and slide my phone from my pocket.
“We need something small and black to make buttons too,” Cartier adds. “And eyes. And a mouth.”
I grin at her. “Would you like a magic wand to make it come alive too?”
I’ve barely hit send on the message to Ivana when a snowball connects with the side of my face. Cartier squeals with laughter. She’s already crouching low, gathering more snow between her gloved hands to launch the next missile.
My cheek stings from the cold, but I barely register it.
This is war.
And Cartier Black is about to learn that I will never lose.
She tosses another snowball at me, and I dodge it easily. She’s too predictable. Has too many tells. And stares at her target before she throws.
I gather the snow loosely—a compact snowball will hurt, and the last thing I want to do is hurt her—and launch it at her shoulder. It’s a direct hit.
Then she catches me by surprise with a snowy missile that knocks my hat from my head. Her giggles follow every launch, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I could spend the rest of my life listening to Cartier’s laughter.
When Ivana eventually joins us, I’m lying on top of Cartier, trying to stuff snow inside the neckline of her coat while her feeble attempts to push me off her are thwarted by her uncontrollable giggles.
“Stop!” She says it like she means it even though her wide smile says otherwise. “I can’t breathe.”
“Do you surrender?” Cartier is beneath me, the snow so deep that she would be invisible to anyone approaching us.
“Yes.” She sucks her bottom lip in to hide her smile.
Before I can stand up and offer her my hand, she splats my face with a handful of snow.
“You little minx.”
I cover her face with snow and kiss her through it, our cold lips and warm tongues coming together. The sensation is so unlike anything else I’ve ever felt that I wish we could stay trapped in this moment forever. If my brother called right now to suggest that we stay in Russia permanently, I’d grab the chance with both hands and never look back.
I don’t know what makes me pull away from Cartier and look around.
But finding Ivana standing there in a full-length black fur coat with a carrot in one hand, and a small bag of buttons in the other, makes me feel uneasy. I dropped my guard, and I can’t afford for that to happen. Not even for a moment.
I stand up and help Cartier back onto her feet.
Her smile grows even wider when she spots the carrot, and she busies herself completing the snowman, muttering to herself about twig arms and a bowler hat.
“Scarf!” She seems to take herself by surprise. “He needs a scarf.”
