Page 51 of Bratva Bride
She grabbed her notebook from the coffee table, flipped to a fresh page. "Nothing when I'm little unless I explicitly ask when big," she wrote and said simultaneously.
"Yes."
"Safewords always active."
"Always."
"You tell me before you do something new."
"Every time."
She paused, pen hovering. Then wrote quickly: "I get to touch you too."
The words hit like lightning. "Anya—"
"If we do this—if we're physical—I want to touch you. Learn you. Make you feel good too." She was bright red but determined. "Not just be passive. Not just receive. Participate."
"Yes," I managed despite my throat closing. "God, yes."
She wrote a few more notes I couldn't see from my angle, then closed the notebook with decisive movement.
"I want both," she said quietly. "Daddy and lover. But slowly. Starting with kisses. Starting with learning what I actually like versus what I think I should like."
"We can do that," I promised. "As slow as you need."
She nodded, pulled Peanut closer, but her foot stayed pressed against my thigh. Connection maintained. Progress.
"What if I'm bad at it?" The question was so quiet I almost missed it. "At physical things? What if I don't know how to—"
"There's no bad. There's just learning together. Finding what works. What feels good." I covered her foot with my hand again."Besides, you're a brilliant woman with a genius IQ. I'm sure you'll figure it out quickly."
She actually laughed—small but real. "Are you saying sex is just another system to analyze?"
"I'm saying you approach everything with curiosity and determination. Why would this be different?"
She considered this, then nodded. "Okay. We have rules. We have boundaries. We have—" She gestured vaguely between us. "—whatever this is."
"We have us," I said simply. "However that looks. Whatever that becomes."
"Us," she repeated, testing the word. Then, more firmly: "I like that."
So did I. More than I could safely admit.
Chapter 10
Anya
Thesmellofhoneyand butter pulled me from sleep like gentle fingers, sweet and warm and wholesome. Was that the smell of blini? It was! Ivan was making blini, and my stomach responded with interest before my brain fully engaged with consciousness.
I stretched under the covers and listened to the sounds from the kitchen. The sizzle of batter hitting hot pan. The whisper of a spatula against non-stick surface. The quiet efficiency of someone who'd turned breakfast into meditation.
Seven days. Seven mornings of waking to find Ivan already up, already planning my comfort before I knew I needed it. My feet found the hardwood floor, and I padded toward the door in the oversized t-shirt that had become my standard sleepwear. His shirt, technically, though possession had shifted through repeated washing and wearing until it smelled more like me than him.
The living room spread before me in morning light, all clean lines and careful order except for one deliberate disruption: Peanut, positioned exactly where I'd left him on the sofa last night, but adjusted slightly so he faced the hallway. Watching for me. Waiting.
Ivan stood at the stove in gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a white t-shirt that had seen better days. Comfortable clothes. Weekend clothes. The kind of outfit that said he wasn't the Ice King today, wasn't the bratva financial genius—just Ivan, making breakfast for his wife.
His Little.
