Page 19 of A Bride for the Bratva Boss
“Of course you do. You have staff cooking for you,” she mutters, but there’s smile on her lips as she turns back to the sizzling pan.
“It’s your staff now, too. I’ll introduce you to our people in a day or two.”
“I don’t know how to live with staff.” Her eyes grow even bigger.
“They don’t live here. They work here.”
She sticks out her tongue. “Fine, I don’t know how to live in a place where staff works. It seems weird.”
I thought so at first, too. But I also thought living in a permanent place, instead of sleeping in a different abandoned building every night was weird. I don’t tell her that, though. That’s a story for another time. “You’d be surprised over how quickly you get used to others doing things for you,” I say instead. She laughs, and the sound hits me low and deep. I wanted this woman’s body from the first moment I saw her. But now I’m scared about how much more I want from her. Her laughter. Her secrets. Her soul.
What will have to give her in return? Can I afford the price?
She puts a lid on the pot on the stove and lowers the burner heat. Leaning against the counter, she studies me with too much interest. I resist not fidgeting under her scrutiny. “Can I ask about your tattoos?” she blurts out.
I stiffen instinctively as her eyes roam over the markings on my forearms, the ink crawling up and covering my shoulders beneath my t-shirt. I force my body to relax. “You may ask,” I allow.
“Do they mean something?”
“All of them.” I extend my arm slightly. “This one is for the Bratva brotherhood, my family.” I point to another one. “This one mean loyalty.” I hesitate before pointing to the last one visible on my arm. “And this one…it’s a promise I made.”
“A promise to who?”
“To myself.”
She steps closer. “Can I…?”
I should say no. But the word sticks in my throat, and I nod once.
Her fingertips touch my forearm, feather-light. Heat shoots up my arm, straight to my spine. She traces the lines slowly, reverently, like she’s reading me through my skin. Her voice is a whisper. “Your skin is warm.”
“Yours is fire,” I answer before I can stop myself.
She blushes, but she doesn’t move away. Her fingers drift upward, brushing the edge of my sleeve. I suddenly wish I’d worn less clothing.
“What about your scars?” she murmurs, touching one barely-there line on my bicep.
“A lesson.”
“About what?” There’s a cute frown line between her eyes when she looks up at me.
“Life.”
“Did it hurt?” Her gaze is too open, too curious. A small flare of pain heats my chest when I think about how I’ll have to teach her to curb that. She won’t survive long in my world displaying that much honesty and innocence.
“Some pain,” I say quietly, “is involuntary.” I take her hand gently and flatten it against my chest. “And some pain we welcome because it leads somewhere we want.”
Her pupils darken. The air between us thickens and I can’t stop staring at her lips.
She moves first.
It’s small, barely a shift, as she leans in just enough that her lips brush mine. They’re soft, hesitant, searching.
I hold still for a moment, but then I snap and kiss her back, hard. I growl as I claim her lips, thrusting my tongue into her mouth.
She gasps, and I pin her against the counter, one hand braced on the granite, the other on her waist. Her fingers clutch my shirt, pulling me closer, urging my tongue deeper as hers meets it thrust for thrust.
My hands roam over her body. It’s soft, warm, perfect.
