Page 8 of Brooklyn Bratva

But I was going to make sure that no one apart from me got the chance to corrupt her. Or to disabuse her of that notion.

“Look at you. All grown up.” I shook my head, still disbelieving that seeing her again felt like looking at a totally different person, but the change in her was undeniable. At fifteen she’d been gawky and awkward. At twenty-two, she was confident and far too damn attractive for her father to be sending her off into the city all on her own.

My thoughts darkened, drifting to the college boys that no doubt had been harassing her for the duration of her studies. My teeth clenched hard enough for me to wonder whether anyone ever broke their own teeth. The chances were she had a boyfriend. Already I wanted to annihilate him.

“Come. Let’s eat.” For now she was mine to protect, and I wasn’t going to desert my duty. Her father had trusted me to keep her safe, and I wasn’t going to let him down. Instinctively, my hand nestled into the small of her back as I guided her down the street, keeping her body close. If I had my way, this was the furthest apart we were ever going to be again.

“Your journey went well apart from this, yes? Tell me about your father, and your studies.”

CHAPTER 3

Becca

I don’t know what I’d been hoping for. That he’d take one look at me and realize that here I was, the perfect woman for him, and he just hadn’t seen it until now.

The way he teased me over my taste in music and my Russian obsession made me feel foolish. And I’d already put my foot in my mouth, insulting him.

I might have thought I’d known him seven years ago, but really all I knew about him was that he was Dad’s friend, that he was illegally attractive and calm and serious, and the sound of his voice rumbling from downstairs had been what initiated my first time touching myself.

And I’d felt so empty afterwards, because it wasn’t him, and somehow I knew he wouldn’t be impressed by me playing with myself like some kind of slut who was so obsessed with sex she didn’t care how she got it. I didn’t want that. I wanted him to make love to me and to show me how my body worked. How it was made to fit with his.

I was certain he was the only one who could make me whole.

But I had to get him on the same page first.

Walking next to him down the street felt simultaneously easy, and like the most insurmountable task. The warm weight of his hand settled in at the base of my spine raced a tingle right through me, confirming everything I’d always known. Just that touch, through the layers of my jacket and top made my nipples twinge and my clit throb. If I ever got to have his hands on my naked body, I was going to be utterly doomed.

I drew in an automatic breath, straightening my back, in some bodily attempt to press in even closer. I was on the short side at five foot four, the way he towered over me made me feel so small, and so protected. His body was a barrier between me and the rest of the world, and I knew nothing bad was ever going to get through it. His hand fit against the curve of my back so perfectly we could have been cosmically tailored together and I wanted to see what other parts of him had been so perfectly made to fit me.

But this was the middle of Brighton Beach Avenue and the bustle of it wasn’t going to let up just because I was having a moment.

I blinked, pulling myself together enough to remember he’d asked me a question, and to figure out how to use my voice again.

“The train ride was fine. Took a bit longer than I remembered.” Maybe because this time I was going towards the man of my dreams, and my impatience had reached a peak, whereas last time I was leaving him for what I thought would be forever and if the journey didn’t end then somehow it couldn’t be true yet.

I glanced up at him, looking over the strong profile I’d etched so deeply into my memory. He hadn’t changed much. Maybe a few more lines around his eyes and on his forehead, a little hint of gray in his hair. If anything, he looked better than I remembered. I liked the hint of stubble on his jaw.

“You know Dad. He’s living it up. Weekly Scrabble tournaments, teacher-parent mixers, racquetball. He’s really living life in the fast lane.” I laughed.

A little kick of triumph peaked in me when I saw Ivan crack a smile.

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