Page 27 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

I stalk to the door and yank it open but turn back. “If I’m going to have to stay here for a week—and not one minute longer—then I want my own fucking clothes. Think you can manage that?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I could wear his clothes so long as I don’t have to go anywhere because they’re way too big, but I’m tired and horny and he’s an asshole. I don’t want him to forget that I’m not here because I chose to be.

I slam the door to his room and climb back into bed, my throat tender where his beard rubbed when he kissed me.

I don’t want to wear his clothes. Don’t want to sleep in his bed. And don’t want to have to try to sleep while I’m still so wet the tops of my thighs are sticky.

He didn’t have to get so mad. I just needed him to tell me it was okay. I needed him to push me against that back wall opposite the mirror and slide these sweats down, lick me …

Oh, fuck it.I need to get off. I have my own hands and I know what I like. I can damned well take care of these needs myself.

And by God, it doesn’t mean one damn thing that while I do exactly that, I’m thinking of him, moaning his name, crying out for him, or that I wish he was standing in the doorway watching me.

All that matters is, when I’m finished, I’ll be able to sleep.

8

Tomas

After two days of living with Corinne, I’m wound so tight I can barely think enough to drive. She’s sensual and smarter than I remember. And beautiful. Blonde and curvy. Full pouty lips. Full round tits that match the full round ass. I’ve always loved her body, but the years have filled her out in ways that take me to next-level appreciation.

But the last thing I need when I’m driving with Aleksey to my father’s house is to be cross-eyed with a boner poking out of my pants.

“Do you know what Bogan wants?” Aleksey is driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic as we try to cross the river. He hasn’t spoken much since he picked me up, but he hates being late and unless he learns to make this SUV fly, we’re going to be late.

“No.” I’m not so deluded to think he would be calling in to praise my work of late. Gold fucking star for Tommy—yeah, right. The day he says so much as “Good job” will be the day pigs start soaring across the sky. “I never know.” And that’s the truth of it.

“Have you talked to Katerina?”

He can’t not bring her up when we’re together. “No.” I don’t tell him I don’t want to, either. The marriage will be one of convenience. A way to unite our families. Provide for the future of the Bratva. Nothing more.

“I guess I don’t have to ask how it’s going with the girl?” For once, his soft tone isn’t smug as much as sympathetic. The smile is overkill, though.

I’m tired of twenty questions. “It’s fine.” I’m not telling him anything. “She mostly stays in her room on her laptop.”

As sexy as her body is, it’s her brain that’s killing me. I watch her. Sometimes when she knows, sometimes when she doesn’t. When she’s working—coding—she’s intense and focused, her eyes clear and shining. She loves what she does.

But that’s between me and my brain and my dick. Alek wouldn’t care or understand.

“Is that why you’re so fuckin’ on edge?” He grins like he’s uncovered state secrets to report back to the Kremlin or to my father.

“It’s tense.”

Because I can’t keep my damn hands off her. Case in point—yesterday morning:

“I made cinnamon French toast.” She’s standing in my kitchen wearing an apron, hair tied back, smile just for me. Notallof my kitchen fantasies about her involve us rolling around on the counter. Not at first, anyway. Most of them start off just like this.

Her smiling. Me walking in behind her, slipping my arms around her waist and kissing her neck while I rub my cock against her ass until she turns to kiss me. From there, the fantasy only gets better.

And now I’m living it.

“I smelled the cinnamon.”

That’s true—I smelled it even in the gym where I’ve been hiding out. I walk behind her, look over her shoulder as she takes the last piece of toast from the skillet and slides it onto a plate. She twists the oven knob, sets down her spatula and turns, but I’m standing close. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her whiskey-colored eyes.

“Hungry?”

God, yes. Her palms slip up my chest, over my heart, to tangle around my neck and tug me down. I know what to do after that, have permission to do it, and I don’t stop until my dick is a tent in my shorts.

---