Page 19 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I close the door to the first class bathroom and practically collapse against the sink.

I’m surprised the attendants didn’t stop me on my way here. My entire body is buzzing. There’s got to be some outward physical evidence of what Aleks and I just did. A giant neon sign hanging above my head, advertising what we’re about to do next.

Because there’s only one thing he could want to do with me in this bathroom.

But when I turn towards the mirror, I look mostly the same. A little more animated than usual, perhaps. More color on my cheeks. But otherwise, the same.

“What are you doing, Olivia?” I ask my reflection.

I’m not naive; I’m a realist. It’s abundantly clear to me that all Aleks wants is the thrill of a quick hookup with a girl he never has to see again.

I try to tell myself that’s what I want, too. Or at least, I try to tell myself that it’s possible for me to plausibly be the kind of person who wants something like that.

But I can already see Future Olivia, twirling her hair and staring into the distance as she entertains daydreams of the handsome stranger she met at the airport.

That’s okay. That’s fine. Everyone needs a wild story from their youth that they can live off of for the rest of their life, right?

The thought is comforting for approximately zero point two seconds before it falls flat.

Do I really want to be the type of woman who spends her golden years reminiscing about “that one time way back when…?” Have I already resigned myself to a life of mundane boredom at the ripe old age of twenty-five?

I’m still trying to talk myself down when the bathroom door opens and he steps inside.

He consumes the entire space instantly. And it isn’t just about his size—which is, to put it mildly, a lot. It’s his presence. His confidence. His aura.

Aleks locks the door and turns to me. I’m already backed up in the furthest corner of the bathroom with my hands clutching the edges of the sink.

One step—that’s all it takes for him to be right in front of me.

His hands find my hips while his eyes explore my body. Despite the big shirt and the oversized woolen sweater I’m wearing, he still manages to make me feel… desired. Craved. Like there isn’t enough money or violence in the world to make him tear his gaze off of me.

When was the last time I felt like that?

Have I ever?

Just like the rest of my scattered thoughts, those questions vanish when he grabs the hem of the sweater and pulls it off. He discards it on what is probably a not-so-clean bathroom floor. Even though it’s my favorite sweater, I let him.

I’m pretty sure I’d let him do whatever he wanted right now. God knows I have so far.

He peels the clothes off me, layer by layer. We don’t speak. I don’t think I could make my mouth form words, anyway. But when he approaches my bra, I tense up. My hands fall over my breasts self-consciously.

“I… I can do this part,” I mumble through awkward lips.

His eyes flash. “Why?”

“I dunno. I guess I’ve always done it myself.”

He runs a hand through his hair, completely bewildered. “How could any man let you deny him that pleasure?”

My body floods with heat the moment he says it. That feeling of being wanted again, so hot and insistent and all-consuming. And just like that, I drop my hands. He undoes my bra so fast that I don’t have any time to feel self-conscious.

My breasts spill free. Aleks’s eyes glow.

He leans in, cupping my right breast while his lips trail my face and neck, leaving a hot singe everywhere they go. Then he pulls my panties halfway down my thighs, finds my wetness, and plunges two fingers into me.

“Oh, God,” I gasp.

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