Chicago Bratva Books 7-9, page 9
part #1 of Chicago Bratva Series
He catches my wrists and lifts them up, holding them between us. “I wish I could trust you, Kateryna.”
“Well, you can’t, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still enjoy ourselves.”
That gets him. His eyes darken, and his cock firms even more behind his zipper. I’m not just a sex-crazed uni student. I’m just fighting with the weapon I know how to use best–my body.
That said, sexing up Adrian Turgenev is no hardship. He’s hot and rough but also considerate in bed. Generous, even.
“Come on.” I hook one of my fingers in his belt loop and pull him toward the bed. When we get there, I actually manage to work his button free with my thumbs before he takes over and unzips his pants for me. I drop to my knees to show him what I want.
He strokes my hair back from my face and sinks to sit on the edge of the bed, freeing his erection from his boxer briefs.
I go to town on his dick. Like my life depends on this blowjob–which is possible.
More likely, though, Adrian’s life depends on it.
I mean, the more I think about this situation, the more I realize how likely it is to end with Adrian or my father dead.
But most likely Adrian.
He’s one guy. My father has hundreds of men who work for him and millions of dollars to pay for more. Plus, my dad is ruthless. I’ve seen him kill a man with his bare hands. I know there’s no chance my dad will show up to some meeting to get me alone. He’s going to be ready to kill Adrian and anyone with him.
So even if I trusted Adrian completely and believed he wouldn't harm me–which I’m eighty percent sure I do–I have to escape. I have to divert his plan. Or talk him out of it. Something. I have to stop this train wreck from happening.
So I glue my eyes to the harsh lines of his beautiful face and take him as deep into my throat as I can, a little farther every time. I work on relaxing my gag reflex to get him deeper.
At first, his expression remains veiled. Stony, even. But as he starts to lose control, I see the real Adrian come out. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, cups my face.
“That’s nice, malyshka,” he murmurs. “So good.”
I wrap my lips over my teeth and bob up and down over the head of his cock for a while then make him shudder but change the rhythm and take him deeply again. With my bound hands, I use the heels of my thumbs to massage his balls then work even further back, where the prostate gland supposedly lies.
“Good girl. So good.”
There are those words again. The ones that get me wet and excited. Not that I wasn’t already incredibly turned on by giving him pleasure. My nipples poke against his soft Henley, and I squirm my hips around, trying to get relief.
He plunges one hand into the open neck of the Henley and toys with my nipple. His touch is coaxing at first. A soft caress that turns rougher the closer he gets to coming. He cups the back of my head and pulls me on and off, forcing my head down and up.
I love it. If I didn’t trust him, it would frighten me. The loss of control. Choking on his cock when he goes too deep. But there’s something hot about it. Me on my knees with my hands bound. Him, forcing me into this.
I know he’s not really forcing me, but we’re walking an edge here.
“Kat…I’m going to come,” he warns. He lets go of my head, I guess giving me the choice to come off.
I don’t stop. I suck hard, even though my jaw aches from being open this long.
He shouts something in Russian and comes down my throat, and I swallow his salty essence down. It burns a little, but I love the taste. Love knowing I made him come. Love the way he touched me while I did.
“Blyad’, Kat.”
I suck him clean, and he strokes my face.
“Good girl.”
I sit back on my heels and look at him. “Do you always say that after a blowjob?”
“What?”
“Do you call them good girl?”
He shakes his head. “Nyet. Never. Only you.”
“Because you know I like it?”
He shrugs.
I wait for more, but that’s all he offers.
“Come here.” He stands and tugs me up off my knees.
“Come where?”
Instead of answering, he leads me toward the kitchen area, where he grabs the conditioner he bought.
“Aw, do I get to shower?”
“I’ll wash you,” he says gruffly.
My pussy clenches and nipples tingle. Did he say…he’ll wash me?
That’s so…hot. And sweet. And definitely hot.
I let him lead me to the bathroom where he cuts the zip tie on my wrists and pulls his shirt off me.
“Go on.” He lifts his chin toward the shower.
I turn on the water and wait until it heats as he takes off his clothes. He steps into the water, and I reach for him, eager to touch. Happy to have my wrists free. I stroke my palms over his muscled chest, making an approving hum as I touch.
He catches my wrists and examines them, stroking his thumbs over my pulse, bringing one to his lips to kiss away the bruises. “Mne zhal'.”
It’s close enough to the Ukranian meni shkoda that I recognize his apology.
“Let me go,” I murmur to him, my fingers tracing the tattoo on his biceps.
His expression shutters, not that it was open to begin with. “Mne zhal’,” he repeats.
“My father will kill you,” I whisper. “How do you think your sister will feel then?”
His expression goes downright stony–and if I had to name the stone, it would be obsidian. Black obsidian. “He may kill me,” he admits. “But I will take him with me.”
Hot tears burn in my eyes. “Adrian, wouldn’t it be better if you both just lived?” I raise my voice in frustration.
“Nyet. Not for all the girls–” He breaks off.
“What?” I whisper, knowing I won’t want to hear what he’s hiding from me. Is he protecting me? Or himself? “What girls?”
He shakes his head and takes my shoulders, pushing me back into the spray of water. “Tip your head back.”
I obey. I know I’m not going to get any further with him. He’s got some stubborn idea about revenge that he thinks he can’t be talked out of.
But I will keep trying. I’ll stay on the sister angle. What woman would want her brother to die to avenge her? I can’t believe she would want that.
But then I forget all the silent arguments I’m composing in my head because Adrian moves to stand behind me, nudging me forward, out of the water’s spray. After he pours shampoo on my hair, he starts a slow, sensual massage of my scalp.
I close my eyes and moan softly.
It feels so good. It’s not quite as hot as I expected. More tender. Nurturing. It’s an apology, I think. Adrian’s sorry he has to involve me. Or believes he has to involve me.
I haven’t had anyone take care of me like this in years. Maybe not since my mom left. My dad uses his money to maintain me, but it’s not the same. It’s not love. It’s not kindness. It’s not this.
He wraps a strong arm around my waist and gently moves me backward, under the spray of water again and fingers through my hair to rinse it.
Then we step out of the spray, and he applies the conditioner.
“More,” I murmur because it’s not enough. He adds more. My hair is a tangled mess, so I help him work it through to the ends. “Wait,” I tell him when he tries to move me under the water again. “It takes a few minutes.”
He grunts and picks up a bar of soap, which he rolls around in his palms. The slow lathering he gives me starts at my shoulders and travels down to each fingertip. Then down my back, up my belly to clean my breasts. He kneels on the tile to wash my legs down to my toes, then stands and gives my ass a great deal of attention. Around my buttocks. Between them. Down between my legs. He stands behind me and strokes my lady parts as his other hand kneads my breast.
“Okay,” I whisper, not because I want him to stop, but because the water is starting to get cold.
I step under the shower and rinse off, and he joins me, stroking my long hair, smoothing his palms over my wet skin.
When the water goes cold, he shuts it off, and I turn to face him.
“You think I’m pretty,” I say when his lids droop, gazing at me. I’m fishing for a compliment or confirmation of what I think is true. Being needy, as usual.
“Of course–you’re beautiful.” He cradles the back of my head and draws me right up against him, lifting my face to his. His lips hover over mine, soft and sensual, a contrast to the angular lines of his face. “Beauty isn’t your power. It’s not this hot little body.”
I want him to stop. I don’t like it. I wanted to hear what I wanted to hear. This wasn’t it.
He touches my heart. “This is your power.” And then he kisses me.
It’s our first kiss, and it’s a searing one. I loop my arms around his neck, lifting up on my toes to deepen it.
He catches my ass with his free hand, pulling me even tighter as his tongue sweeps between my lips.
I’m frantic in this kiss, craving it like I need my next breath. I twine my tongue around his, change angles, surge against him.
What did he mean was my power? My heart? My essence?
I’m confused by it, but I don’t mind. Maybe I thought there would be a criticism that would hurt me. Like when Delaney asks me if there’s meaning to my life beyond sex. But she has helped me seek satisfaction in other places like pottery.
“Do I seem like I need saving?” I pull away and ask. I’m breathless from the kiss, but I have to know. Does he see me as weak? Broken?
“Do I?” he asks me back.
I blink at him, bringing my fingers to his handsome face.
Yes. I don’t say it out loud. Yes, he needs saving from my father. From himself. And I’m going to do it.
I’ll be his savior.
He can be mine.
Because as much as I hate to admit it. As much as Delaney’s been trying to get me to see that I don’t need a savior or someone to take care of me or boss me around, that’s exactly what I want.
I want a man who ties me up and feeds me like his pet. Who both washes my hair and pulls it. Who wipes my tears even when he’s the guy who makes me cry.
Maybe I’m deranged, but it’s my kink. And Adrian fits the mold so perfectly it hurts.
And of course, I like the hurt.
“I’m ready,” I murmur to him.
His brows knit. “Ready for what?”
“Ready for you to do depraved things to me.”
His lips twitch, and he tweaks one of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He drops his gaze to his cock, which is hard and stiff between us. “Good. I’m ready, too.”
7
Nadia
I work to calm my breath as we approach Rue’s Lounge, the pub where Flynn and Story’s band plays on Thursday nights.
Crowds aren’t my thing. I avoid going places where someone might accidentally touch me. The worst, though, are nighttime crowds in places where people are drinking. Because the chances of getting touched skyrocket.
But I rode over with Maykl, the doorman at the Kremlin. He’ll protect me from unwanted attention. He looks about as fierce as Oleg, Story’s giant mute boyfriend with bulging muscles and crude tattoos covering his arms.
I know Adrian tasked him with keeping an eye on me while he’s gone, and he’s done a good job. I also know Adrian probably threatened to cut his balls off if he touched me. He doesn’t even look me in the eye.
Honestly, while I feel safe with him, it’s also uncomfortable.
But then, I’m uncomfortable with most people, so that’s not unusual. Even Adrian can make things worse for me.
It’s like he’s holding on to my trauma even more tightly than I am. I want to let it go, but it seems hard when he won’t.
Hell, I know he’s off somewhere right now trying to hunt down the man he believes is responsible for my four months of pure hell. As if killing one man would take away the evil in the world. As if it was just one man who tortured me. One man who touched me against my will.
It was so many of them.
But Adrian couldn’t hunt down every one of them, so he went after the leader. A guy who probably doesn't even know of my existence. It’s foolish, really. Probably dangerous.
We step inside, and I try to keep my gaze from zooming straight to the stage. Instead, I search the tables near the front of the stage where I know Oleg will have parked in advance, his bulky presence signaling to everyone his claim on the lead singer of The Storytellers. Our other neighbors from the building will gather there with him.
I find them right away–Nikolai and his girlfriend, Chelle, are sitting with Oleg along with Sasha and Maxim. Adrian’s bratva brothers and their women.
I’m lucky he found such a tight-knit community. That they took me in despite my phobias and mistrust. Still, I don’t feel like they’re my friends. Like Adrian, they view me with pity. They remember my first months in the Kremlin when I screamed and clung to the elevator bar when Adrian tried to get me out of the building. They’re careful with me. Sympathetic. Understanding.
Suffocating.
Finally, I let myself look to the stage. The music hasn’t started yet, but the band members are setting up.
The microphone crackles and pops as Story’s brother Flynn turns it on and bumps it against his lips. “Nadia’s in the howse,” he calls.
The little wings attached to my heart start to beat and flutter.
Flynn’s wearing a light blue knit cap and a vintage Dead Kennedys t-shirt. I know it’s vintage because I heard him telling a fangirl all about it the last time he wore it. It belonged to his dad, who was a popular local musician in the 80s.
I send a shy smile his way and wave, which makes the groupie girls who have also shown up early turn and stare with total hatred.
Flynn is the only person who doesn’t assume I’m fragile. Who makes me forget how tiny and brittle my life has become. And also who makes me remember.
He’s the reason I managed to get myself out of the building. Adrian had been trying for months and months to coax me out of the apartment and out of the building.
I’d left the apartment only to clean the building because Adrian’s pakhan had offered me a job, and I wanted to contribute. I bumped into the beautiful, carefree Flynn leaving his band’s rehearsal. He’s everything I’m not–unburdened. Happy. Confident in a jocular, easy way. He invited me to come and hear the band play, and I found myself–impossibly–accepting the invitation. Suddenly willing to work on and improve my English. It had taken me several more weeks and aborted attempts to actually make it to the show, but I finally did. Now I’m rewarded every time with the golden boy’s seeming delight to see me.
He doesn’t know who I am or what happened to me.
He thinks I’m an ordinary girl who emigrated from Russia. And honestly, that’s the biggest gift. I almost don’t want to know him better because once he finds out my story, he will put the gloves on, like everyone else.
And just for now, I like to have one person who makes me feel normal.
Maykl and I take two seats at Oleg’s table. I bob my head and smile shyly at everyone, avoiding eye contact and actual speaking.
“Nadia, you came out!” Sasha exclaims, throwing her arms wide. She’s always larger-than-life exuberant, which makes me feel even smaller.
“I did.”
Nikolai leans forward. “Any word from Adrian?” He keeps his expression casual, but I sense the tension behind it. Everyone’s been asking about Adrian. They’re worried, I think, but don’t want me to know.
“I spoke with him this morning. He is fine.”
“Did you let him know Ravil–”
“Da.” I bob my head. “I told him. He said he would call.”
Nikolai frowns.
“Is he in trouble?”
The frown disappears. “Adrian?” He scoffs. “No. He can take care of himself. He’ll be fine.”
“Are you lying to me?” Being mentally unstable has advantages. One of them is being overly direct when I want to be.
Nikolai’s girlfriend Chelle’s gaze snaps to Nikolai’s face to hear his answer.
He hesitates, and my heart starts to pound.
Maxim answers for him. “He’s been known to make rash decisions in certain situations. We just want to be sure he has a chance to talk his plans through with me or Ravil or someone with a level head who can help assess risk.”
I fight to swallow and nod.
Rash decisions.
Risk.
My blood starts to pound in my temples, and I feel a bit lightheaded. Adrian’s in trouble.
Oh God, what if something happens to him because of me? I wouldn’t be able to go on.
Sasha elbows Maxim. “You worried her,” she accuses. To me, she says, “The bratva has his back. Nothing will go wrong.”
I’m trembling though. Feeling a little light-headed.
I probably should go.
Someone touches my shoulder, and I jump, ready to scream until I hear my name on his lips again. “Nadia.”
Flynn’s standing behind me, a dimpled grin on his face. There are two fangirls standing behind him, seeking his attention, but he’s focused only on me.
I suck in a deep breath. I still feel dizzy but for a different reason now.
“Flynn.”
He leans over and touches his cheek to mine for a side-kiss. The kind where your lips kiss air but your faces touch. “I’m glad you made it out.”
For one hot second, the ground wobbles beneath my feet. He knows I have agoraphobia. But then I realize, he just means out to the show. Not out of the building.
“Of course,” I say as if I have an active social life. “I love to hear you play.”
“Hi, Flynn.” One of the fangirls interrupts.
He ignores her. “Hey, there’s a party afterward, if you want to hang out?”
“No,” Maykl growls beside me, and I want to kill him, even though I know I’d never be able to handle an after-party.
Flynn’s brows pop, and he looks Maykl’s way. “I’m sorry–are you guys together?” He holds his palms out. “I totally didn’t mean to–”
