The Russian's Christmas Present

“Bria!” Mauricio and Irina yelp in unison as the hunk with a hard-on steps forward, catching me in mid-fall before my face centers into the crotch of a mannequin wearing an Armani suit.

Arms as hard as burled wood wrap around my waist, stabilizing me while I scrape around to find what’s left of my dignity.

His warm breath is near my ear and as crazy as it sounds, I swear I can feel his heartbeat in his bulging biceps.

“You’ve got some moves. You’re teasing me.” He whispers and I realize for the first time in my life, I want a man.

This man.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Kozlov. Please, Bria is still learning.” Irina comes around in a fluster to untangle me and I right myself, avoiding his eyes. “She’s a good girl.” Irina gives me a soft smile. “Bria, go in the back and bring Mr. Kozlov an espresso and a vodka.”

“Sure.” I run my hands down the front of my skirt as I break back through the red curtains.

On the other side, I slump down into a chair behind a sewing machine and grab the top of my head, resting my elbows on my knees, still trying to make sense of what just happened.

Once I can stand, I work my way to the back kitchen of the shop, which is filled with the scent of pastry and roasting meat from the dumplings that Irina made in between appointments today. The business is really a large old converted Victorian house where the original kitchen space remains.

I twist the controls on the espresso machine and listen to the whirring sound, then take in the scent of the rich coffee, squeezing my legs together in a vain attempt to stop the low throb that seems intent on overriding my more practical senses. I reach into the freezer and pour a shot of chilled vodka from the tall bottle with Russian lettering, thinking maybe I should do a quick shot myself.

By the time I get back to the front room where Martel is standing, arms crossed, I’ve managed to return my heart rate to near normal.

It doesn’t last.

When I hand Martel the little white porcelain cup it looks doll-sized in his hands, his eyes have turned wild and Irina and Mauricio look amused.

He tosses back the steaming, highly caffeinated liquid, as my bosses offer me a tense smile then disappear behind the red curtain shushing each other as they go.

The gigantic Russian stares silently at me as I hold the shot glass. He takes it from my shaking hand and brings it to his perfect lips, sucking the vodka down in one quick motion then handing the glass back to me.

“I need you to do something for me.” He looks me up and down, drawing a long breath.

“What? Remeasure you?”

He shakes his head. “No. We’re going to help each other.”

“Help you? With what and why?” I narrow my eyes at him. As hard as it is to look right into those eyes, I’m finding it nearly impossible not to.

“Because it’s in your best interest.” His answer rumbles from his chest and a spike of fear races through me. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

I stick my bottom lip out, the swirl of terror and lust turns into a tornado inside me, but before I can figure out what to say next he runs the backs of his fingers up my chest, moving upward, tingling the flesh on my neck until he’s pinching my chin.

He grits his teeth then finishes. “Besides, tomorrow is my Christmas Eve, and you wouldn’t want to ruin that for me Snowflake, would you?”

“No, but…Christmas was two weeks ago.”

“For many, da, yes.” His accent hangs on the words more so that it has before now. “Russian Christmas is January seventh and I know what I want under my tree.”

Heat spreads from my face downward and explodes in white twinkling lights between my legs.

“What’s that?” I gulp as his fingers stay firmly planted, gripping my chin.

“I’m about to tell you…”

Chapter 3

Martel

“Are you serious?” Her wide, doe eyes have a fire behind them, but all I can think about is how she felt when I reached out and grabbed her as she stumbled.

Soft.

Warm.

Perfect.

One of my hands grazed her tit as I held her, and fuck, if my cock wasn’t an out of control bastard before that it took some iron willpower not to coat the inside of my jeans with my cum.

When she stumbled, as little danger as there truly was to her, a flash of protectiveness stabbed me in the heart. The thought of her being hurt had my blood running hot and even though it was just a mannequin, I wanted to kill that fucker for almost touching her.

An inanimate object, for Christ’s sake.

I grind and twist my palms together in front of us, trying to find my center of control. I’ve explained my proposal to her and now I just need to close the deal.