The Fixer (Chicago Bratva 2)

She hates that her father traded her like he was selling a thoroughbred horse. She hates that he picked me, the man who humiliated her right when she was coming into her own sexuality. She especially hates that I control her purse-strings now.

I’m not so thrilled with being saddled with her, myself. But Igor won my loyalty when he saved my life and took me under his wing as a young man, and that loyalty didn’t die when he banished me.

I’d love to park Sasha in some apartment and pretend she doesn’t exist, but I can’t. Her life’s in danger, and I’m responsible for keeping her safe. So like it or not, we’ll be in each other’s faces. Likely for the rest of our lives.

So we might as well make the best of it.

“Not happening.” Sasha’s shut-down is weakened by the wobble in her voice, the breathless quality of her words.

My dick punches out against my zipper. I slip my hands under her arms to coast down her sides. Her body melts back against mine. I splay one hand over her belly, bring the other to squeeze her breast. “You’re mine now, Sasha,” I murmur against her ear. “You might as well enjoy the benefits.”

Her knees wobble. I flick my tongue against her ear, draw her earlobe between my lips and suck. I find her nipple beneath the padding of her bra and pinch it.

She grips my hands and tugs them away, spinning to face me. “Not happening.” Her pupils are blown, cheeks flushed. “I want a separate bedroom.”

I shake my head. “Not happening.”

A seconds-long staredown happens. I can see her gears churning, and I doubt I’m going to like whatever they produce.

“I’m never having sex with you,” she asserts.

“Oh, I think you will. But it won’t be because I force you, sugar. No, you’ll be begging me for it. And I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

For some reason, that promise seems to make her confidence slip for a flash, but she lifts her chin. “Dream on, my friend.” She tosses her hair and heads to the en suite bathroom. I hear the bathtub start, so I undress and crawl in bed. I didn’t let myself sleep on the sixteen-hour flight, knowing we’d arrive in Chicago at night, so I’m fucking exhausted. I watched the movies they showed on the flight, but Sasha watched her own entertainment on her iPad—episode after episode of Downton Abbey. I don’t know why it surprised me, but it did. When I asked, she said she loved historicals.

I guess I thought she’d be watching something insipid. Some stupid romcom thing. But I have to remember she studied theatre. It makes sense she has a thing for period pieces.

I leave the bedside lamp on and doze off, waking when she emerges.

Naked.

I mean, completely naked—no towel wrapped around her, just her pale skin and—aw fuck—the most beautiful pair of tits I’ve ever seen. I get fully hard before my gaze has even traveled lower, past the soft mound of her belly to glimpse her—Gospodi—bare sex.

Either she shaved for me in there, or she’s been recently waxed.

Fuck. Me.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she walks over to the bed and pulls the covers down to climb in.

“I sleep naked,” she says.

First of all—bullshit. Yerunda. Second, she’s not going to play this sex manipulation game with me. Not again. It ends now.

“Sugar, you climb in this bed naked, I will fuck you so hard and so well you won’t walk right tomorrow.”

She freezes. Her nipples tighten like bolts, and I see goosebumps race across her skin. She straightens and cocks a hip, one hand on her waist. “You said you wouldn’t force me.”

I shrug. “If you want me to hold back, caxapok, you keep your clothes on. That’s all I’m going to say.”

We lock gazes. Her perfect breasts lift and lower with her rapid breathing. Whatever she sees in my face must tell her I’m not fucking around because she turns away. “Fine.”

I watch the twitch of her gorgeous ass as she struts to the dresser. I think she’s going to open her suitcase, but instead, she opens and shuts my drawers until she finds one with my t-shirts. She pulls on a soft cotton undershirt and comes to bed. No panties. Just my fucking white shirt. She crawls in with her back to me.

All I can think about is that bare fucking pussy within reaching distance. How much I want to push open her knees and lick her until she screams. Give her everything she wanted from me all those years ago.

I flick off the lamp. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sasha.”

“It’s the only one I know,” she says into the darkness.

Her words pierce through my irritation at her cock-tease, the haze of testosterone, to land somewhere in my chest with a sharp jab. The honesty of her answer cuts me off at the knees. Of course, it’s the only one she knows.