The Fixer (Chicago Bratva 2)

Maxim doesn’t release my elbow. He stares down at me with a troubled expression like he’s trying to make a decision, but after several precariously long seconds, all he says is, “Come on, there’s a path on the lakeshore that’s nice to run.”

A sense of relief floods me like he just let me off some hook I didn’t know I was even on. He tips his head toward the glass doors of the elegant building.

He waves at the doorman, who is clearly bratva based on his tattoos.

We jog, side by side, on a paved path along the lake. I’m not used to the heat, and I’m soon dripping with sweat, but it feels good to move after the long flight yesterday and the slight jetlag I still feel.

We run in silence for half an hour or so. Maxim lets me set the pace but keeps up easily. I was right—he’s definitely a regular runner. “How long do you usually run?” he asks.

The truth is, I’m getting hot and tired, but now my pride is keeping me from saying anything.

I shrug. “I can keep going.”

“Come here.” He veers off the path and onto a city street, crossing an intersection, and slowing to a walk.

“What are we doing?”

He pushes through a convenience store door. “Buying some water. You look hot.”

“It doesn’t take much for a redhead to look hot,” I mutter, but I’m secretly grateful he’s looking out for me.

He buys a large bottle of electrolyte water, opens the cap and hands it to me.

I drink, thirstily, and hand it back, half empty.

He finishes a quarter of it and crushes the middle of it before he puts the cap back on. “So we could either go back the way we came, along the lake drive, or we could take it slower through the city blocks where it’s a little shadier, but less of a breeze.”

It’s bizarre, but for the first time in my life, I feel like a grown-up. When I lived in L.A., I had the time of my life, partying with my college friends. But that was still me acting like a rebel. This feels different. One of my father’s men is treating me like an equal. Asking what I want to do and waiting for my answer. I don’t have to run and make him chase. I don’t have to trick him—or manipulate him.

He’s just standing there, waiting for me to make the call.

I reward him with a smile—not the I have you by the balls smile—a genuine one. “Lake path, for sure. But let me see that water bottle.”

He hands it back to me, and I uncap it and dribble a healthy amount down my cleavage, soaking my running bra. It isn’t to fuck with him, it’s because I’m hot.

All right, and maybe to fuck with him a little bit. As he pointed out, I do have a streak of exhibitionism in me.

For a moment, I think he’s pissed, and maybe he is because he grips my ponytail and pulls it back to bare my throat. Then he licks a long line down my throat and across my collarbone to dip between my breasts.

My pussy’s squeezing, and I’m breathless by the time he lifts his head. “You spilled some water,” he says, as if in explanation.

My legs quiver—probably just from the run, but I’m suddenly acutely aware of it.

His gaze dips to my breasts, and my nipples tingle and burn in response.

I suddenly want him. Desperately.

All this pretending I don’t, all this resistance seems stupid. I have a hot husband. Not just any hot husband, but the man who literally molded my view of what makes a man hot. When I look at all other guys, I’m measuring them in comparison to this one.

And he wants me now.

But that reminds me how he didn’t want me once. Of my utter humiliation—how much that rejection burned. Nope. Not giving in. Let him suffer with blue balls. My virginity is the only thing I still have control of in my life.

I take off running the way we came and sense him quickly catch up. He slaps my ass when he does, in a hard, satisfying way, and then paces with me at my side. My butt tingles and burns as I run, igniting the memory of that spanking he gave me in the back seat of the car in Moscow. The way he touched me afterward.

Ack! I can’t think about it. No sex.

I’m not having sex with Maxim.

But as I run, the friction between my legs persists, stoking the heat rather than alleviating it. I glance down and see my nipples protruding visibly under my wet jog-bra. Lord have mercy. I’d better run straight for the cold shower.

Chapter 6

Maxim

It takes all my willpower not to follow Sasha into the shower, shove her up against the tile and lick every inch of her body until she begs me to fuck her. My balls ache to get between those pale thighs, and I know she’s getting as needy as I am, but I’m not the type to come on strong. This is obviously a long game.