The Fixer (Chicago Bratva 2)

“Chateau Marmont.”

She turns around and opens her arms. “I’ve always wanted to stay here.”

I step closer, my hands lightly touching her waist. “And now you have.”

She totters, blinking. It’s probably wrong to try to seduce my wife when she’s been drinking, but I’ve been hard as concrete since she first threw herself at me on the dance floor.

“How would you demand it?” I prompt, sliding my hands down her hips until I get to the very short hemline of her dress. I inch it up.

“See, the thing is, I don’t think you deserve it,” she says to me.

On the other hand, her tipsiness makes this a perfect time to figure out what schemes are going on in that beautiful head of hers.

“You’re right,” I agree. “I don’t deserve it. Not after you offered yourself up so prettily before, and I didn’t accept.” As I speak, I slowly hike her dress up over her ass, then up her torso and over her head.

There. It’s out in the open. Maybe we can put this behind us once and for all.

She’s stunning in a pink bra and matching thong. Curvy, voluptuous, and perfect.

Sasha’s composure crumbles a little, probably both at being stripped and by the reminder. But being my fiery beautiful bride, she pops open her own bra, allowing her breasts to spring free and bounce. She’s double D’s all the way and fucking gorgeous with her pale skin and pink nipples. She drops the bra on the floor, lifts her chin and cups her pretty breasts proudly. “Well, this is what you missed out on, Max. And you don’t get a second chance.”

“Sasha, I wanted you then, and I want you now.” I step into her space, unbuttoning my shirt and tossing it to the floor. “If you weren’t seventeen and the pakhan’s daughter, I would’ve been on you all night, every night on that trip.” I tug off my undershirt. “Believe me.”

She sets her jaw like she doesn’t want to believe me, but I know I have her attention. I’m saying the right thing, for once.

I take a chance and lightly touch her waist. Let my fingers slip under the waistband of her thong. I don’t move it. It’s just a suggestion of what I might do. “Sugar, your father would’ve killed me. And not a nice, swift mercy killing. He would’ve cut off my balls. Cut off every finger that touched you. And then slit my throat and listened to me beg as I bled out.”

She shakes her head and rolls her pouty lips inward. Instead of retreating, though, she leans into me, her nipples brushing against my bare chest. “You didn’t just refuse me. You went and told my father.” She smacks my chest. The accusation and betrayal in her eyes slices into me. Especially when a sheen of tears coats her eyes. “You know what he did?” She tries to shove me away, but I don’t move. “He slapped my face and called me a whore.” She slaps mine.

Aw, fuck. My heart twists for her. Igor was a fucking loser as a father to her. I cup her cheek as if I can soothe away the sting of the years’ old slap.

“No one will ever slap your face again—this I promise you. Not if they want to live.”

She blinks rapidly.

“Fuck, sugar. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I had to tell him.” I let my hands settle on her hips for real and gently maneuver her backward toward the bed. “Igor was so twisted, I was afraid it was a test. Like he told you to tempt me to find out if I was loyal. If I respected his law. And even if it wasn’t a test, if anyone else on that yacht told him they’d seen you going in or out of my cabin, I’d have been a dead man. It wasn’t something I could wait to be accused of—I had to be proactive. You put my head on the chopping block coming in that room.”

I stop guiding her before the backs of her legs hit the mattress. I want to get her horizontal, but this conversation is too important to rush through. I should’ve had it with her the day we married.

“I don’t forgive you,” she says sulkily, and I sense the lie.

“Give me a do-over,” I entreat. “The way I remember it, you were in the middle of my bed.” I lift her hips to plop her down on the bed. “Only you weren’t wearing these.” I reach for the thong, going slowly in case she protests.

She doesn’t. Her pupils are wide as she reclines on her elbows and watches me drag the scrap of fabric down her legs.

She isn’t waxed bare, but has a neat auburn trim. Her belly shudders in and out.

“Beautiful,” I murmur. “You were beautiful then, but you’re even more beautiful now.”