The Soldier (Chicago Bratva 4)

Everything in my chest goes warm and gooey. This is how things always are with Pavel. I’m on edge, a shivering, volatile mess, trembling for his attention, dying for affirmation, and then when he gives it to me, I soar like a kite.

My housemates think it’s dysfunctional, but they don’t understand BDSM. I think Pavel’s the most exciting thing to ever happen to me.

2

Pavel

Kayla’s knees buckle, and I catch her elbow to steady her. She’s so fucking sweet. Definitely tender, like a little flower.

A flower I always fear I will crush.

How in the hell would I know that checking in first would crack her confidence? It’s exactly this tenderheartedness that made me reject her when we first met at Black Light. I didn’t think she’d last one minute with me without screaming red. But she proved me wrong.

Kayla will take just about everything I dish out without complaint. Those big blue eyes are always on my face, looking for my approval, for my next command. She’s actually a dream submissive. But being her dom means I have to figure out the emotional shit, which isn’t my forte.

Understatement.

I slide my lips over hers in a soft kiss, then trace the cutout of her dress with the tip of my index finger. “You look so beautiful, little flower. I should take you out for dinner and show you off, is that what you want?”

It’s not what I want. In fact, the second I saw her down in the lobby, I wanted to toss her over my shoulder and spank her ass red for letting anyone else see her looking so very fuckable.

It’s why I refused to renew our memberships to Black Light, where we played for free for the last month. I didn’t like anyone else looking at her. It brought out a violence in me that I had to contain. Had to be careful not to channel into our play.

“I dressed for you, Master,” she says softly.

Damn. Every time I try to defend myself against this relationship, she says something like that.

A surge of passion rushes out of me, and I grip her face in both my hands and shove her up against the wall again, kissing the hell out of her pretty mouth.

By the time I’m finished, my beard has chafed her skin, her lips are swollen, and she’s panting for breath. I want to do a hundred dirty things with her, but I shove my dark desires down. The need to make up for hurting her feelings takes precedence over my need to torture that lush little body of hers.

I smooth back her hair. “If we don’t leave this room now,” I warn her, “you’ll be naked in thirty seconds with my handprints all over that pretty ass of yours.”

Her eyes dilate. “Mmm.”

“I meant that as a threat.” Amusement rolls around in my mouth, almost making me smile. “Let’s go eat.”

“Yes, Master.”

I maneuver her out of the room with my hand on her back because it’s so damn pleasurable to have her body under my hands at all times. In the elevator, I flatten her against the wall again. “Were you a good girl this week?”

She blinks up at me. “I’m always a good girl.”

“I know.” I brush the hair out of her face. “That’s what makes this so wrong.”

Her brows furrow in confusion. “What?”

“You’re so good, and I’m very, very bad.”

She doesn’t balk. I don’t think she believes me—but she should. Instead, her sweet body writhes against mine, seeking pleasure. The elevator stops, and two people get on, prompting me to turn around and tuck Kayla protectively into my side. We’re safe here—there’s no bratva cell or anyone our cell has a beef with in Los Angeles.

I take her to the nice restaurant in the hotel because I don’t want to get too far from our room. Once we’re settled and ordered our food, Kayla studies me.

“What do you do for your job, Pavel?”

“Anything the boss wants me to,” I say. And nothing I can tell you about. When I realize she’s waiting for more, I add, “My position is brigadier--a soldier. I don’t rank high in our organization, but I am lucky enough to be in our pakhan’s inner circle.”

“Ravil is the boss—the pakhan?” she asks.

My brows shoot up at her knowing his name. I haven’t shared much of anything about my life with Kayla. We usually keep our conversation and activities to the bedroom.

“Sasha told me,” she says quickly. Sasha, our bratva fixer’s new bride, studied theatre with Kayla at University of Southern California. They roomed together during college. I now live with the pain-in-the-ass bratva princess and the rest of our bratva cell.

“Yes. He’s getting pissed about me being gone every weekend. He made a comment.”

“If you had to cancel, it would be fine. I’d understand.” She flushes. “I mean, of course, you know that. You’re the dom.”