Page 23 of Bratva's Secret Girl
The moment of the fabric blinding me is so vulnerable somehow, and I tingle with it. Maxim is looking after me, just as he said he would.
It falls to my mid thigh, as big as a tent, and I feel tiny by comparison.
He moves me like a doll as he puts my arms through the ridiculously long sleeves, smiling to himself, then rolls up first one then the other sleeve until my hands are peeking out.
With a nod of satisfaction, he steps back and begins to dress himself. The shirt he gave me is soft and matte, probably cotton, but his has a subtle satin shine along two panels. He pulls on a pair of trousers, tragically covering those amazing legs, and it’s only when he reaches for a tie—a bow tie—that I understand.
“Are you going out?” I ask stupidly.
He chuckles. “No. We’re having dinner.”
I gape at him, and glance down at my own outfit. Or lack thereof. “You don’t have to go to this trouble. Don’t put on a tie when I’m…”
I gesture at the fact I’m half naked. I’m not even wearing knickers.
“I’m having dinner with the most beautiful woman I know.” He smiles, and it’s so hot it’s a good thing there aren’t more clothes to increase my temperature further, because I’d spontaneously combust.
That table, set with a rose, and a candle, and fancy plates. That’s forme? I tug at the hem of his shirt I’m wearing, and gulp, but excitement is fizzing through me.
“I put my best suit on, malishka, for that,” he says matter-of-factly, as he shrugs on a formal black tux jacket. “Except my best shirt. That looks better on you.”
“Okay, but no more.” I reach out a hand to stop him as he stoops to pick up socks and shoes. “Otherwise, I’ll feel underdressed.”
It’s not a particularly funny joke, but he laughs like it is, and shakes his head as he removes the tie. “Da. True. I should match you.”
He’s absurdly handsome barefoot, in an open shirt that reveals the tattoos that cover his neck up to his prominent Adam’s apple and the start of his short beard.
“Would you have dinner with me?” With a twinkle in his eye, he offers me his arm like we’re going to a fancy event.
A giggle bubbles up in me, despite everything, and I take his arm, sliding my hand over his strong forearm, and squeeze as subtly as I can. He’s solid muscle.
My heart skips when he leads me to the table, pulls out a chair for me, and then lightly strokes my shoulder as he says he’s going to check on the food.
The caress ripples through me. It’s like now we’ve broken the wall between us down, he can’t stop touching me.
“I don’t need much,” I say as I watch him in the kitchen, moving with smooth efficiency but his expression a dark frown, as though the food not being perfect is the issue after an evening when my sister went missing and five men tried to kill me. “Really, don’t go to any?—”
“Dinner will be the best I can provide,” he replies seriously.
“But—”
“I own restaurants and cafés because I cannot cook, but I have an excellent chef who knows how to make things fool-proof.”
I grin, but I can’t help but gasp when he brings plates of what looks like plump, deep-fried pastries, potatoes with herbs, stuffed red bell peppers, a salad made bright with beetroot, and bowls of heavenly scented broth.
“This smells so good, is it Russian?” I admire the golden parcels as he places one onto my plate then cuts it for me.
“Piroshki. My favourite quick evening snack when I come back late.”
I’ve never heard of it, but when Maxim takes the seat opposite me, I pick it up and take a bite. Fluffy batter-like bread gives way to smooth cheese and acidic bacon, with fragrant herbs and onion.
I let out a mewl of pure delight. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Maxim smiles, his grey eyes soft, and there’s no trace of the dangerous man who shot five men to save me.
“How is this not all burnt?” I blush a bit as I ask, because I was the reason he was delayed in the shower.
“Thankfully, this is not the first time an… Incident has prevented me eating when I expected,” he says with a twist of wry humour. “So I always ensure the oven turns off of its own accord.”