Page 24 of Bratva's Secret Girl

This happens often? Jealousy spikes me. “I guess sex is distracting.”

I wouldn’t know, but saying that makes me feel a bit better. More casual. Less naive.

“No.” Maxim scowls. “Not that. I’ve never brought a woman here before.”

“Then…?” The enquiry falls from my mouth.

“Usually it’s business—killing someone—that interrupts my evening,” he says stiffly. “That’s what I meant.”

There’s an awkward pause.

He’s a mafia boss. I keep forgetting. I know so many things about this man, but I didn’t realise he was Bratva. I had no idea it would melt me when he kissed my ear. I was clueless that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill to protect me.

“Please, eat.”

I flush when that word echoes what he said in the shower about eatingme. I wasn’t aware that he’d do that with such enthusiasm, either.

I’ve fancied myself in love with Maxim since the beginning, and repeated in my mind that it was absurd. But I find as I eat at his table and he tells me about each dish, that I’m falling further into this feeling I shouldn’t call love. The broth turns out to be borscht, which is tomato, beef, and vegetables, and is really delicious, but what I adore is the slices of his life that he describes when he first had a dish, or why he likes it.

“I’m an orphan too,” I tell him, impulsively, when he reveals that the herb and garlic roast potatoes remind him of those he had as a child in a Russian orphanage.

Then it’s as easy as all the times at the end of work as we talk about our families. My heart sticks in my throat because for all that I’m worried about my sister and this has been insane, now we’re clean again, and at a table, he’s the same big gentle bear of a man as I thought.

But with food, and all his attention focussed on me. We eat until there’s almost nothing left of the amazing dinner, that although Maxim brushes off compliments in favour of his Russian chef and housekeeper, I can tell that he has taste, and rewards his staff for a job well done.

“That was delicious, I couldn’t eat another bite, thank you,” I say when we’ve slowed to only picking at a little more every five minutes and he continues to offer me more. Even though I’m not ready for this to end. I could talk with Maxim all night.

“Certain? I’ve got dessert.” He gives me that sweet smile.

Me. I want to be his dessert.

13

MAXIM

I place the cherry and honey cake on the table, and as she gazes up at me, she licks her lips.

My cock springs.

“That looks delicious,” she says, breathily.

I have to sit back down and adjust my trousers—again, for what feels like the seventieth time in the last thirty minutes—to avoid my erection gaining main character energy.

When she pushes her spoon into the pink and cream-coloured icing and draws out soft cake with a flash of red cherry nearly break me. The sounds of enjoyment as she swallows mean I have to do deep breathing exercises and try to control myself by shoving cake into my mouth.

“This is an amazing home,” she says as she takes another bite.

I glow at the compliment, like I’m the younger, inexperienced one here. But I crave knowing more about her, and this has given me a reason to ask.

“I’m glad you like it.” Saves having to rip it all out and replace everything. “What sort of place would you like to live in?”

We’ve never ventured into such personal territory as we have during dinner today. I’ve restrained myself to talking aboutneutral things. Books. Movies. Since we met, I’ve been doing my best to be what I thought she might want. Not a gruff, coarse, gritty bear of a mafia boss, but a kind, soft, cuddly bear.

I’m not sure if the tattoos help.

Killing multiple people in front of her, and inadvertently spraying her with the blood was probably a giveaway that I’m not quite as harmless as I was trying to make out.

I’ve even started watching romcoms.