Page 9 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Audrey

I t’s like waking up on a cloud.

That’s all I can think as I burrow deeper into the duvet, the scent unrecognizable; definitely not the bed in my apartment…

Then it comes back in a rush. Especially when my pussy throbs, making me draw my knees up.

I open my eyes and peer out from the pile of luxurious bedding. Cream, blue, white; the room is beautiful. The windows are tall, letting morning light spill in, and the furniture is simple but gives off an air of elegance.

My heart aches with how much I love every detail.

How did he know?

Konstantin.

Feeling the stickiness between my thighs, I sit up with a blush, expecting—what?

I’m alone.

Of course he’s not here; he’s Konstantin Martynov.

The blush turns into a flush of embarrassment. Would a man like him ever actually spend the night in bed with a woman like me? Wake next to me, so I don’t feel so… alone?

With a shiver, I remember that as much as I love the décor, I don’t actually know this house. I barely remember the layout, and that makes me feel vulnerable, so I slip out of the bed quickly.

There’s a trickle of warmth down my thigh. Ignoring thoughts of the previous night—of how easily I gave in to him—I pad over to the ensuite and refuse to look in the mirror, searching out hand towels and running warm water.

Should I… clean up here? Take a bath? It’s tempting; the clawfoot tub is beautiful, and I wouldn’t mind soaking. The last two weeks, the stress, have left me tense and on edge.

Last night was the first time I felt any kind of release.

Any kind of mindless pleasure, giving in entirely to someone else’s control.

Oh, God. The way I just let him do whatever he wanted to me.

Okay, I need to be realistic about this. Glancing out the window, it’s obviously well past morning. The neighborhood is quiet; I can barely see the next house over through the oak trees, and there’s a sense of privacy here.

How the hell am I going to get home?

I’m not even sure which direction the city is in, although I’m sure once I clear the trees I’ll be able to see the buildings. Craning, I try to see if the cars are still parked down the street—after all, he’s been having men watching me. He made that very clear.

He wouldn’t leave me all alone in this house, right? With no security, no protection?

Especially considering I might already be conceiving his child.

Fifteen minutes later I’m relatively cleaned up, and trying to decide if I should call a cab company, an Uber, or just wait until he calls.

Two cell phones sit on the bedside table. My old, scratched up phone and the gleaming new one he gave me the night before.

Should I text him? Surely he’ll be at the Spire by now. Shouldn’t I be there too, now that I’ve missed several days of work?

Anxiety makes me feel itchy, restless, and I jump when there’s a light knock on the doorframe.

“Miss Wolfe.”

A pretty older woman stands there, dressed in what is clearly a starched work uniform. There are several bags next to me that look out of place in the butter-colored hallway.

Because they’re my bags.

A beat-up duffle bag with a loud, ochre-and-blue pattern and several suitcases I found in thrift stores: worn leather in varying stages of falling apart, teals and browns and a dark red.

“Mr. Martynov had your things packed and brought here. At least, for a few days, until you move in. There is a company waiting for your call today whenever you would like to do so. Can I make you breakfast?”

She looks at me inquiringly, as if it’s totally normal for a mafia boss to buy a house, furnish it, hire staff, fuck his mistress in it, and then… what? Expect her to live here?

“Sorry, he… wants me to move in?”

Her eyes narrow briefly, quickly. “Did he not clarify that last night, when he showed you the house?”

Oh, he did more than show me the house, but she can already guess that from the rumpled state of my clothes and the bed.

His words from the night before swim back to my memory: This is your home, Audrey.

The key.

It sits on the nightstand, beautifully intricate and heavy.

You’ll earn it.

My core throbs with the memory, and the promise of just what I’d have to do to earn it. Ugh, I shouldn’t be so turned on by this arrangement.

After all, I’m letting my boss fuck me until I’m pregnant. I’m enjoying my mafia, murdering boss fucking me until I’m pregnant with his child.

It’s all too much, and my eyes well with tears. The woman, whose name I don’t know, takes a gentle step back.

“I’ll give you some privacy, miss. When you’re ready, I’ll be downstairs.”

She disappears, leaving my bags just outside the door and the start of tears rolling down my cheeks.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

When I finally pad downstairs, everything is like a dream.

There are vases of flowers—hydrangeas, baby’s breath, bluebells, something pink and layered I don’t recognize—on almost every surface.

“Those are camellias.”

Startled, I turn to find the woman watching me from the open archway that leads to the kitchen. She nods to the pink flowers that look more like small shrubs, thick and hearty.

“They symbolize longing,” she adds with a knowing glance before disappearing into the kitchen.

I follow. It’s homey, not too big, not too small. There’s a long butcher block island with seats on one side and windows that look out onto the wooded yard, now draped in gold and red for the fall.

“Um, I’m Audrey,” I introduce myself. “Do you work here… all the time?”

She hides a small smile, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Yes. I used to work for Mr. Martynov at another home, but he asked me to move here instead, full-time. My name is Kashmere. What would you like in your omlette, Miss Audrey?”

“Oh, um, anything is fine. Tomatoes? Cheese?” I shrug and she laughs, turning on the gas stove. “Do you mind?” I ask after a few moments, sliding into one of the island chairs. “Working here, I mean. I’m sorry if it was a surprise.”

Kashmere shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t, he asked me about two weeks ago now.”

Two… weeks?

But he only proposed this arrangement last week.

I only agreed yesterday!

My mouth falls open in disbelief, but I don’t know whether to be angry or confused. Surely he couldn’t have planned all this…

No.

Ignoring my frustration, I get up and wander around the kitchen, peering into the living area and then strolling back toward the refrigerator.

Inside is an assortment of things I love strawberries, real ones, not perfectly shaped and huge but small and dark red; hazelnut creamer; a stash of brie; butter lettuce and full drawers that I don’t open, surprised.

It’s unnerving, and I’m not sure how to react. Everything is so perfect. I sit down and try to chat with Kashmere as she cooks, asking about her family, where she lives, and what she does when she’s not at work. I’m happy to find we both love reading and promise to trade books with her.

Once I have mine moved here.

As I eat Kashmere excuses herself; she needs to pick up the last of the linens from the dry cleaner and stop at the store.

I wash the dishes slowly, watching the soapy water slip down the drain. This is all so… strange. Just last night, Konstantin brought me here and made me his.

It was visceral, electric, layered. I haven’t been fucked like that ever, and it scares me how much I liked it.

“Maybe I’m actually crazy,” I whisper, making my way back upstairs to continue exploring. “Maybe he did punish me, and I’m in a coma somewhere, fantasizing all this.”

Because there’s no way Konstantin Martynov would pick me. Especially after I stole from him.

In the master bathroom, once again I find all of my essentials. Down to the very hairbrush I like to use, so I guess I won’t have to bother getting that from the apartment.

There’s a blue, orange, and white tube of hand cream on the counter and I pick it up, feeling both overwhelmed and deeply seen. It’s my favorite, something I order directly from Italy at an absurd cost: Santa Maria Novella.

Popping the cap open, I squeeze a little in my palms and revel in the lemon scent as it opens up my senses.

And then I hear the click of heels.

“So,” Olena Belov, Konstantin’s right hand “man”, stands in the doorway with narrowed eyes. “ This is what has had him so preoccupied.”