Page 1 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
Chapter 1
Audrey
Ican feel his eyes on me.
Konstantin Martynov is not a man you want watching you. Even if you fantasize about the things he could do to you right here in his luxury skyrise.
Konstantin Martynov, mafia boss and billionaire, CEO of not one, but seven companies. Globally.
“Are you okay?”
The question is a hiss, and I lick my lips before turning to face Chrissy, my best friend and co-accountant for Martynov Global Holdings.
“You’re…sweating.”
She’s right. My body is reacting to the fact thathe’snear, and watching me.
Every. Single. Time his eyes have landed on me in the past year, my bodyreacts.
Ishouldbe afraid. Knees trembling with fear, heart stuttering with anxiety. Instead, a shiver down my spine makes my shoulders roll back, nipples erect and poorly hidden under a satin blouse.
Konstantin Martynov could kill me with a look, but I’m pretty sure he could do other sinful things to me if I ever dared to be alone with him.
“I’m fine, Chris. Just a little warm.”
She cocks an eyebrow, graciously not mentioning my breasts as I hug manila folders tightly. “Mmm. This office is air conditioned, Audrey, and kept at a perfect ambient temperature. Are you sure you aren’t sick or something?”
Oh, I’m sick alright, because no one should regularly fantasize about theirliterallykiller boss. And that’s not even taking into consideration the fact that I have a boyfriend.
The timelessswishof a tempered glass door opening interrupts us.
The man himself steps into the space, eyes sweeping across dark wood and metal desks and high-end electronics. Only the best for a global criminal enterprise.
Mr. Martynov looks like a fallen angel of the worst kind. His silver hair gleams, grizzled jawline perfectly mirrored by a sharp collar and dark bespoke suit. Four bodyguards back him, each a tower of muscle, tattoos, and silence.
His dark eyes find me and land on my parted lips.
“Good morning Mr. Martynov,” the four other accountants murmur demurely, eyes down.
I make the mistake of being unable to look away. All I can hope is that he doesn’t see this as a threat, or a challenge, because I’m already in deep. And not just because my panties are damp.
“Good morning ladies.” The words rumble from his chest, darkened by his thick accent. He strides slowly across the floor; I’m the only thing standing between Konstantin Martynov and his office, down a private hallway and guarded at all times.
Taking a step back, the too-thin heel of my Manolos catches on a dropped pen and I stumble, stifling a cry at the pain searing through my ankle.
A large hand shoots out, catching my upper arm and wrenching me up.
Right into Martynov’s grip.
His other hand presses my body closer to his. “You’re okay?” he asks, voice even and void of emotion as always.
But his eyes flash caramel. I swear the manila folder between us should be bursting into flame with the rush of heat that takes over my body.
“I’m…fine. Thank you, Mr. Martynov.”
My gaze drops to the floor. And the stupid dogtooth-patterned heels that got me in this predicament.
He steps away and it’s as if the whole room is holding their breath; all the accountants, all four guards, and the poor cleaning woman who is on her way to stock the break room.