Page 25 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

My mouth snaps shut.

No matter how badly I want to protest, I know I’ll obey.

Chapter 8

Konstantin

It’s a breezy autumn day, crisp and alive with the leaves chattering in the trees. Audrey is standing under a streetlight when I get out of the car.

The wind lifts her skirt, and she palms it down quickly, a blush on her cheeks.

Good.That means she did what I told her to do.

The thought that she’s standing there without panties on, waiting for me, the cool air playing over her flesh… it’s all I can do not to pick her up, carry her up to her little apartment, and fuck her until she’s screaming my name.

Instead, I get close—so close I can feel the heat of her body, smell the scent of her freshly washed hair—and slip a cell phone into her hand.

“This is yours.”

She turns it over in her palm, looking at it quizzically. “Um, thank you, but I already have a phone?—”

Grabbing her wrist with one hand, I deftly tap the screen with the other. Her pulse races under my thumb. I pull the contacts up. There’s only one entry.

“This is my personal number. Not through the operator, not through the emergency line—mynumber.”

Audrey looks up at me with wide eyes, comprehension dawning.

“It will be the only number in this phone.Do you understand?”

She nods, fingers closing around the brand new, sleek phone as she holds it tightly to her chest.

Turning, I start for the Alfa Romeo. Audrey takes a hesitant step behind me.

“Konstantin?”

The sound of my name on her lips sends a tremor through my muscles, like a small earthquake. I’m momentarily caught off guard by just how easily this woman can unground me. I’ve fought men with my bare hands, killed with knives and guns, woken from a coma, survived starving on the streets.

And I’d do it all again to fall at her feet.

The feeling is overwhelming, and I can’t let her see it—how much control she hasjust by saying my name.

So, I wait.

She bites her lip in the silence, then asks, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Get in the car.”

Twenty minutes later, thanks to a lack of traffic, I park the purring car outside of a newly-built house. I chose it myself out of our catalog, holding back from buying her the biggest and most ostentatious house I could offer.

I don’t know Audrey well—yet—but I can tell by her style that more isn’t necessarily better, for her. Just that one evening in her apartment, even with my focus on her pain and fear, I gathered enough to know that she likes comfort.

Closeness.

Two cars pull up down the street behind us. I don’t need to explain to Audrey who they are; the men watch as I get out of the Alfa. Two follow, standing a respectable distance away in the cover of Japanese maples.

The house is a 1930s style country cape, painted slate blue with white accents. The transom door is arched, the windows large and diamond paned, looking out onto a yard that I paid an abhorrent amount to make look lush and old-growth.

When Audrey takes my hand and steps out of the car, it’s easy to see that she already loves it.