Page 34 of Sexting the Bratva Beast

Cartier covers my hand with hers and moves it lower.

I freeze. “Not here. Not like this.”

She stops swaying to the music and peers at me over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I know, baby.” Every muscle in my body is tense. “It isn’t you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

It’s every other fucking asshole in the place.

Like the one that has joined us on the podium while I was distracted.

The guy is either on crack, or he has the biggest fucking death wish in the history of time. Cartier is sandwiched between us, barely moving to the music now that the creep has invaded her space. Uninvited. And his eyes are on her breasts like she gavehim permission to ogle her in the middle of a fucking nightclub, while she’s dancing with her man.

“Fuck off, dude.” My voice carries above the music.

Cartier’s body goes rigid against me. She’s trying to put as much distance between her and the loser in the pink paisley shirt without telling him to beat it herself.

She doesn’t want any trouble.

I get it.

But unfortunately, my reputation hasn’t reached paisley-dude, and I’ve never been the kind of guy who avoids trouble when I feel it’s due.

Right now, it’s about as overdue as a credit card bill flashing red warning signs in his face while the debt collectors knock on the front door.

“Back the fuck off, asshole.” I position myself between him and Cartier.

I can’t be much clearer than that.

And the stupid fucker tries to shimmy around me, a goofy doped-up grin on his face. “No harm in looking, is there?”

My fist collides with his jaw. I watch his lower face violently swing sideways in slow motion, the shock registering in his eyes around the same time that my knuckles crack bone. He flies backwards off the podium like a starfish. The dancers part company to avoid being body-slammed, and he hits the floor with a dull thud.

Cartier screams.

I turn around and find her staring at the unconscious guy on the floor, her hands covering her face.

“We should go.”

I don’t even recognize the emotion in my own voice, but when I reach for her hand, she backs away from me. She would stumble off the other side of the podium if I didn’t catch her. But she shoves my hands from her waist and jumps down to check that the guy’s alright.

Security guards in black suits come over to assess the situation, and the crowd backs away further, giving them space. The biggest bodyguard takes one look at me and hoists paisley-dude over his shoulder. “Time for you to leave,” he says as they carry him away.

I reach for Cartier’s hand, but she snatches it away and marches towards the exit without a backward glance.

I walk with her, matching her stride. I can feel white-hot waves of anger rolling off her shoulders and slapping me in the face. It’s more sobering than an ice-cold dip in the Baltic Sea. I don’t want Cartier to waste her anger on me. I’ll always do fucking stupid things, but I need her to understand that I will never hurt her.

Ever.

I would rather die than hurt her.

Outside, the cool night air chills my face; it does nothing for my throbbing knuckles.

Cartier spots the car waiting on the side of the road and starts walking in the opposite direction. I grab her arm and spin her around to face me.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” She stares at my hand until I release her arm. “Don’t even think about following me.”