Page 80 of Sexting the Bratva Beast

“Gianna is a mafia printzessa. I heard.”

“You knew?”

I shrug. “I figured she’d tell you when she was ready.”

She shakes her head. “How did I not know this? Am I really that stupid?”

“Cartier, no one could ever accuse you of being stupid. You’re the smartest, brightest, kindest person I know. Gianna is your friend. You see the parts of her that no one else gets to see, so it was easy for her to keep that side of her life separated from her friends.”

“What about you?” She sucks on her bottom lip. “I just thought that you were a bad boy.”

“Do you make a habit of fantasizing about bad boys in hospital rooms?”

Her cheeks instantly become rosy. “Only those who I think will live up to the fantasy.”

I lean closer. The cozy blanket, the flickering flames, the fairy lights creating gold highlights in Cartier’s hair, the playfulness in her tone, I’m finding them harder to resist by the second.

“And did I?”

“Every time,” she whispers. “And more.”

I smile. “More, huh?” My lips brush hers. “I’ve barely gotten started.”

She swallows. “I’m counting on it.”

Our mouths crash together. I fist her hair, holding her close and tilting her head back as she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down onto the cushions with her.

Then I feel something cold against the back of my neck and freeze.

I grip her wrists and lower her arms to see her finger, the emerald in the center of the engagement ring shimmering like the surface of a pool in sunlight.

“The ring.”

It isn’t often that I’m lost for words. If I have nothing to say, I generally find it easier to remain silent. But right now, with the ring reflecting the flames in the fireplace, there’s a whole bunch of stuff I want to say, but I can’t find the right words for.

“Yes.” Her gaze locks onto mine, and I can’t tell if the tears are in her eyes or mine.

“Yes, you’ll marry me?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you. If the offer still stands.”

I cut her off with a kiss. The ring shouldn’t change a thing, but it does. I’m kissing my fiancée. I’m kissing the most beautiful woman in the world who just agreed to marry me. I’m kissing the woman who trusts me with her life, who woke up in Russia and didn’t freak the fuck out and try to escape, who showed me how to build a snowman and lose gracefully in a snowball fight.

“The offer would stand for the next fucking hundred years,” I pull away long enough to say. “The offer would still be there if you were gray and wrinkled and using a walking stick.”

She chuckles. “You’d be gray and wrinkled too, don’t forget.”

“I’m a bad boy. I have an image to live up to.”

“Being a good boy might suit you.” She studies my face as if trying to picture me with blond hair, blue eyes, and aBaywatchtan.

“You might not love me as much.”

Amused crinkles appear at the corners of her eyes. “How much do you think I love you?”

“This much.” I raise her hand to my mouth and kiss the ring. “Enough to wear my ring. You realize this means forever, right?”

“Damn. I thought it was only for Christmas.”