Page 31 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Her body was his drug, and he was addicted to it.

Nothing in his fantasies could have prepared him for the reality that was her.

He’d thought of her a thousand ways, writhing beneath, clinging to him like he was her anchor, breathless and wet for him, but nothing compared to the way her fingers curled into his back when he touched her like she was a precious jewel, one that he could never let break.

Nothing matched the way she whispered his name like it was the only word in her vocabulary or how perfectly natural her body felt against his, like she was made for him and only him.

This—what he was doing with her—was becoming more than just sex.

It was pulling at his heartstrings. It was an intimately dangerous connection.

He knew her body in and out. Worshipped it. Craved it. Loved it.

Even the aftermath of their sex felt as natural as possible.

He’d sat her on the table in the room and fucked her with her eyes closed, half-asleep and half-begging for him not to stop.

She’d curled up into him after that, her cheek against his chest, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his arm like she was learning what each of them meant.

And there was no awkwardness between them, even after they woke up. Legs tangled together, mouths soft and swollen from kisses. There were no barriers between them, just a quiet acceptance of what was blooming between them—a rose in a field of thorns.

Fedya made love to her again, slower this time, deeper.

He turned her to the side, his arm curled around her waist as he buried himself in her from behind.

His lips were on her neck as he thrust slowly, his fingers rolling and twisting her hickey-decorated nipples.

Her moans were as soft and gentle as the morning breeze from the window, and she’d whispered his name like a prayer, arching into him as his fingers stroked her clit with the same rhythm with which he was fucking her.

Maeve didn’t try to hide how sore she was afterward.

It was evident in the way she winced when she sat up too quickly, in the way her thighs trembled when she tried to stand.

She gave a soft, breathy laugh when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bathroom, all the while pressing kisses to her face.

He sat her down on the edge of the tub while he knelt in front of her. The water was warm and soothing, and he felt her eyes on him as he lathered soap onto a sponge and gently cleaned the places where his hands and mouth had been only hours earlier.

“You,” she murmured, watching as he focused on her body, patting her skin dry with a towel. He reached for a small tin of ointment from the shelf and looked up at her.

“Me?”

“You have a really lovely face.”

Fedya’s lips quirked as he warmed it between his fingers before applying it, smoothing it gently over the sore, tender spots along her inner thighs and hips.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I want you to fuck me again,” she said. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was drunk.

“I will.”

“There.” She pointed at the shower cubicle. “I want you to fuck me there.”

“I will,” he promised, rubbing soothing circles over the bruises on her hips. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to. Right after you can walk.”

She smacked his chest lightly. “I can walk, silly. It’s just a bit difficult.”

“I wonder why.”

She grabbed his face, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. “I’m a bit hungry.”

“Come on,” he said, his heart full and content. He took her hand, ignoring his own need for a shower, and led her out of the bathroom.

In the kitchen, he attempted to teach her how to make pancakes the Russian way.

“It’s called blini or blinchiki,” he explained, beating milk and eggs in a large bowl. “They’re thinner than American pancakes.”

“That’s just a crepe,” Maeve said, sitting on the counter, wrapped in one of his shirts that was oversized for her. Her hands were perched on the counter beside her, and her legs were swinging as she watched him blend in flour.

“Similar, but no,” he responded, setting the bowl down. He grabbed a pan, said, “Oladi is different. Thicker than blini and yeast-free. Yoghurt and baking powder make it fluffy.”

Maeve nodded, silently mouthing the word. Fedya bit back a grin and grabbed a small frying pan. He tossed in a teaspoon of melted butter and set the pan on medium-high heat.

“You need to cook it for one minute,” he explained, pouring the batter into the heated pan, forming a perfect circle.

Maeve leaned over, her stomach growling in anticipation. “Who taught you how to cook?”

“No one,” he said. “I discovered I liked it, and I simply took a class.”

“What?” she laughed. He liked it. “ You took a cooking class?”

Fedya flipped the blini over. “Why is that so funny?”

“Because I find it ironic that you were so dedicated to learning how to cook that you took a class,” she explained, staring at the blini he took out of the pan. “I can’t cook anything. Not even eggs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not even pancakes?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well then,” he said, grabbing another mixing bowl, before lining up a set of ingredients. “Here’s your chance to learn.”

“I will absolutely ruin them.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said. She glared at him as he handed her a whisk. “Mix, zhena .”

She started stirring slowly, cautiously, as if she were mixing blood instead of ordinary batter.

She bit her lip like she did when she painted, looking far too serious for a blini.

Fedya watched her work, sweating as she did so, amused when she spilled flour, dropped a bit of egg yolk on the counter, and nearly sent the bowl flying when she accidentally moved her elbow out of range.

“Okay,” he said, taking the bowl from her. He looked down at the smooth batter, and she gave him a thumbs-up. “Now we flip.”

“Yes, the tricky part.”

“It’s simple.”

“Coming from a dignified chef.”

Fedya poured the batter and demonstrated the wrist movement before flipping. “Just like that. Now you try.”

Maeve tried—attempted. She flipped the first one too early, and it folded in half, streaks of batter racing down the pan. The second one flew sideways onto the stove. The third burned to a crisp.

“I’m done,” she declared, frustration evident in her tone as she moved away from the stove. She glared at it like it personally offended her. “I’m not good at it. I keep wasting the damn thing.”

Fedya pulled her back and stepped behind her, his hands covering hers on the spatula. “Try again. It’s perfectly normal to get it wrong the first time.”

“I already tried three times,” she gritted.

“Now try it the fourth time.” He kissed her neck. “Come on.”

With a deep breath, she flipped the blini, and this time it landed—just barely—on the pan correctly.

She turned around to look at him, her hands on her waist. She was beaming like the sun. “I did that.”

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning at her face. “You did.”

She looked so genuinely happy, so alive over the success of a blini that he wanted to keep that smile on her face forever.

He liked making her happy. He liked teaching her things, learning her habits and moods. He liked the way her eyes lit up when she succeeded, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He loved it so much it terrified him.