by Cathryn Cade
When she heard the boys calling her name, she looked up in delight, and waved. Blackie retreated to a safe distance to observe as the twins dashed across the lawn to her and flung themselves onto the foot of the lounger, Dash on his tummy, Kick on his knees. They were clearly just out of the shower as their hair was wet, their faces freshly scrubbed, and they wore only gym shorts.
"Sara! Sara!" they yelled, despite the fact she was right in front of them. "We came to 'vite you to supper! At our house! Our Papa is makin' steaks! And cheese 'tatoes! And you can bring the salad if you want, 'cause papa don't got any green shit inna house!"
Sara laughed, because who could help it? They were just so cute, although she intended to have a word with their papa about his language around them.
"Wow, thanks, guys." She tapped her finger on her cheek, pretending to think. "Y'know, I think I have time in my busy evening for supper with my two favorite guys. I just have one question—if I bring some yummy raw veggies and ranch dip, you know anyone that will help me eat them?"
They looked to each other, and then back at her, a crafty gleam in their big blue eyes. "If you bring cookies for dessert, we will."
She laughed again. "O-ooh, sneaky. For you guys ... I can do that. Did your papa say what time?"
"He said soon as you get ready, 'cause he bought wine. And you hafta drink it 'cause he hates that shit."
"O-kay. Guess I better get crack-a-lackin' then, hmm?"
"Uh-huh. And we can get crack-a-wackin' too, if you need help. Papa said."
Sara did not doubt it for an instant. The big Russian was pulling out all the stops to get her together with him and the boys for the evening.
She just quite wasn't sure why.
With the boys enthusiastic 'help', which consisted mainly of them chattering to her about their day and asking her questions about everything she did, Sara laid out cut broccoli, carrots, cucumber, snap peas and cherry tomatoes on an oversize red Fiesta-ware plate, covered it with plastic wrap, poured some Ranch dressing in a small blue bowl and covered that, and retrieved the rest of the snickerdoodles from the freezer compartment. Since they were already wrapped on a plate, her offerings were now ready to go.
"Okay," she said. "While I run upstairs, can you take Blackie his dog food?"
They headed outside, and she dashed up the stairs to refresh her lipgloss, fluff her hair and take a deep breath and let it out.
It was just supper. She was going to spend time with the boys, not their father.
And she would be coming home alone, without their father.
The boys led the way back to their house, where Stick stood waiting on the porch, one hip cocked, thumbs in his jeans pockets. When Sara narrowed her eyes at him, he merely smiled, and held the door open for her to carry her plate of veggies and dip inside. The boys had shared custody of the cookies.
"I brought the green shit," she murmured as she passed him. "Where's my wine?"
The boys weren't the only ones whose language was suffering from exposure to him.
He chuckled, and followed her inside, a hand on the small of her back. "I'll pour you a glass."
The kitchen was blessedly cool, and smelled deliciously of potatoes and cheese. She took the glass of red wine he handed her. "Smells great. You cook, hmm?"
Stick raised a brow at her. "Of course I cook. Although, you weren't here, we might be eating frozen potatoes of one kind or another with our steaks."
She sipped her wine, which was smooth and mellow. "Sounds like my dad. Although it would have been frozen burger patties or hot dogs on the grill."
Stick fielded the plate of cookies deftly from the boys and set it on the back of the island. They immediately headed off at a run on some errand only they knew. Stick beckoned for Sara to follow him out onto the porch.
A huge, black gas grill with chrome handles stood by the south wall of the house, smoking gently. A platter of seasoned raw steaks sat ready on the side tray. Sara watched him open the grill and distribute the meat. Actually she admired his biceps as he did so—beefcake instead of beef.
"You grew up in a small town?" he asked.
"Grangeville, Idaho, population three thousand, give or take. It was a good place to grow up. Then, when my dad died, my Mom moved us up here to be near family. She went back home after a few years, but I stayed to work and go to NIC."
"And that's how you ended up working for the law." He leaned against the railing, glass of beer in his hand, looking impossibly tough, handsome and capable.
"Yep, I went over to the light side." She sipped her wine and looked back at him over her glass.
"It's better here," he told her with a wink. "Best of both worlds. Live how you wanna live, invoke the law when you need it."
She frowned. "Speaking of the law ... I realize it's none of my business, but—"
"You ask me what you want to ask, milaya."
Hoo boy, here came that warm, floaty feeling in her heart. "Okay. I heard the boys' mother was up for parole. That must be a concern for you ... if she tries to get near them."
"A concern?" He shook his head. "Fuck, you're polite. Yeah, milaya, I was worried about that bitch talking her way out, trying to come around Sasha and Alexey. But now ... I don't think it's gonna be a problem. Someday I'll tell you more, but not now."
"Oh, well, good. So, Sasha and Alexey? Very handsome names. Let me guess, Sasha is Dash, and Alexey is Kick."
He opened the grill and flipped the sizzling steaks with a long pair of tongs. "Da. Since they learned to walk, those two have been on the move. Little hellions."
"They're perfect," she told him, frowning up at him.
Inside the kitchen, something crashed.
"I'm glad you think so," Stick said blandly. "Go see what that was, hmm? Call me if there's blood."
Sara was already through the doors, alarm surging through her. "Boys? What is it? Are you ... oh, no."
She stopped short at the end of the kitchen island. Her tray of artfully arranged veggies lay on the oak floor, the plate in pieces, the vegetables strewn across the floor. Kick stood on one of the bar stools by the island, a toy airplane in his hand. Dash was peering at her over the top of the island counter, both with identical wide-eyed innocence.
"Let me guess," she said, hands on her hips. "You had to take off in your plane, just as the veggie cops drove up."
They both grinned. "Yeah. The veggies was tryin' to shoot us down," Kick told her. "But we got away."
Behind her, the door opened again and the rich scent of grilled steak came in along with Stick.
"Kick, stay where you are," he ordered. "Dash, back up. Once I get the broken pieces cleaned up, you two pick up every bit of vegetable. And you apologize to Sara for ruining her plate."
"Sorry, Sara."
She narrowed her eyes at them, her heart melting at their sincerity. "Just for that, you both have to try one of every veggie—after I wash them off."
"Even the broc'li?" Dash asked, a look of horror on his face.
Sara caught his father's eye and they both laughed. "Especially the broccoli. You'll see, it's yummy with ranch dip."
A short time later the freshly washed veggies were on a new plate, the floor had been swept, the steaks and potatoes were on the table, and they all sat down to eat. Ivan took the end, with a boy on either side, and Sara sat by Kick.
Dinner passed without further accidents. The food was delicious, Sara helped Kick cut his steak while Ivan helped Dash, and they talked about Blackie. Ivan reminded her the dog needed rabies shots, the boys wanted him to have a studded collar. Sara offered to let him sleep in their barn. The boys were in favor, Stick was not.
"He's in your yard, he'll bark if any varmints come around--four-legged or otherwise. We will get a dog-house. In the winter, we'll bring him in somewhere."
Sara was too startled by the permanence implied by this to argue with him.
For dessert, the boys had ice cream and a cookie each.
Stick, Sara learn
ed, did not like sweets. Actually he told her he only ate one kind of sweet, and gave her a hot look that made her eyes widen in indignation, even as her pussy clenched. The big rat.
He merely winked, and since the comment had clearly gone over the twins' heads, she dropped the subject.
Then the three Vanko males walked her back to her house. Sara was surprised when Stick held the door for the boys to follow her inside. "Did you want to play a hand of cards?" she asked wryly.
"Not here. We're here to help you get your things. You're spending the night at my place."
"I am not!"
His hand on the newel post, he gave her a look. "Yeah, you are. You're not here alone again until this place has decent locks, and security surveillance."
That was sweet. And, so maybe she had been nervous as hell about being here alone after dark. "Well, you wait here. I can pack my own bag, thanks very much."
He gave her an evil smile. "Oh, no, the boys will help you. I'll be down here, measuring your doors and windows." He held up a carpenter's slide tape.
The boys immediately raced away up her stairs.
"Gee, thanks." Sara ran after them, because God only knew what they could find to get into up there.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
To Sara's amazement, after the boys were in their beds, Stick came into his living room and tossed her one of the remotes for his huge TV. She set down her fresh glass of wine and took it.
"Choose a movie for us to watch," he told her, and sprawled back on the big sofa near her, a fresh glass of beer in his hand.
"You're letting a woman have the remote?" she asked. "I'm deeply honored."
"Smart ass. Just don't choose anything with singing—that shit makes me nauseous."
"Darn, and I so wanted to watch re-runs of Glee," she muttered, but she worked the remote. "Wow, you have three streaming services? You must watch a lot of movies."
"No, but when I do, I want what I like. And the boys like their cartoons."
Sara chose a new comedy she hadn't seen, with a plump, wise-cracking female lead and a handsome, Hollywood heart-throb playing the straight man. "Is this okay?"
He shrugged. "Sure. She has nice tits, although not as nice as yours."
Sara smacked him on the arm, and he winked at her.
The movie was fast-paced and funny. Stick laughed too, although not as hard as she did. When it was over, they sat for a few moments, their silence relaxed. Then he picked up the remote. "My turn to choose."
"Just don't choose anything with a kidnapping. That's liable to make me nauseous."
He chose an action-adventure movie, no surprise there. Sara dozed off a few times. The third time, she woke as she was scooted over the smooth leather of the sofa to Stick's side, his arm around her.
"I'mma go t'bed," she mumbled.
"Sh-shh, just relax," he told her, his voice a soothing rumble under her ear. Sara wriggled into a comfier position with her upper leg draped between his, her arm across his chest, head on his broad shoulder, and followed his advice. She really wanted to stay awake, because his embrace was way too good to waste on sleep.
Apparently she said this aloud, because he chuckled, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and patted her bottom, then continued to watch his movie.
Sara did fall asleep, and stayed that way until her living mattress heaved under her. She lifted her head with a jerk. "What? Are the boys okay?"
"They're fine, sladkiy moye. I've gotta go over to the clubhouse for a bit. You go on up to bed."
Stick's voice was low and soft, as was the look he gave her in the lamplight. Sara let him pull her to her feet, and tipped her face up for a kiss, which she got with interest. He gave her a warm squeeze and patted her ass. "Go on now. I'll see you in the morning."
"'kay. Be careful." She wandered up the stairs, peeked in on the boys, then went in and washed her face and brushed her teeth, mostly on auto-pilot. As she put on her pajamas, the low rumble of a big Harley passed under her bedroom window and faded in the night.
It sounded like safety and adventure at the same time.
Except that once Stick was gone, a dark figure crept into her dreams.
Twig loomed over her again, and this time, she held the beveling knife in her grasp, but he had one also—three times as big as hers. He was bigger too, and even more dangerous.
He leered at her and invited her to come and get him. Then he moved in—fast, in the way of dreams, until his dark shape blotted out the light, and she knew with sickening finality that this time he was going to cut her.
Sara woke to a real man looming over the bed.
She exploded with a strangled cry of terror, lifting both arms to smack him away as hard as she could, her heart pounding, breath sobbing in her throat. She scrabbled backward in the bed, thumping against the wall at the head.
“No! No, get away from me,” she gasped. “Get away.”
"Sara," the looming figure said firmly, in Stick's deep, authoritative voice. "Milaya, it's me. Calm down."
He flicked the bedside light on, and Sara took one look at him and leapt into his arms, clinging to him with all her strength.
"Ivan. Oh, Ivan. I thought ... I thought he was back."
His powerful arms closed around her, and he held her close, his mouth against her temple, rocking her in his arms. "No. No, he'll never hurt you, or any woman again. I swear it."
She nodded, and buried her face in his throat. He smelled of Stick, and the out-of-doors and cigar smoke.
"Okay. Okay. But ... sweet baby Jesus, I hate knives."
He made a deep sound of humor and assent in his chest. "Believe me, I understand."
He held her for a long moment, and then straightened. Sara hung on to him.
"Wait. Ivan, could you ... could you stay with me?" She did not want to be alone with the echo of terror still edging her mind.
"Da, but not in this bed, it's too small. Come to my bed."
So she did. He took her hand and led her to his bedroom, with his huge, king-sized bed, and held back the covers for her to climb in. And when he undressed and slid into bed, she moved over into his arms.
"You're naked," she said. Although why, she wasn't sure. It was Stick, after all.
"I sleep in the raw," he told her. "Always have."
She presumed he didn't usually go to sleep with the kind of impressive erection that was poking her in the belly. She squirmed a little so her pajama top lifted, and the hot, silky head of his cock lay against her skin. It felt so very good, she had to touch it with her fingertips. When she closed her hand around him, he grunted and pushed himself into her grasp.
"You keep doing that, we're not going to sleep," he told her, his hand already moving down inside her knit sleep shorts to cup her ass, his longest finger sliding into the crevice there.
"I was kind of hoping we wouldn't," she breathed, and then gave a squeak of shock as she found herself flipped onto her back, with a big, muscular, horny biker between her legs.
He pulled up her top to bare her breasts to his hairy chest, pulled off her shorts and found her wet folds with the head of his cock. "Now this," he growled, pushing home. "This is worth riding straight home, instead of staying to have a drink with my brothers."
"Good," she told him, wrapping her legs around him and digging her heels into his hard ass. "Now make it worth waking up for."
“Oh, I can promise you that, woman.” And he did.
This time when she slept, it was the deep and boneless sleep of a sated and perfectly safe woman.
The next morning, over coffee and cereal, Stick informed Sara that he was taking her on a ride. The boys had already eaten, and were playing trucks on the living room sofa and ottoman.
She stared at him, then remembered to swallow her mouthful of granola. "A ride?"
"On my bike." He was watching her intently. "Marta is coming to watch the boys."
A ride on his motorcycle? Sara pretended to chase a slice of banana around her bowl, her he
art leaping. What did that mean? Oh, sheesh, she was being an idiot. He was just offering her a treat, it didn't mean anything more. And if it did, she wouldn't accept anyway.
She shrugged. "Okay. Guess that means I get to wear my new jacket, right?"
"Da, since that's why I gave it to you," he said dryly. "And wear jeans and boots, which your girls say you have. The tailpipes can give a nasty burn on your leg."
"I have boots," she assured him. A pair of black western boots she'd bought on sale, on a whim, then worn only a few times. They’d look fantastic with her jeans and the jacket. "But I need a helmet."
"Da. I'll ask Marta to bring one to you."
"What time?"
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It read eight-thirty. "Ten o'clock. Be ready, I don't like to wait around."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Da, President Vanko. I'll be ready."
He nodded, his eyes gleaming. "Respect, I like it. You can call me that next time I fuck you."
Sara choked on her drink of coffee.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When Sara climbed on Stick's big, gleaming, vibrating motorcycle behind him, and balanced her feet on the pegs he indicated, she felt as precarious and unbalanced as a dancer on one leg—someone else's leg. But she slipped her arms around his hard torso, and felt better. Until he revved the big motor, lifted his foot and they started to roll along the drive—then she wanted to demand he stop the machine and let her off.
But since she was determined not to be that big a weenie-butt, she held on to Stick, leaned with him instead of flinching the other way when they turned onto the county road, and managed to keep from digging her nails into his jacket too hard as they picked up speed. The gleaming helmet on her head, which was surprisingly comfortable, muffled the roar of the wind, although Sara could feel the ends of her hair flapping.
Stick, who had tied a bandanna over his head and lifted another over his nose, mouth and chin below his mirrored sunglasses, sat his bike as comfortably as if it were part of him. Sara looked at the cars they passed, wishing she could see what they saw. No doubt about it, he was hawt, and the women they passed were thinking she was a lucky woman.