by Renee Rose
I’m not running away from Maxim permanently. That would accomplish nothing. He controls my cash. And my mother’s. I wish I could say I’m one of those girls who gives the middle finger to money and walks away, but I’m not ready for that. And my mom needs me to do this.
Maxim claims my father put him in charge to keep me safe. Well, I don’t mind letting him scramble a bit to make that happen, then.
Same thing I used to do to the guards my father assigned to protect us.
I get up and quietly put on a pair of yoga pants, a jogging bra, and sneakers. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and smile to myself. Me going out in nothing but a jogging bra might give him a conniption alone.
No, that’s wrong. He told me yesterday I should flaunt it. That unfamiliar sense of warmth snakes through me again.
I quickly and silently pull on my sneakers and shoes and slip out the bedroom door.
There are guys in the living room, the same as last night.
Maxim hadn’t bothered to introduce me to everyone, but some I recognized. Ravil, obviously, their pakhan.
I didn’t get to meet his mistress, the pretty blonde who’d been curled up with him on the couch. She looked pregnant, which goes against bratva rules. Of course, my father had a child, too, but he kept us secreted away. We never lived with him. He never married my mother or officially claimed me as his daughter until he put me in his trust.
There’s no sign of Ravil and his pretty girlfriend this morning, but a young man in a Matrix t-shirt sits at a table in the living room, working at a computer. Another, who looks just like him—must be his twin—stands in the kitchen. The beefy guy who stands well over six and a half feet high and is almost as broad leans on the breakfast bar, eating scrambled eggs from a frying pan.
“Good morning,” I say brightly in English. It’s nice to practice my English again, and I noticed they all spoke it with each other last night.
“The princess emerges,” the twin in the kitchen says.
I flip him off.
He chuckles. “I’m Nikolai. We weren’t properly introduced last night.”
I pass him without offering my hand. “I’m going for a run,” I chirp.
“Maxim!” the other twin calls out. “Your bride is running away.” His tone of voice is more like the one you’d use when asking your roommate to bring a glass of water than a real alarm, and I find myself liking these guys, despite myself. They bear the same bratva tattoos but seem casual and friendly. Nothing like my father’s men back home.
At the same time, the giant guy moves faster than I could’ve predicted, getting up from the breakfast bar and blocking the doorway.
I expected as much. I’ve lived with overbearing security guards my whole life. I definitely know how to deal with them. I press my body up against the giant’s. “You must be the bodyguard,” I purr, trailing a finger across his meaty forearm, which is folded over his chest.
“Sasha,” Maxim growls a warning from the doorway to our bedroom suite. I hear his wet feet slap against the floor as he comes toward me.
I don’t look his way, but I answer him. “Oh, you don’t like it when I touch him, do you?” I purr and stroke up the enforcer’s biceps.
The giant snatches up my wrist to stop me at the same moment Maxim snaps, “Don’t touch her.”
Exactly as expected. As I said, I’ve been playing this game my whole life. Still, the jolt of pleasure at hearing Maxim claim me is infinitely more satisfying than when it was my father or one of his henchmen.
The giant immediately releases his hold on me as if scalded. Maxim’s men are as loyal as my father’s. I wasn’t sure, since he isn’t pakhan here. Good to know.
But then Maxim does something my father would never do.
“Please,” he tempers his previous sharp command to the brute, his voice more controlled now. He arrives by my side. “Thank you.” There’s an apology in his voice.
Not for me, though. He takes hold of my ponytail and uses it to tug my head backward. He’s in nothing but a peach towel wrapped around his waist. Water droplets still drip down his muscled and tattooed chest.
The giant slips away, leaving me with my wet and annoyed husband.
“I told you, caxapok. They can look, but not touch.” His growl is almost a purr, too, like he enjoys manhandling me. His brown eyes burn intensely, but he doesn’t seem angry. There’s a bruise on the eyebrow of his right eye, and I realize, with a shock, that I probably gave it to him.
I try not to show any intimidation. This part I’m not used to. My father used to slap and berate me, but dominance in the way Maxim wields it—sexual dominance—is something altogether different, and my body reacts accordingly. Embers spark and flame in my low belly.
I stretch my lips into a smile. “You didn’t say I couldn’t touch them.”
“New rule, then.” His eyes leave my face, dipping to my breasts, which are pushed up and pinned together by the jogging bra. His gaze returns, darker than before. “Don’t fuck with me on this, Sasha or things will get very messy.” He bites my earlobe. “But you like messy, don’t you?” He releases my ponytail but cages my throat with his tattooed fingers. He squeezes just enough for me to register his control but not enough to block my airflow. Then he lowers his lips to mine.
My feminine parts clench and flutter with excitement at his supple lips caressing mine. And it is a caress—totally at odds with his chokehold on me. It’s not a brutal, controlling kiss, not that I would’ve minded that, either.
When he pulls away, he rubs his lips together like he’s relishing the taste of my mouth. His hand still holds me captive.
I blink up at him, more disoriented by the kiss than all the rest of it. “D-did I give you that bruise?”
He takes a moment, just studying me, before he gives a barely perceptible nod.
“I’m sorry.”
The corners of his lips quirk. Now he comes in for the hard kiss. The claiming one that I’d been expecting.
Flames lick between my legs as he plunders my mouth, his tongue sweeping between my lips, his lips devouring mine.
My panties are wet. Probably smoking.
I don’t know what it’s like to have sex, but I suddenly want it. Badly. Not with my fingers on my clit—with a man. This man.
The kiss goes on for long, breathless seconds. Long enough that I lose all orientation. The penthouse spins. I forget my agenda.
When Maxim pulls away, he releases my throat and gives me another sweeping gaze. “You wanted to go running?”
My head wobbles as I nod.
“I’ll go with you. You don’t leave here alone—I told you that last night.”
Well, not exactly. He’d told the others I wasn’t to leave alone, not me, specifically. But I’ve lost the will to argue, still trying to calm my hammering pulse and cool my lady parts.
Maxim takes my elbow and leads me to the barstool beside the giant. “Sit with Oleg. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
It’s an order, but I don’t resist, needing a moment to recombobulate. Needing to cross my legs and pinch them together to alleviate the throb of my clit.
I look at the man beside me, who is focused on his eggs. “So you’re Oleg? The enforcer, I guess?”
The giant man doesn’t look my way.
“He doesn’t speak,” Nikolai offers. He’s now on the couch, flipping through channels.
I look him over, dropping some of my bad girl act. He’s not deaf because he obviously heard Maxim’s order not to touch me. I wonder whether his muteness is a choice or a physical limitation. He bears the tattoos proving he spent time in a Siberian prison. I wonder if something happened to him there.
The brother wearing the worn and faded Matrix t-shirt comes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. He opens a pizza box on the counter and pulls a slice out. “I’m sorry about your father,” he says in English with his mouth full.
I shrug. “He’s dead.” It’s about all I can find to say about him.<
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The young man flicks his brows. “Let me guess—Igor was a shitty father?”
I snort in surprise at the acknowledgement, the flicker of a smile tugging my lips. None of my father’s men in Russia would have ever uttered such words. But we are out of his territory now.
“We were part of his cell before he kicked us to Ravil. I’m Dima, Nikolai’s brother.”
I find myself instantly liking the guy—and his brother by proxy. Probably for the sole reason that he called Igor a shitty father. Also, they have that instant familiarity thing that puts me at ease. And they don’t stare at my boobs.
Maxim emerges in a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt, running shoes on his feet. He looks at home in the clothes, like he runs on a regular basis. This development foils my plan of taking off running and making someone keep up and sends a nervous twitter through me. Maybe I’ll be the one working hard to keep up with him.
“Let’s go, sugar.” He catches my elbow in that dominating way he has and steers me toward the door.
“Bye, guys!” I call out with false cheerfulness.
“Why do you do that?” Maxim asks when we get in the elevator.
I back as far away from him as I can, leaning against the opposite wall and pulling my foot up to my ass to stretch my quad. “What?”
“Act like you’re too good for them. Or you’re making fun of them.”
Something dives in my belly and settles heavily as a stone. I’ve been called a bitch before—behind my back, mostly. So many times.
No one’s ever asked me why I play the part, though. Almost like he knows it’s an act—not my true personality.
Maxim’s suddenly getting real with me.
I switch legs and shrug. “Am I supposed to pretend they’re my friends? I didn’t willingly move in with them. They got foisted on me, same as you did. Same as every bodyguard or babysitter my dad’s saddled me with.”
A muscle jumps in Maxim’s jaw. “All right, let’s get something straight,” he snaps as the elevator door opens.
I charge out of it, but he catches my elbow again and swings me back.
“Don’t run off on me.” He glares down at me, a line between his brows. “Those men aren’t your bodyguards. They’re not your servants—they’re not your babysitters. They weren’t sent to spy on you. They are my fucking brothers.”
The stone in my gut grows heavier.
“Yes, you did get saddled with me, sugar. And I got saddled with you. And we’re going to make the best of it.”
“Says you,” I shoot back, but a terrible feeling of shame seeps in, fueled by that rock still sitting square in the middle of my stomach. I was acting like a bitch. I’m acting like the spoiled mafiya princess I’ve always been. The part I detest but play with aplomb.
But if I don’t war with Maxim, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be. And the sense of vulnerability that brings up nearly kills me.
Maxim doesn’t release my elbow. He stares down at me with a troubled expression like he’s trying to make a decision, but after several precariously long seconds, all he says is, “Come on, there’s a path on the lakeshore that’s nice to run.”
A sense of relief floods me like he just let me off some hook I didn’t know I was even on. He tips his head toward the glass doors of the elegant building.
He waves at the doorman, who is clearly bratva based on his tattoos.
We jog, side by side, on a paved path along the lake. I’m not used to the heat, and I’m soon dripping with sweat, but it feels good to move after the long flight yesterday and the slight jetlag I still feel.
We run in silence for half an hour or so. Maxim lets me set the pace but keeps up easily. I was right—he’s definitely a regular runner. “How long do you usually run?” he asks.
The truth is, I’m getting hot and tired, but now my pride is keeping me from saying anything.
I shrug. “I can keep going.”
“Come here.” He veers off the path and onto a city street, crossing an intersection, and slowing to a walk.
“What are we doing?”
He pushes through a convenience store door. “Buying some water. You look hot.”
“It doesn’t take much for a redhead to look hot,” I mutter, but I’m secretly grateful he’s looking out for me.
He buys a large bottle of electrolyte water, opens the cap and hands it to me.
I drink, thirstily, and hand it back, half empty.
He finishes a quarter of it and crushes the middle of it before he puts the cap back on. “So we could either go back the way we came, along the lake drive, or we could take it slower through the city blocks where it’s a little shadier, but less of a breeze.”
It’s bizarre, but for the first time in my life, I feel like a grown-up. When I lived in L.A., I had the time of my life, partying with my college friends. But that was still me acting like a rebel. This feels different. One of my father’s men is treating me like an equal. Asking what I want to do and waiting for my answer. I don’t have to run and make him chase. I don’t have to trick him—or manipulate him.
He’s just standing there, waiting for me to make the call.
I reward him with a smile—not the I have you by the balls smile—a genuine one. “Lake path, for sure. But let me see that water bottle.”
He hands it back to me, and I uncap it and dribble a healthy amount down my cleavage, soaking my running bra. It isn’t to fuck with him, it’s because I’m hot.
All right, and maybe to fuck with him a little bit. As he pointed out, I do have a streak of exhibitionism in me.
For a moment, I think he’s pissed, and maybe he is because he grips my ponytail and pulls it back to bare my throat. Then he licks a long line down my throat and across my collarbone to dip between my breasts.
My pussy’s squeezing, and I’m breathless by the time he lifts his head. “You spilled some water,” he says, as if in explanation.
My legs quiver—probably just from the run, but I’m suddenly acutely aware of it.
His gaze dips to my breasts, and my nipples tingle and burn in response.
I suddenly want him. Desperately.
All this pretending I don’t, all this resistance seems stupid. I have a hot husband. Not just any hot husband, but the man who literally molded my view of what makes a man hot. When I look at all other guys, I’m measuring them in comparison to this one.
And he wants me now.
But that reminds me how he didn’t want me once. Of my utter humiliation—how much that rejection burned. Nope. Not giving in. Let him suffer with blue balls. My virginity is the only thing I still have control of in my life.
I take off running the way we came and sense him quickly catch up. He slaps my ass when he does, in a hard, satisfying way, and then paces with me at my side. My butt tingles and burns as I run, igniting the memory of that spanking he gave me in the back seat of the car in Moscow. The way he touched me afterward.
Ack! I can’t think about it. No sex.
I’m not having sex with Maxim.
But as I run, the friction between my legs persists, stoking the heat rather than alleviating it. I glance down and see my nipples protruding visibly under my wet jog-bra. Lord have mercy. I’d better run straight for the cold shower.
Chapter 6
Maxim
It takes all my willpower not to follow Sasha into the shower, shove her up against the tile and lick every inch of her body until she begs me to fuck her. My balls ache to get between those pale thighs, and I know she’s getting as needy as I am, but I’m not the type to come on strong. This is obviously a long game.
A whole fucking lifetime.
Blyat, I still can’t believe I have a wife.
I distract myself from my blue balls by finding her phone. I bring it to the living room and toss it to Dima, Russia’s—and now America’s—most formidable hacker. “Get her switched onto my account, will you?”
Dima catches the phone but shoots me a sk
eptical expression. “Do I look like your local Verizon rep?”
“You know what I need.” I make a circle with my finger in the air.
“Uh huh.” He still sounds skeptical, but he pops open the back of her phone and starts taking it apart, adding in the tracking chip which will work regardless of whether her phone is on.
“I need you to start tracking everyone who comes into the country from Russia.”
Nikolai speaks up. “Every single person? For what?”
“Well, can you cross-reference them against every known member of Russian bratva?” I ask, looking toward Dima, who is shaking his head in a long-suffering manner.
“You want to know if someone’s coming after her?” Nikolai asks.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t anyone just hire a hit here?” Pavel pipes in.
“They won’t be as connected here. It would be harder.”
“I can set up some data analysis and name matching on all passengers from Russia,” Dima admits. “It will be a pain in my ass, but it isn’t hard. It will take me a couple of days, but I can have it search retroactively. But what if they get a new identity before they come?”
“Who is it you think will come and why?” Nikolai asks.
“If she dies, the trust goes to benefit her mother but controlled by Vladimir as trustee. He got saddled with Galina.”
“So you think Vladimir will send someone.”
“Yes.”
“So we hack the hell out of their cell and hopefully hear of any plan before it’s executed,” Nikolai says.
I shrug. “If you can.” It’s hard to cheat a thief. I doubt we’ll have much success hacking their cell, but then again, Dima is the best, and Nikolai is no slouch, either.
“For the phone, do you want the full stalker package? The Lucy?” Dima asks, referring to the complete access he gave himself to all the data input and output from Ravil’s pregnant girlfriend’s phone and laptop after Ravil kidnapped her.
“What’s the Lucy?” Lucy picks that unfortunate moment to enter the living room. She has a constant glow—both from the pregnancy, and, I have to assume by the amount of time they spend locked in the bedroom together, the number of orgasms Ravil rings from her.