by Renee Rose
Oleg gives a barely perceptible nod. Communicating with him is more a game of mind-reading than anything else.
“What girl? Play where?” Sasha touches Oleg’s meaty arm. “Oleg, you have a girlfriend?”
It’s an innocent touch, but some primitive part of me bristles at seeing her fingers on another man’s skin.
I catch her wrist to pull it away from Oleg and twist her arm behind her back. “What did I tell you?” I murmur in her ear. “No touching other men, caxapok. You wouldn’t want me to throat-punch Oleg—I think we all know I’m the guy who’d lose that fight.”
Sasha’s laugh is throaty. She squirms against my hold, but it’s only for show. She likes to be restrained, I can tell.
My dick gets chubby thinking of all the dirty things I want to do to her.
Oleg eyes us both doubtfully. Wariness is his usual state of being, even with us, his suitemates and bratva brothers.
I fill Sasha in. “Oleg goes to hear a local band every week. He’s sweet on the singer.”
My party girl lights up, turning those shining blue eyes on me. “Can we go?” She shifts her questioning gaze to Oleg then back at me.
My plans were definitely more like locking her in my bedroom again and never letting her out, but it’s impossible to refuse her after she showed me her sweet side. Ravishing my new bride again will have to wait.
I look at Oleg. “Is that all right with you?” Oleg ranks below me, but he’s our enforcer and can literally crush a man with his bare hands. I’m not about to fuck with him when a woman’s involved.
He stares at us for a moment then shrugs his muscled shoulders.
“Okay. We’ll meet you there. Rue’s Lounge?”
Oleg nods.
“Is it okay if we bring the whole gang?”
Oleg walks away.
Well, it wasn’t a no.
I wink at Sasha and flash my key card at our penthouse door.
“Our princess has been found!” Dima exclaims from his computer station in the living room. His twin sits on the couch with Pavel watching The Boys.
“Yes. Did you locate that shock collar to keep her from straying again?” I tease.
Sasha whirls on me to make sure I’m kidding, and I grin.
“Mudak.” She smacks me with the back of her hand. “You guys want to go see Oleg’s girlfriend play?”
I like that Sasha’s already playing social coordinator with my brothers. She’s not the shy violet waiting for me to take the lead. When she’s in a room, she owns it. I love it about her, but I have a feeling it will also cost me dearly at times.
Like every time she innocently touches another man.
“Yeah, I’ll go.” Dima answers first.
Pavel turns off the television. “Sure.” He gets up and Nikolai follows.
“What about Ravil and Lucy?” I ask.
“I think they’re occupied.” Nikolai waggles his brows, and the rest of us groan.
“Yeah…” I look at Sasha, wondering again why I agreed to this when I could have her naked in my bed by now.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she says, zipping off to my—our—bedroom suite.”
I glance at the guys before I follow. “Make it thirty-five.”
I catch Sasha in the closet where I tear her dress off her body. “Oh! Gospodi, Maxim.” She whirls to face me, her hands against my chest, her eyes wide with surprise.
It’s easy to forget she’s innocent, but I see it glimmer through her bravado now. There’s a touch of astonishment and nerves along with the excitement.
I trail my hand up her ass, my middle finger tracing along her g-string into her crack. I nuzzle her neck. “I want you again, lyubimaya. Are you too sore?”
Rather than answer, she drops to her knees and unbuttons my pants.
Fuck. I’m an asshole because I know that means she’s too sore, but I’m incapable of stopping that lush mouth from wrapping around my dick again. She pulls out my cock and fists it at the base, taking me deep into her mouth.
I tighten my fingers in her hair then force them to open and massage the back of her head instead. “Twice in one day. You make me feel like a fucking king.” My voice sounds two octaves deeper than usual.
Sasha’s blue gaze comes up to meet mine. She knows she’s a badass at giving head—I can tell by the blaze of glory in her eyes.
I gather her hair into a ponytail in the back to get the full view of her face. “So sweet… so fucking good.” My head drops back. I’m babbling now, surrendering to the delicious sensations of her tongue swirling beneath my cock, her cheeks hollowing out to suck me hard. “I won’t last long, lyubimaya.” I don’t know when she became my love. One minute she was a pain in my ass, now she’s becoming my whole world.
My thighs start to shake. I can’t help myself, I start to direct, pulling her mouth over me faster, thrusting into her throat. I close my eyes, letting the pressure build, the pleasure intensifying.
“Fuck, Sasha,” I curse. “I’m going to come.”
Like last time, she doesn’t pull off, instead sucks harder and faster. I shout and come and she takes it, swallowing it all down before she comes off with a saucy smile.
I zip and pull her up to kiss hard, walking her backward until her ass hits the wall. “You want my mouth on you now, sugar?”
I see hunger and need on her face, but she shakes her head. “Rain check.”
I nuzzle her neck and slip my hand into one of her bra cups. “I’m sorry if I was too rough with you this morning.”
“You were perfect,” she murmurs.
I tip her chin up to kiss her again. I want to consume her. Own her so fully she never runs from me. Make her fall in love.
Damn. That’s it, isn’t it? I want my wife to fall in love with me.
How in the fuck did that happen? When did that happen?
“Come on, I don’t want to miss Oleg’s girlfriend play.” Sasha pushes gently at my chest. I steal one more kiss before I release her.
“Sing,” I correct because the woman he likes is the singer in the band. “She’s not his girlfriend. Just a girl he likes. Maybe you can help him get her number. He seemed like he was going to bash my face in the last time when I tried to talk to her on his behalf.”
“Ooh, this is going to be fun.” Sasha digs through her suitcases, pulling out a pair of skinny jeans and a hot bustier. A pair of high heels completes the outfit.
I change my shirt and watch her flit about the room and bathroom getting ready. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by every move she makes. Her quick application of make up. The brushing of her thick hair. Rolling a scent on her wrists and throat. I catch her wrist and bring it to my nose. It’s nothing cloying—not some chemical perfume smell that will make me want to shower after she hugs me. It’s a warm citrus scent that makes me want to eat her up.
“Ready?”
“I was born ready.” She tosses that saucy grin at me, and I scoop my forearm under her ass, scooping her up to straddle me. She shrieks as I carry her out the bedroom door and into the suite where Dima, Nikolai and Pavel wait.
Dima flicks a brow. “I won.”
“Won what?” I ease Sasha down to her feet and loop an arm around her waist.
“The bet. They didn’t think you’d, um, convince Sasha to stay in less time than it took Ravil to keep Lucy from running.”
“I will throat punch all of you,” I warn, tugging Sasha past the assholes and out the door. “Ignore them,” I tell her. “We both know I’ve won nothing yet.”
Chapter 14
Sasha
Rue’s Lounge is a hipster lounge—grungy but very cool. It’s located in the basement of a more industrial area of town. The band hasn’t started, but Oleg has staked out the closest two-top to the stage where he sits with a pint of craft beer in front of him.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I touch his shoulder before remembering with a smile that Maxim doesn’t like it.
I’m irrationally pleased by his irrational posses
siveness. Especially because he doesn’t make me feel like a whore, he makes me feel desirable. Highly desirable.
I take the free chair next to Oleg while Maxim and the other three guys scrounge chairs from other tables and arrange them around our tiny table. A cocktail waitress arrives promptly, and we all get a round of the local brew on tap. As we sit, the place starts filling up.
I lean forward, thoroughly enjoying myself. Unlike my father’s men—these guys are friendly. I’m their roommate’s wife not the boss’ daughter. It’s a different vibe here entirely. They seem to have a sense of humor and casual affection with each other, like we’re all in the sitcom Friends or something. “So what is the story with Lucy and Ravil?”
Nikolai and Pavel groan and sit back in their chairs. Oleg barely takes his eyes off the empty stage. Like a dog waiting at the door for its owner to show, even though the car hasn’t pulled into the garage yet. Dima looks at Maxim to tell the story.
“Ravil hooked up with Lucy at this one-night-stand kind of thing last Valentine’s Day. It happened at this BDSM club in Washington, D.C. and was anonymous—no names, no phone numbers exchanged. Flash forward to this month—Ravil goes to hire some big shot defense attorney for one of our guys. When he shows up at her office, he finds Lucy, pregnant with his child.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. “No!” I also want to hear so much more about the BDSM club, but I don’t want to stop the story.
“So Ravil loses his shit. He’s usually level-headed as fuck. I mean, as the cell Fixer, I almost never have to fix.” Maxim spreads his hands. “More than half the operation is legit. Force is only employed when necessary.”
“So what happened?” I’m impatient for the love story. It sounds better than fiction.
Maxim shrugs. “So he kidnaps her.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He was deeply offended that she hadn’t told him. Took it really personally. He moves her into his suite and puts Oleg on her door, so she can’t leave. Tells her she has to work remotely until the baby’s born.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s not right.” I suddenly don’t like Ravil much.
“No kidding. And it’s my job to make sure shit like this doesn’t blow up in our faces, right? So I looked at it from all angles, and all I came up with was one fix.”
I raise my brows. “What was it?”
“Make her fall in love. It was clear he already had it for her badly. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been hurt. So that was my only fix. Love.”
I sit back in my chair relieved for Lucy. More than a little impressed with Maxim.
Was that his solution for us, too? I want to ask, but my pride won’t let me.
“And it worked,” I finish for him.
“Almost didn’t. But yeah. Thank fuck.”
The band comes out, and I watch Oleg’s body react. He doesn’t move, but I see his muscles stiffen, the intensity of his gaze on the only female in the band almost frightening.
She’s punk-goth-beautiful. Like a modern-day Blondie, she has a platinum bob with bangs and thick black eyeliner. Her nose is pierced, and she has perfect bone structure—one of those heart-shaped faces that will make her model-beautiful well into old age. She’s wearing a micro skirt with fishnets and Doc Martens underneath. Her top is early Madonna midriff style with a torn-out neckline to make it hang open over one shoulder. She’s rocking the bad-girl rock and roll thing, and I sort of instantly love her.
I mean, if Oleg wasn’t obsessed, I probably wouldn’t have looked twice. She’s nothing like me or my kind of friends. But his obsession makes me curious. She picks up the mic.
The place has filled since we arrived—a din of laughing and talking now makes it necessary to raise our voices to be heard. The crowd fits with the band—a little grunge-punk—and people seem to know each other. Like Oleg isn’t the only guy who comes to hear the band on the regular.
“Hey everyone, thanks for coming out,” she says. “I’m Story, and we are the Storytellers.”
Even though she’s talking into the mic, people don’t stop to listen. But that’s how it is at a bar or lounge. It’s not a concert where the musicians get the audience’s undivided attention. They’re background here.
Oleg’s thick brows go down like he wants to smash some skulls over it.
He elbows Nikolai and puts his fingers in a ring to his lips. Nikolai mimics the gesture and gives a loud whistle that gets people’s attention.
“Hey, thanks,” Story says, smiling our way. Her gaze bounces and returns to Oleg, and she seems to give him a special, secret smile. “And thank you to Rue for having us out again, tonight. This is our favorite place to play.” She waves, and a woman with heavy piercings and a blue mohawk behind the bar waves back.
“First song we’re going to sing is called ‘Let’s Go.’” The band launches into a well-rehearsed upbeat song. Story’s lyrics are clever. The musical hooks are perfect. I don’t know that much about the music industry, but I’m surprised these guys haven’t gone beyond Chicago. They’re great.
We sit and watch. I don’t dare attempt more conversation with Oleg sitting at the table. He clearly is here for the band, and I don’t want to be rude. Instead I watch the band, Oleg, the other guys at our table. Maxim watches me.
I lean over and kiss his jaw. “This is fun.”
He drags me out of my chair and onto his lap. “You’re fun.” I settle into his embrace. It feels easy and natural and, simultaneously, thrilling.
The next song is slower, and Story walks out to the edge of the stage to sing. Like me, she’s comfortable with attention. This isn’t just about the music, it’s about the interaction with the audience. She works to make connections—looking people in the eyes when she sings, making her face expressive to go with the words.
I can see how Oleg fell in love with this persona. I doubt she has any interest in him, though. It probably just seems that way to him because of the way she performs.
I watch song after song, enjoying the whole scene.
By the end of the second set, they have a drunken crowd packed in and dancing right in the tiny dance area in front of the stage. We’re on the side, lucky to have seats right off the dance floor but still beside the stage. The band strikes up what seems to be their big, fun hit. The end-of-the-night finale. The audience cheers, clearly familiar with it. Story prances to the edge of the stage near us, belting out the song. She walks down the steps and joins the dancers on the dance floor.
Oleg’s back goes ramrod stiff, his meaty hands closing into fists like he’s the bouncer ready to throw out anyone who touches her.
She’s touching them, though. They fall in line behind her and tour the lounge, loudly singing along in a crazy conga-line. “Come on.” I jump to my feet to join.
Maxim gives me that indulgent smile and slowly unfolds from his chair, guarding my back as I join the hilarity. Story snakes the group around. Instead of heading back on stage, she stands on my empty chair then in the center of our table. The crowd cheers.
She steadies herself with a hand on Oleg’s shoulder. The moment she touches him, his hand shoots out to hold her waist. She loops a leg over one of his broad shoulders, straddling it.
The crowd cheers—I think possibly at her audacity of climbing her audience like a jungle gym.
Oleg’s elbow bends up to secure her with his hand splayed at her lower back. When he stands slowly, there are more whoops and cheers and some very drunken crowd members start scrambling on each other’s shoulders like they’re going to have a chicken fight. Oleg carries his queen to the center of the dance floor where her hive swarms around her, glorying in the royal position he put her in.
The band goes on for three encores before Oleg gently deposits her on her feet on stage, and the entire place goes wild with cheering for him, for the band, and especially for Story, their captivating lead singer.
“Gospodi!” I shout to Maxim. “Does that always happen?”
Maxim and his roo
mmates share bewildered expressions. “I’ve never seen it before.”
Oleg comes back and sits, his expression impassive, but with a visible flush under his stubble.
The guys offer fists to bump, but he ignores them, folding his arms across his chest to continue watching his obsession. She’s out of breath, laughing and thanking the crowd. Promising to be back the same time next week.
Story and the band members bow and wave and then start packing up their own equipment—I guess they’re too small to have a sound crew.
The overhead fluorescent lights flash on. “Last call!” Rue shouts from behind the bar.
Maxim orders another round for everyone, pulling me back onto his lap.
When Story comes off the stage, she has a whole crew of people waiting to accost her, but me being me, I stand up and give a little wave like we know each other.
She meets my eye and smiles.
“She’s coming!” I tell Oleg.
For one second, I think he’s going to bolt. He surges forward to stand, but Dima and Nikolai each clamp a hand on his shoulders and hold him back. “Be cool,” Nikolai tells him.
Story comes over. Her smile is curious, like she’s not sure if we do know each other or what I’m going to say.
“Hey, great show,” I tell her, stretching out my hand. “My name is Sasha.” She shakes it. “You were phenomenal. I had to come see because I know my friend Oleg thinks the world of you guys.” I gesture toward Oleg.
“Oleg,” she repeats like she’s been wanting to know his name. She stretches out her hand to him.
Now he surges up from the table, and this time the twins let him. He clasps her hand in his and doesn’t look like he wants to ever let it go.
“We haven’t formally met.”
“He’s mute but not deaf,” I explain because she’s obviously waiting for him to say something. “He loves your music. We all do,” I amend, gesturing to the rest of the guys, who lift their hands in greeting.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
My accent is thicker when I’ve been drinking. “Russia.”
“All of you?” She’s looking at Oleg, who still hasn’t released her hand.