SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  “Nothing gets by me, Stasya,” Kirill reminds me as he lowers himself into his seat. He focuses his intense gaze on Dmitri. “Especially when someone disrespects you.”

  “I have nothing in my heart for him.” My voice is strong because it’s true.

  Dmitri’s jaw is stiff, his lips a firm line. If he feels anything for me, he doesn’t show it. And that’s fine.

  Though there’s no reason to hold hate in my heart for Dmitri anymore, I still haven’t forgiven him for the way he treated me. It’s still a fresh wound, but I’ll let it go someday. I don’t want something so trivial to eat away at my soul, and certainly not where he’s concerned.

  13

  Kirill

  While Stasya showers, I put the finishing touches on her surprise. Ever since I saw the dress she made and heard how passionate she is about designing clothing, I’ve had an idea in my head.

  I remove the sheet covering an antique, Imperial style secretary desk, which has been concealed since Slava and I carried it up last week. It matches the desk already in my office. Next to each other, they appear to be a set that may have been broken apart at one time, and now they’re back together. A reflection of Stasya and I.

  I’ve been trying to make the apartment a space where she feels comfortable. Someday, I hope we’ll sit in here working together, but until then, I want her to feel like she has a space of her own.

  Pencils, crayons, scissors, various types of paper, and any other supplies she might need fill the drawers. I open each of them one more time to make sure everything’s there, as if some supply-snatching troll came in and stole it all overnight.

  When I hear the bathroom door open, I rush into the hallway. “Hey!”

  She jumps, then turns around. “Hi.”

  I wave her toward me. “Can you come in here for a minute?”

  She glances at her bedroom door then at me. “Can it wait until I get dressed?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice. It’s not an emergency, I’m just excited to see her reaction. There’s no better feeling than making her happy.

  Next thing I know, she’s tiptoeing through the door, still wrapped in a fluffy white towel.

  “Seemed important,” she says with a nonchalant shrug.

  My heart fills with pride, watching her eyelids open bigger when she catches sight of the new desk. She moves to it quickly and touches the top with her fingertips.

  “You got a new desk!” she cries with excitement. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “It’s yours.”

  She looks up quickly. “What do you mean, it’s mine?”

  “Open the drawers.” I nod encouragingly. She smiles as if she can’t believe it and opens the top drawer on the right side—the one filled with pencils. She opens the rest, her grin growing larger with the discovery of each new treasure.

  “After you told me you enjoyed designing clothes, I got this idea. You and Slava won’t be able to sit at the park for long during the winter, so I wanted to give you a space to do it right here.” I gesture around the room. “I’m picking up a sewing machine next week.”

  When she looks up, her eyes are glassy. “Kirya,” she whispers, then puts a hand over her mouth. As she stares at the desk, a tear slides out and lands on the roll top. “Thank you so much. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “It’s the least I can do. I want you to feel at home here. If you’re not happy, I’m not happy.”

  “Why is there a Russian-English dictionary in the bottom drawer?” She opens the drawer again, picks up the book, and starts flipping through the pages.

  “We will embark on many adventures during our life together, Stasya. One of those adventures will be moving to America.”

  She looks up. “We’re moving to the United States? That’s the plan?”

  “That’s the plan,” I confirm. “Do you remember when I met with Dimitri Morozov?”

  “Ugh.” Her face twists with disgust. “You were helping him get to the NHL, yes?”

  “Yes. It’s part of a new—legal—business Uncle Vitya and I just started. In the NHL, most athletes have someone to help them negotiate their contracts,” I explain. “It’s a called an agent. Since all of this is new for Soviets, it’s opened up a brand-new business opportunity. Once I’ve gotten enough players over there, we can move there too.”

  “Do you speak English?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say in English, then switch back to Russian. “I speak fluently, so if you need help, just ask.”

  “You are a man of many secrets, Kirill Konstantinovich.”

  “Not anymore, kotyonok. It was too difficult to keep the desk a secret. I want to share everything with you. If you ever want to know something, just ask.”

  She rushes to me and throws her arms around my neck. Having her in my arms, with her ear on my chest, feels right, like she was always meant to be there. She lifts her head and looks up into my eyes, and I’m lost.

  Our chests seem to melt into each other, hearts beating as one as we stand, staring into each others eyes. I won’t let go until she does. I’ll never let go before she does.

  14

  Stasya

  Ever since Kirill presented me with my own space to design, it’s all I can think about. I probably spend way too much time in the office, but I have so many design ideas rolling though my head, I feel like I’ll forget them if I don’t get them all down.

  Despite wanting to spend as much time as possible with Kirill, it’s been a bit hard to get used to being at Cherikovsky’s Tearoom and Discotheque two or three nights a week. It seems a bit excessive to me, but it’s a huge part of Kirill and Slava’s work, so I keep my mouth shut.

  Within a few months, I’ve gone from a boring bank worker who rarely went out, to a mafia girlfriend, whose main social role is to be on Kirill’s arm. Though I never saw myself as someone’s trophy girl, I must admit, playing the part is fun. It gives me reason to make new clothes and test new makeup—some of my favorite things.

  At home, Kirill waits on me hand and foot, showing me how much he cares with acts of services or gifts he knows I’ll like. The man bought me an antique desk and created an area for me to sit and sketch, for goodness sake. But when we’re out, I understand my role is to serve him and I play it happily because I like being with him—so much it scares me.

  Slipping back into friendship has been easy, like there wasn’t a gap when we didn’t see each other. It’s refreshing be with someone who understands me. He knows who I was and who I’ve become.

  There’s one key difference between then and now—the intense sexual tension. It’s scary and exciting.

  Being with Kirill has given me confidence unlike I ever had. Some of that is due to the beautiful outfits I get to wear, but even more comes from the respect I receive as his girlfriend. Before being with Kirill, I didn’t even want to acknowledge the mafia. Since being with him, I’ve had to learn a lot in a short amount of time—most importantly, structure and rank. As an Avtoritet, or captain, in the Bratva, Kirill leads a group of men and reports directly to a boss—in his case, his Uncle Viktor.

  Learning his men was very important as well so I could decipher who was friend and who was foe—or who was higher level and who was lower. I learned very quickly that being an Avtoritet’s girlfriend comes with perks and responsibility. I’m treated with utmost respect, not like the dancers or the girls the men bring over to party with us for the night. And I’m responsible for keeping an eye on the girlfriends of Kirill’s men, and talking to them if the need comes up.

  Though we left the Tearoom fairy early tonight, we didn’t come home alone. Slava, Drago—the guy he’s tattooing—and a few girls they were talking to came as well.

  It’s almost two o’clock in the morning and I’m getting tired—and bored. The sound of Slava’s tattoo machine has been grating on my nerves for the last hour, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. Th
e spider crawling up Drago’s neck looks so realistic, it’s frightening. Which tells me all I need to know about Slava’s talent.

  As if reading my mind, he looks at me and nods to the spider. “When am I doing yours?”

  I laugh. “If I got that spider on me, I’d scream every time I looked in the mirror.”

  “You’re not getting a tattoo,” Kirill says. His voice has the tone of finality, like it’s the end of the conversation. It probably would be for one of his men, but he should know better with me.

  “Yes, I am,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I made a promise, and I keep my promises.”

  Kirill stares at me, his eyes narrowing. “Who did you promise?”

  “Slava.”

  “Fuck,” Slava mutters, leaning closer to Drago. It looks like he would curl into the man’s neck if he could.

  “What kind of promise did you make Slava?”

  “The very first day I was here, he tried to get me to go shopping for clothes like this.” I pinch the clingy, black fabric riding up my thigh. “I told him I’d let him give me a tattoo if he took me to get pencils and notebooks instead.”

  He pinches my dress’s thin strap. “I thought you made this?”

  “I did! That was my point. Why would I waste money buying clothes that I can make?”

  “Why?” He lowers his head to my ear and whispers, “Because you can.” His lips move to my neck. “Because when you’re with me, you don’t have to make your own clothes anymore.” Another kiss, this time on my shoulder. “Because I want to provide for you.” His lips cover mine in an intoxicating kiss and my fingers slide into his hair.

  When he pulls back, I’m dazed. “All I wanted was to sit in Park Zaryad’ye and sketch.”

  He laughs—a warm roar that coats me in happiness. “You are everything to me, Stasya. If making your own clothes and sketching in Park Zaryad’ye makes you happy, that’s where Slava will take you.”

  I wiggle in his lap like a cheerful child.

  “But there is only one man you should be making promises to—me.”

  Diffusing a jealous lover isn’t something they taught in school, but I know what will bring him down. “Oh, I have many promises for you, Kirya,” I say in my huskiest, sexiest voice, then whisper, “but they are for your ears only.”

  That gets me the exact reaction I want—Kirill’s lips on mine again. One hand slides up my thigh and under my skirt while the other grips the back of my neck, holding my mouth to his. When his fingers enter me, I moan into his mouth. Both Slava and Drago whip around to see what’s going on, but Kirill doesn’t care. Nothing stops him from getting what he wants.

  “Kirya,” I say, twisting my hips and squeezing his fingers. He pulls his hand out from under my dress, leaving me wet and stimulated, and nowhere close to satisfied. He knows it. He puts his fingers in my mouth, urging me to taste myself.

  “That’s so fucking sexy, kotyonok. You drive me mad.”

  The girls start whispering. Despite having come with Slava and Drago, they’ve been competing for Kirill’s attention since they arrived. It’s almost as if they use his men to get to him. My backside has been glued to his lap the entire night, but it doesn’t deter them. Hell, I’ve been glued to him for months now. But they don’t care. They still try.

  I’m not worried or jealous, because I trust Kirill. If he gave them attention that should be directed at me, it might be different, but he ignores them, whispering to me or talking to Slava instead. They’re perfectly respectful women. I’m sure we’d get along in any other situation, but not when they’re in my home in the wee hours of the night.

  My pussy throbs, swollen and stimulated, and I need relief, even if I have to do it myself. I grind my backside into Kirill’s lap before getting up. “I have to take care of this.” His lips curl into a sinful smirk. “You coming?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “No. And you won’t be either.” He reaches out and grabs my hips, sliding his hands up and down my thighs. “You will wait for me.”

  “Don’t be long, okay?” The words come out in a breathy whisper.

  “It’ll only be a few more minutes.” He leans forward and nips my hip with his teeth.

  I nod and slowly make my way down the hallway where Kirill and I still have separate bedrooms. After getting undressed and washing off my thick makeup, I pull back the blanket on my bed. Before getting in, I hesitate and look at the wall that separates our rooms.

  Why do I even pretend I’m not going to sneak into his bed, as I’ve done almost every night since I’ve been here?

  At first, it was because I was afraid of being alone, but now, I can’t stand not having his arms wrapped around me.

  Tonight is different.

  Tonight, I want him to find me in his bed—naked and ready for whatever he wants to do with me. Tonight, I will not fight my feelings for him. Tonight, he will be mine.

  I’m ready to give every part of myself to Kirill.

  Before, I was afraid of falling too deep into his lifestyle. How can I call myself a good person if I’m involved in this world of crime? Personally, I may not be killing anyone or breaking any laws, but I know it’s happening. I’m interreacting daily with the most prolific criminals in Moscow. I’m letting it happen, and I’m enjoying the benefits of the lifestyle.

  And I’m not ashamed. Not when the country is letting its people go through hell. Everything we’ve ever known is falling apart in front of our eyes. Before meeting Kirill again, I was lucky if I could find butter and sugar in a store. Now, I can have butter and sugar from Italy if I want. I haven’t had to stand in line for one thing since he rescued me.

  Sometimes I feel guilty. Especially because I still have friends who feel the effects of communism every day. I’ve tried to help because basic food and consumer goods shouldn’t be saved for a certain group of people and held from others.

  One of the things I love and respect the most about Kirill is that he chose this lifestyle because he knew the way Soviet citizens have been treated under this system wasn’t fair. It isn’t right. He makes me want to be a better person—someone who can bring change and a better life for everyone—even if I don’t always agree with their means to the end result.

  I can’t quite remember the moment when the fear fell away to a sense of power and authority. It makes more sense to take control than be a victim of my situation. If gangs want me because I have a rich brother in the NHL, I’m facing death no matter what I choose.

  So, I choose to be happy.

  * * *

  Kirill slides in next to me, like he does every night, but this time when he wraps his arms around me, his hand sweeps across my nipple. I feel his body stiffen, as if he’s realized something’s wrong. Then he brings his hand back to my breast and cups it gently, but doesn’t grope or squeeze it.

  “Stasya?” he whispers.

  I flip over to face him, unable to keep the smile off my face.

  “You realize you’re naked in my bed, yes?” he asks. He looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him.

  “Yes.” I nod and place my hands on his chest. His skin is warm. His heart pounds under my palms.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  “If you were dreaming, your pants would already be off,” I tease, walking my fingers down to the waistband of his boxer shorts and curling them under the elastic.

  He swallows. “Are you sure about this?”

  I lift my hands to his face, sweeping my thumbs across his cheeks. “There is only one thing I’ve ever been sure of in my life—and that’s you, Kirya.”

  Leaning closer, I softly press my lips to his. Without breaking the kiss, Kirya pushes me onto my back and climbs on top of me. He rubs his erection against me, letting me know he’s ready for this moment as well.

  My hands move to his boxers again, pushing them down the best I can with my fumbling reach. He holds himself up on one elbow, pushing one side down before doing the same on the other side. Once they’re at his knees, I
use my feet to push them all the way off.

  “I promise I’ve done this before,” he says with a laugh.

  “Is this not how it is every time?” I ask. The fumbling was about the same with Dmitri, the only other person I’ve been with. Maybe that’s how sex is supposed to be.

  “Oh no, Stasya. I’m just nervous.”

  “Nervous?” I ask. “We’ve known each other forever, Kirya. There’s no reason to be nervous around me.”

  He drops a kiss on my lips. “That’s precisely why I am, kotyonok. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”

  Hearing him say that sends a chill through me. This beautiful, strong man, who can have anything and anyone, wants me.

  He rises to his knees, giving me a full view of his excitement. “You’re too good for me, Anastasiya.”

  “I’m not.” I shake my head, dismissing his words.

  He takes his cock in his hand and places it at my entrance, rubbing the tip in the wetness between my folds. “I need you to know how important you are to me, Stasya. I would never do this with you if you didn’t possess my heart.”

  It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying, when I’m squeezing the muscles between my legs in fearful anticipation. In my head, I know it’s not closing any holes, but I’m so nervous at how I’m ever going to be able to accept him. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  He enters me easily, which surprises me. I open my eyes to see his cock jutting out over my stomach. It’s his hand between my legs, exploring me with his fingers. It feels so good, I relax and circle my hips, giving in to the pleasure. His fingers move up into me until he’s pressing against me on the inside.

  “Yes, Kirya!” I cry out.

  After a few seconds, he removes his hand and grabs his cock, placing it at my entrance again.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think—”

  He pushes in then pulls out quickly. My breathing speeds up. He does it again, pressing in further before pulling out. He does it over and over until I realize he’s all the way in. He thrusts gently, never coming too far out before sliding in again. The rhythm is exquisite. I wrap my arms around his torso, bringing him down on top of me. Soon, I’m rocking with him, enjoying the friction of our bodies rubbing together.