Page 10 of Born into Mayhem
I may not have hearts in my eyes while dreaming about us making a baby, but there’s no denying I want him to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow. I’ve never had sex, and I’m kind of banking on my thirty-six-year-old fighting instructor being my first. God, there’s no way he doesn’t know his way around a female body. I bet he’d have me screaming his name in no time.
On that note, I shove my phone away, knowing I need to get myself under control. This month is going to suck enough ass. There’s no point in making it worse.
Grabbing the remote, I turn on the huge TV while Chort walks over to where Sasha is still raining down hell. He stops when he sees his dog. Stepping aside, he points to the dummy swinging in front of him and gives the command to attack in Russian. Chort is a flash of dark fur as he lunges at the jean-clad leg, digging his teeth in at the thigh before shaking his head to maximize the damage. Sasha laughs and tells him to stop. Chort immediately lets go and then wags his tail and beams at Sasha’s praise. They have the most fucked-up relationship, but it also works perfectly, and it’s nice to see my brother show affection to someone outside our family. Dominic, Dario, Alessandro, and Tony have become included in Sasha’s definition of family, butI wasn’t so sure it would ever extend to anyone else. Chort’s a miracle in many ways.
“He’s learning fast,” I tell him.
“He’s a smart dog,” Sasha says, sheathing his knife and walking over to feed him. I bite back a laugh when I see him add a little bit of steak to the dry food and then mix it up before setting the bowl on the floor and giving him another scratch behind the ears. He walks over and sprawls out on the couch, ignoring the spot that has a missing cushion. Grabbing the remote, he looks over at me. “What are you smirking about?”
“I’ve just never seen you in love,” I say.
He huffs out a breath and starts scrolling, not surprising me at all when he clicks on a documentary about forensics. “He’s a good dog, just a bit misunderstood. He doesn’t know how to express himself. That’s something I can understand and work with.”
“You express yourself just fine, Sasha,” I tell him. “If anyone ever gives you shit about it, let me know. I need some real-world practice.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up. “You really do. You’re great with a dummy or in a controlled practice fight, but that’s not the same as real life.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I’ve only been saying this for years.”
He’s quiet for a second, eyes focused on the show, but a few minutes later, he says, “After you heal a bit, I have an idea.”
I grin like an idiot, unable to stop it, because Sasha has never had an idea that I haven’t loved. “I’m in,” I tell him. “You gonna tell me what it is?”
“Not yet. I need to work out some details first.”
I don’t bother trying to get more out of him. Sasha doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do and that includes giving out information. Instead, I lay my head back and keep the ice pack snuggled between my legs while we learn about forensics and common mistakes killers make. It’s a typical Saturday night for us.
The next week passes by slowly. I’m used to keeping myself busy, and not being able to work out like I want and train with Dario is really taking its toll. Not to mention the lack of orgasms. I’m wound-up tight,easily irritated, and more than ready for the next three weeks to fly by. That’s the exact frame of mind I’m in when I’m dropped off outside of Dario’s house for my first training session since my secret piercing.
I wave a quick bye to the bodyguard who dropped me off. Sometimes Dario drives me home afterwards, but if not, then I know Feliks will come back for me as soon as I send him a text.
Stepping to the front door, I ring the bell and wait. Dario’s place is the exact opposite of Sasha’s. Instead of the industrial look, it’s all modern luxury, high-end everything, and a perfectly manicured lawn to boot. I sometimes mess things up just to fuck with him—a moved vase here, a crooked picture frame there. I can’t help it. The place is too perfect. It’s just begging for some dirt or scuff marks or even just a tiny bit of untidiness, anything to show signs of life.
When he opens the door, I take one look at his face and know it’s going to be a long afternoon. He’s mouthwateringly handsome, but I can tell by the tight way he’s holding himself that he’s pissed. He’s obviously holding a grudge about me canceling last week, and I have a feeling I’m about to pay for it.
Chapter 3
Dario
An hour into our training, Mia is gritting her jaw like she’s in pain, and her movements are slower than I’ve ever seen them. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but each passing minute is making me a little more irritated because she refuses to tell me what’s wrong.
“Again,” I tell her, watching as she narrows her eyes at me and resumes her stance in front of the punching bag. When she hesitates, I repeat myself. “Again, Mia. Show me the kicks and stab sequences we’ve been practicing.”
She huffs out a breath, straightens her shoulders, and then starts with a swift kick to the hanging bag. Mia’s movements are as deadly as they are graceful, and the truth is I could happily watch her for hours. Unfortunately, I always get a raging hard-on when I do, so during sessions like this, I’m forced to take my eyes off her, only allowing myself quick glimpses to check her form while not allowing myself to drink in the sight of her tight ass, slender waist, perky tits, or sweaty skin. She’s not in her usual yoga pants and sports bra today, and, again, I’m left wondering why. I should be grateful for the reprieve, but instead my mind is trying like hell to figure out why she’sin black sweats and a T-shirt and why she’s acting so goddamn sore when we haven’t worked out for a week.
“Enough,” I finally say when she gives another kick and winces. Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I force myself to take a steadying breath, because I can’t help but notice that she only winces during certain moves, and those moves just happen to be ones that involve the area between her legs.
Is she sore because she fucked some guy?
The very idea of another man putting his hands on her body makes me want to take one of my knives and gut someone.
“Why are you sore?” I ask the question in as calm of a tone as I can manage, but it still comes out sounding gruff. She doesn’t balk at my tone, even though I know from experience that it’s enough to make grown men take a cautious step back. Mia just juts her chin out at me and holds her ground. My cock twitches at the sight of her, my feral girl who never backs down from anything or anyone.
“I’m not sore,” she insists, and her lie just adds fuel to the fire that’s already raging inside me.
I step closer, letting her feel our size difference. I’m more than a foot taller than her and weigh twice as much, but she doesn’t back down. She never does. And if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up with a very obvious bulge in my sweats.
“You’re lying to me,” I say. “Why are you sore?”
