Page 20 of The Bratva's Innocent Sold Bride
One hand moved up my back, the other down, to cup my backside, leaving a trail of heat everywhere they touched. There wasn’t even a single moment of trying to shove him away. My mind short-circuited the moment our bodies collided. He was hot and hard and completely commanded all my senses. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until he was holding me, and I could go completely limp in his arms, knowing I’d be supported.
As I melted against him, I slid my palms up his firm biceps, digging my fingernails into the crisp fabric of his sleeve to feel the spring of his muscles underneath. Up over his broad shoulders, I ran my fingers through his silky, messy hair.
A slight rasp of beard scraped my cheek as he twisted his mouth away to kiss down the side of my neck and behind my ear, brushing aside my own windswept hair. I let my head fall back, lost in the warm, wet feel of his lips, the slight tickle that sent heat rushing to my core.
Breathing him in, he was scented with the pine trees and night air. My shaking hands dug in deeper, grinding myself against the stiff shaft between us. He roughly kissed me on the mouth again, pulling back to look down at me with wild eyes. I had to blink away the film of lust to see him properly, and I began to tug him down again when I remembered what he said.
I was his wife, and I was going to start acting like one. My eyes flew wide, and I froze in his arms. Lowering his head, he kissed me gently along the side of my mouth, teasing my lower lip with his tongue.
What was he doing to me? Where was my good sense? Within a few hot minutes, he’d completely erased my anger, but that didn’t mean I was going to give in to this bully. I certainly didn’t want to, did I?
Just as fast as it started, it was over. I was out of his arms, and he was looking down at me with a wolfish grin.
“We’ll have dinner together tomorrow at eight o’clock,” he announced. “A dinner that you prepare.”
With that, he stormed off up the stairs, leaving me more confused than ever. Did I want him? Was I disappointed right now? Where the hell was he going? It was a long, restless night, alone.
The next morning, the butler asked me if I wanted to go anywhere or do any shopping.
“Maybe?” I said, heading to the kitchen. If Mat really expected me to cook, I'd better see if there were ingredients.
“Just let me know,” he said. “I’ll arrange a ride for you right away.”
This was new. Had Mat taken my complaint about not having anything better to do than escape to heart? The kitchen was fully stocked, and I settled in to research the easiest possible recipes with what was available. I didn’t think I should push my luck and serve him crusty boxed macaroni and cheese, which was about the limits of my capability.
I had just about decided on a chicken recipe that looked foolproof when the head housekeeper approached me with a tablet in her hand.
“Mr. Fokin asked me to give you this,” she said, putting it down in front of me and tapping it to reveal several websites. “These are the portfolios of some designers in the area, but of course, you can hire anyone you want. Or he said you could leave it up to him if…”
“If what, Mrs. Keeley?”
She swallowed. “If you don’t have a preference.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t what he said and spared her from quoting him verbatim. I thanked her and looked at the websites. So he really didn’t expect me to personally furnish the entire house if I didn’t want to. I could either hire someone or leave it completely up to him. And could I suddenly go anywhere I wanted?
I decided to look for a nice Russian dessert to make as I pored over the designer’s websites. They were all wonderful, but I felt strangely proprietary over the house all of a sudden, not wanting to hand it over to someone else. Maybe I wanted to do it myself after all. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do.
Once everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with a lot of help from the cook, I ran upstairs to change into one of the pretty new dresses that had been hanging ignored in my closet. It was uncanny how Mat seemed to know just what I liked, down to the colors. For instance, I never wore red, and even though it was a popular color that most men liked, there was not a trace of red in all the pieces he bought me.
I felt bizarrely shy as I hurried down to meet him when he came in, at precisely 7:45. Giving me a kiss that was much too brief, he stepped back to look me over from head to toe. A warm blush rose up my entire body as he smiled down at me.
“I don’t have words for how beautiful you are. I’m sorry to have to say the same thing over and over.” He said something in Russian, telling me it meant I looked like a flower on a bright day.
I was glad I chose the yellow dress, even though it wouldn’t bring out the green in my eyes. He even noticed that, leaning close.
“They’re warm brown, like honey, today,” he said. “I love those changeable eyes of yours.”
I was about as gooey as honey at that line, and tried to shake it off, leading him into the kitchen.
“I have to warn you,” I said.
“Is it poisoned?” he teased.
“You might wish it was. The end might be quicker.”
I brought out the chicken dish, feeling oddly proud because it certainly looked and smelled appetizing. I had actually enjoyed putting it together. The act of slicing and peeling and following the steps in the recipe was calming, and the sense of accomplishment was something I missed after being out of college and without a job for months.
“This is good,” he accused, shoveling in a second, larger bite after the tentative first.
