Page 35 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“Cartier, I’m not letting you walk the streets alone.”
She shakes her head and studies me as if seeing me properly for the first time. “Why? Because you won’t be able to protect me from all the psychos who prowl the city at night?”
The jibe isn’t lost on me.
“I warned him to back off. He didn’t listen.”
Her shoulders slump, but the rage is still there simmering beneath the surface. “You broke his jaw.”
“What do you think would’ve happened if I’d stepped back and let him get close to you?”
“He wanted to dance.”
She works with vulnerable women. She knows what men are capable of. She can’t possibly believe this.
“He wanted to touch you, Cartier. He thought that because you’re wearing a sexy dress and you were dancing on a podium, it was an invitation for any fucking sleaze to get close and ignore your personal boundaries.”
I can’t believe I’m having to spell this out for her. I can’t believe that this still fucking happens to women. Where the fuck was the security team when the guy was trying to touch my woman? Where the fuck was every other guy in the nightclub while this was happening right in front of them?
She averts her eyes, peers down at the dress and folds her arms across her chest.
“You bought the dress. What did you think would happen?”
I step closer, and she doesn’t back away. “I thought that you could play out at least a small part of your fantasy. You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, Cartier. But you’re mine, and that asshole needed a lesson in common fucking decency.”
She shivers. It’s the comedown from the tequila and the situation with the dick in the paisley shirt. I fold her into my arms and guide her towards my waiting car, and she doesn’t resist.
We don’t speak during the journey back to my apartment.
She rests her head against my shoulder, eyes closed, her clothes still in a heap on the floor.
When we reach my building, I carry her into the penthouse elevator with her arms around my neck. I’m acutely aware that she’s naked underneath the dress, but her vulnerability outweighs it by a million miles right now.
My woman needs to be worshipped.
She needs to feel special.
She needs to understand that no matter what happens, I will do everything in my power to protect her from the beasts and fucking monsters out there.
Even if she hates me for it.
Especially if she hates me for it. Because who else is going to look out for her?
I carry her into my apartment and look at it through Cartier’s eyes. The aesthetics are perfect, designed to draw the eye to the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. My housekeeper makes sure that it’s immaculate. The living room is decorated in soothing colors chosen by the interior designer; the kitchen has everything that I need to make a gourmet three-course meal if I’m in the mood for entertaining; there’s a gym, guest rooms with walk-in closets and ensuite bathrooms, a sauna, a massage salon.
But there isn’t a single fucking thing that makes it home.
Because until now, it has been a place to crash when I’m not working. Cartier is the only woman I’ve ever fucked in my apartment—that’s what hotel rooms are for—and right now, with her head resting against my shoulder, I want her to want to be here.
I stride through the open-plan living area and along the hallway to my bedroom, opening the door with my elbow and entering the room sideways.
The sensory activated lights sunk into the ceiling like stars come on.
“Dim,” I mutter as I carry her to my Alaskan King-sized bed in the middle of the room.
The lights obey, casting a hazy glow across the room. The ceiling is painted midnight blue to resemble the night sky. I had a fixation on space and planets and black holes as a kid which I guess I never outgrew. The comforter on the bed is the same shade as the ceiling and walls, and there are no curtains or blinds at the window that spans the entire rear wall.
Cartier peers around the room, soaking it all up.
