Page 11 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“I’m not sure.” I try to look away, but it’s difficult when his gaze is so intense. “It’s been a long day.”
He knows it’s a lame excuse, but he’s unfazed. “All the more reason to have some fun and unwind.”
Unwind or unravel? Why does an image of him peeling my clothes off me layer by layer pop into my head unannounced? Even worse, why does my pussy respond to that image with a gush of dampness?
“I shouldn’t.”
I shouldn’t cross the road without checking the traffic first either and both situations seem equally dangerous from where I’m standing right now.
He smiles, and I feel like a teenager again drawing pink heart shapes around my initials and those of my first crush, a boy called Robson Hunt with an arrow straight through the middle.
“Don’t letshouldn’tever stop you, Cartier Black, or you’ll wake up one day and wonder why you didn’t.”
He offers me his hand … and I take it.
4
ANDREJ
I don’t thinkabout her hand in mine, how vulnerable it feels, like a kitten.
Trusting.
Fragile.
And so fucking gorgeous I can hardly believe my luck.
Don’t fuck this up, Andrej, I tell myself as I watch her climb into the passenger seat of my car, folding her legs in gracefully like a ballerina. She’s wearing tight white pants and a jade-green sweater that picks out the green in her hazel eyes, but Cartier Black isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever met. There’s something special about her. Something that should be treasured, adored, treated with reverence.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. She just chews on her plump bottom lip, and it does fucking things to my cock that shouldn’t be happening when we’re both fully clothed.
Cartier Black isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever met because she isn’t slanting her eyes at me and stroking my thigh to let me know that we’re both on the same page.
She isn’t a one-night stand.
If I’m doing this, I’d better buckle up for the ride.
We drive north away from Michigan Avenue and State Street, the lights and buzz and the frenzy of early evening Chicago nightlife diminishing in the rearview mirror.
I park up on a wide leafy avenue in the village and kill the engine.
“Where are we?” Cartier speaks for the first time, a hint of panic creeping into her voice.
“Roscoe Village. I want to show you something that I think you’ll like.”
Her eyes drop, and my cock twitches inside my pants when I realize what she’s thinking. Down, boy. I promised her a guided tour, and that’s what she’s going to get.
For now.
I unbuckle my safety belt, climb out, and open the passenger door for her.
She steps out onto the sidewalk and peers at the building closest to us while I beep the remote. “You brought me to the library?”
“Kinda.”
I take her hand and guide her up the short flight of steps and inside the building where we’re hit by low lights and the gentle tones of Audrey Hepburn singing ‘Moon River’ in the background.
