Page 15 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
"Anton..."
"And you are not disposable. You are...moya. Mine." I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. "You think I will throw you away. But what if I told you I will never let you go? What if I told you that once I have you, you are mine... forever?"
She's shaking, her breath coming in shallow little puffs. "You can't... you can't promise that."
"I can." I trace the shell of her ear with my nose, inhaling her scent. "But I want you to be sure. I want you to say yes, Talia. I want you toaskme."
"Ask you... for what?"
"To finish what we started."
I pull back. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, her lips parted and wet. The fear is still there, but now... now it’s laced with a desperate, climbing desire.
"But... I... I don't know how," she whispers, the admission so quiet I almost miss it.
My blood freezes, then boils. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... I... I've never..." She ducks her head, a deep crimson flush staining her cheeks. "With... with anyone. Not... all the way."
A virgin.
She's a virgin.
The word explodes in my mind. A fucking virgin. In this city. In my building. This... this pure, untouched, terrified creature.
The possessiveness I felt before is a flickering candle compared to the supernova that erupts in my chest. She isn't just mine. She will beremadeby me. Her first. Her only.
My hand, still on her jaw, tightens. My voice is a guttural rasp. "Look at me."
She does. Her eyes are swimming with tears of humiliation.
"Do noteverbe ashamed of that," I command. "Do not be ashamed that you saved something so... precious. That you waited... for me."
"I wasn't waiting for..."
"Yes, you were," I cut her off. "You just didn't know it."
I stand, pulling her up with me. She's unsteady. "Anton, what are you...?"
"I am taking you to my bed," I say simply. "You are going to take a hot shower. You are going to put on my shirt. And then Iam going to worship you. I am going to be your first. And I am going to be your last. And you are going to say yes."
I don't wait for an answer. I lift her into my arms. She gasps, her arms flying around my neck, a reflex. She weighs nothing.
I carry her through the penthouse, up the glass staircase to the mezzanine, to my bedroom. The storm is louder here, the wind a primal scream against the glass walls. But the room is a sanctuary. A massive bed, a fireplace, and nothing but the storm and the city below.
I set her down in the bathroom, which is bigger than her apartment. "Shower," I command, my voice softer. "The water is hot. Use anything you find. There is a robe on the hook. I will be waiting."
I leave her, closing the door. I strip off my own clothes, my hands shaking. I, who have faced down guns and theBratvacouncil, am shaking. Because of a girl.
I pull on a pair of soft, grey sweatpants, leaving my chest bare. I light the fireplace in the bedroom. I turn down the lights, leaving only the fire and the raging, white storm outside.
I wait.
It feels like an eternity. I hear the water shut off. The door opens.
She stands in the doorway, a small, trembling figure swallowed by my black cashmere robe. Her hair is damp, dark curls clinging to her face. Her skin is flushed from the heat. She’s scrubbed her face clean of makeup. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"Talia," I breathe.
