Page 5 of Bratva Prince
They rubbed their sunscreen in, their movements slow and erotic. “Can you get my back,” the black bikini said. “I can’t reach.” She laid down, her perky tits pushed up toward her face as she allowed the other girl to rub in the oil, making little moans of pleasure as she did so.
Women.
So predictable. They see a handsome man and use every ounce of sex appeal they have to turn him on. Men, on the other hand, are much more open with our intentions. If we see a woman we want to fuck, we tell her. And yet, we’re considered a pig—despite the fact that these women are doing the exact same thing but in a sneaky way. They have the same intentions, but they want to play games, make me come to them, so I can boost their egos, make them feel pretty. Woo them.
If they think that, they have another thing coming. I don’t woo. I fuck. And if they want me, they have to come to me. Sure, I’ll flirt with them, but I won’t be the one to make the first move. And it isn’t that I’m shy or I respect them too much to make it, but I want them to be the ones that beg. Not me. They’ll never see me begging.
After they finished rubbing their lotion on each other, they sat beneath their umbrella, sunbathing. Black bikini leaned against her elbows, arching her back so her tits poked out. “So, where is that sexy accent from?” she asked me.
I turned to Mihailo and chuckled. “You hear that, Mihail? They think our accent is sexy.”
He grunted in response and I shook my head, laughing at the situation. To those women, I was laughing because I was smitten. But in all honesty, I found the way they threw themselves at two strange men on the beach to be humorous.
“You ladies heard of Moscow?” I teased, knowing they’d heard of it. Everyone had.
The one-piece wonder answered, “Oh, my God! Isn’t that in Thailand?” Excitement covered her face and she leaned in closer to me, adding, “I’ve always wanted to go to Thailand.”
That got a chuckle out of Mihailo and I couldn’t suppress the laughter anymore. “Try Russia,sweetheart,” Mihailo said, emphasizing the sweetheart. Though, he didn’t mean it in the endearing way that one-piece took it.
Mihailo wasn’t a fan of women. It wasn’t that he hated them or he liked men—hell, maybe he liked men. That would explain why I never saw him with a woman—but he despised the women that threw themselves at men in the way these two had. He couldn’t stand a woman who was only in it for the power or wealth, gold-digging their way to a mansion with a swimming pool.
Very few women had he not given the stink-eye to. Though it was rare, the few occasions he’d met my brother’s wives, he smiled and treated them with respect. Far more respect than this duo would get. Was he doing this out of fear because he knew Dimitry and Misha would kill him if he so much as shot them a bitter glance? Probably. But I could sense a genuine respect that emanated from him, and I think it was more than fear that made him treat them with kindness, because my brother’s wives were not women looking for wealth and power. They wanted love and respect.
I almost scoffed at the idea because nearly every woman I’d encountered was only interested in one thing.
The women clung to me for the next few hours, walking on the beach when I did, jumping in the water with me. Like lost puppies, they followed me around, hoping to get somewhere. Eh, whatever. It was supposed to be a fun day at the beach, so I might as well enjoy it.
We had just finished a short walk down to the pier and back, and I was laid out in the sand when I noticed a couple walking a few feet away, speaking in Russian. Everyone else around here spoke Grecian, or even English. So, to hear someone speaking Russian piqued my interest.
The woman had long, blonde hair and wore a regular tank top with shorts. She wasn’t dressed for swimming, but maybe they were just taking a stroll, enjoying the view. The man was vibrant with his motions, swinging his hands everywhere as he spoke, poking his hip to the side, and making the most comical facial expressions.
I loved his flamboyance, the confidence in which he spoke. It appeared to totally contrast the woman’s reaction, making me question whether they were even a couple.
Not paying attention to where she walked, she was nearing us and was about to stumble over my legs. I could move them, but I wanted to see how this panned out. And like clockwork—three, two, one—she tripped over my leg, spilling the cocktail in her hand all over my chest as she tumbled to the sand.
The other two hens started cackling, but I just watched as the blonde profusely apologized, picking up her glass (and her dignity) to carry away. Her cheeks burnt bright, and something told me it wasn’t from the heat of the sun.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she said, her voice heavy with humiliation as she kept her gaze to the ground. “I should’ve been paying more attention, I’m so sorry.”
Her behavior was strangely adorable. In Russian, I told her, “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I can wash off in the ocean.”
She jerked her head in my direction. “Oh, are you Russian?”
I nodded. “I am.”
The other two women were watching in awe, completely turned on by my language skills while shooting a nasty glower in the other woman’s direction. Her friend stood behind her, assuring me that his “clumsy friend isn’t clumsy where it counts” with a wink—which only made her face burn brighter.
She swatted his arm, apologizing for his comment, and bid me a good afternoon.
“Well, hold on,” I called out when she turned to walk away. “You spilled your drink on me, so you at least owe me your name.”
Sheepishly, she answered, “Willow.”
Her friend, on the other hand, wasnotshy and grabbed my hand to shake. “And I’m Viktor.”
I cast her a smirk and said, “Willow and Viktor. What brings you to Greece?”
Viktor’s arm swung out as he said, “Oh, well Willow was just getting away from—”
