She freezes for half a second, her eyes darting up to mine with a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Do youseriouslywant to headbutt my dick?” I counter, keeping my fingers firmly in place like I’m holding back a particularly stubborn goat.
She’s squirming, pressing the phone to her ear, and every movement drags her body against mine in ways that make me want to bend her over this fucking table.
“Hellooo?” Her ass shifts in my lap, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from groaning. “You sure he’s actually sleepin’? Cause my baby can’t sleep without his—his special song and…”
She mashes the phone against her ear, swaying in my lap. “Hello? Hello? I can’t—” She pulls the phone away, squinting at it like it’s personally offending her, then nearly drops it. My hand shoots out to steady hers just as a message pops up.
A photo fills the screen: Elijah curled up in bed, Pikachu tucked under one arm, mouth slightly open in peaceful sleep. Clara leans in so close her nose nearly touches the glass, going cross-eyed as she tries to zoom in. Her finger keeps missing the button, jabbing random spots on the screen until she makes a frustrated little sound in the back of her throat.
“Why’s it so… so tiny?” She pouts, trying to spread the image with clumsy fingers. The movement makes her shift in my lap, and I have to bite back a groan. If she keeps squirming like this—
“Here,” I mutter through clenched teeth, enlarging it for her before she can torture me further. The grateful smile she flashes up at me does nothing to help my situation.
She fumbles with the phone, accidentally hitting the speaker button.
Kayla’s voice fills the quiet restaurant: “He had so much fun today! Boss, he play with peacocks and feed snakes with Dmitry! Even pet tiger cub—very careful, I promise!” Her accented voice bounces off the walls. “Then we watch movie, and—” She switches to rapid Spanish before catching herself. “Oh! And he help make food in kitchen!”
“Fun?” Clara’s voice hitches. “My baby had… fun?”
“¡Sí, sí! No worry,Mamacita.” The speaker crackles as Kayla’s voice gets closer to her phone. “I sleep in his room tonight. He try makepirozhkibut…” She giggles. “Look like potato more than food.”
Clara suddenly stands, the phone tumbling from her fingers to clatter on the table. “I should—” Her legs give out, and I catch her before she hits the floor. Her ass lands right against my cock, the soft curves of her breasts pressing into my chest. My hands grip her waist automatically, and she melts against me like she belongs there, head lolling back on my shoulder.
Yebat. For years, I’ve run the Bratva without losing control once. Now I’ve got an armful of drunk, squirming woman who’s going to make me come in my pants like a teenager.
I look up to find Galina and Ivan already on their feet. Ivan silently stacks empty bottles while Galina jabs a finger at the stairs behind the counter.
“Room three,” she announces in Russian, tossing a key that I catch one-handed. “Clean sheets, thick walls.” She winks. “Spokoinoi nochi,Lyonya. Try not to break the bed.”
29
Leonid
"Tch, whatever,” I mutter, shrugging off Galina’s orders with a roll of my eyes. Arguing isn’t worth the hassle.Because there’s just no point.
Because I know that they know—I want to fuck this woman until she screams my name, until she can’t remember why she ever hated me. Butnotlike this. Not with vodka clouding those blue eyes, not when she can’t tell her ass from her elbow.
Besides, the way she’s swaying, she’s more likely to puke on me than suck me off.
Clara makes it three steps from her chair before nearly taking out a table. Ivan moves faster than a man his age should, sliding furniture out of her path like he’s clearing a minefield. She giggles, stumbling sideways, and I catch her around the waist before she can face-plant into the checkered floor.
“Spasibo,” I tell Ivan with a slight bow of my head. Some things are sacred in our world—respect for our elders, even when they’re being nosy bastards, is one of them.
The wooden stairs creak under our weight, each step worn smooth from decades of use. Faded photos line the wall—snapshots of old Russia, black and white memories of Katerina’s glory days. Clara stumbles, catching herself on a dusty frame of Lenin giving some speech or other, and I have to grip her waist tighter to keep her upright.
“Oops!” She giggles, dragging her fingers over my knuckles like a goddamn tease. The sound echoes up the stairwell, and I grip her tighter. If these walls could talk, they’d tell stories of blood and betrayal.
But, tonight, they’re getting front-row seats to me playing fucking babysitter to a woman who can’t walk straight.
“You’re so…” her hand finds my abs, fingers splaying wide, “… hard.”
“Stairs,” I growl. “Focus on the stairs.”
She ignores me, as usual. “Ever’where hard.” Her other hand joins the first, mapping my stomach like she’s reading fucking braille. “Like, here…” She pokes my chest. “An’ here…” Her hand drifts lower, and I catch her wrist before she can make this situation worse than it already is.
“Blyat. You want to fall and crack your skull open?”
