Sold to the Bratva King novel · Chapter 15 of 32

Chapter 15: Her Bed

Matvei didn't move.

He sat there among the iron pillars with Kent's ledger under his hand and looked at me for a long time.

"Say it again," he said.

"You heard me."

"I heard you. I want to hear you twice."

So I said it again, slower, standing in front of him with bleach on my hands.

"Come home with me, Matvei. To my apartment. To my bed."

He stood up.

He picked up the ledger and held it out to me, not to himself.

"Yours," he said. "Like the coat."

I put it inside my jacket.

He drove us himself. No driver, no gray sedan behind us.

Neither of us said anything on the bridge over the channel.

His hand was on the gearshift. Mine was on my knee.

At the light on Broadway I put my hand on top of his.

He turned his palm up and held on until the light went green.

My landlord's hardware store was dark. The CLEAN SLATE sign creaked a little in the wind.

I went up the outside stairs first.

I unlocked both locks. We went in. I locked both locks again, behind both of us.

He watched me do it.

The apartment was cold. The ficus stood by the window in the streetlight.

I turned on the lamp by the couch, the one with a yellow shade I'd bought for four dollars.

Then I stood there, in my own kitchen, and didn't know what to do with my hands.

He didn't come closer.

"Halle," he said. "I'm going to ask you once, and you can change your answer any time tonight. Any time. Even halfway through a word."

"Okay."

"Do you want me in your bed?"

"Yes."

His shoulders dropped.

Then he crossed the kitchen in two steps and put his hands on my face.

His hands were warm on my face.

He tilted my head and looked at me for a long moment.

Then he kissed me.

Soft at first, just his mouth finding mine, like he was asking without words.

Then deeper, his tongue sliding against mine, and I made a sound I didn't know I could make.

I got his shirt out of his trousers.

My hands shook, so I stopped and laughed once, sharp and nervous.

"Help me," I said.

He pulled the shirt off over his head himself and let it fall.

Then he stood still and let me look.

No tattoos.

Nothing to read him but the scar through his eyebrow and the way he breathed.

I put both hands flat on his chest.

His skin was hot under my palms, and his heart was going as hard as mine.

"There's nothing on you," I said.

"That's the point."

"I want to read you anyway."

I traced the line of his collarbone with one finger, down over his ribs, and watched his stomach tighten.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm not. My hands are."

He smiled, small and real.

I undid his belt, then the button, then the zipper, one at a time, slowly.

I eased his trousers down over his hips and he stepped out of them.

His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, straining against his boxers.

I looked at him and said, "Those too."

He shoved them down and kicked them away.

He stood naked in my cold little kitchen, the Bratva King with goosebumps on his arms, and he waited.

I put my hand on his cock, just the palm first, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Halle."

"Hold still, Matvei."

"You're going to kill me."

"Accidents only," I said, and he laughed, low and rough.

I stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, and his hips jerked.

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