I fuck her. It isn’t slow, soft, or sweet. It’s rough, it’s wild, and with abandon. I come on a roar, feeling as though all the times I’ve climaxed in the past six-weeks were fucking nothing. There’s nothing like coming inside of moya vozlyublennaya.
“Fuck,” I whisper against her neck as my hips continue to gently thrust in and out of her wet heat.
“No kidding,” she laughs softly, underneath me.
We cleanup, and as we finish, Misha cries from the other room of our suite. I slip on my boxer briefs and tell Oksana to get comfortable, that I’ll bring him to her. She smiles and nods as I walk out of the room.
We’re staying in the city, but because of everything with her father, I refuse to allow her in his home, let alone to stay there. He’s not made any attempt to talk to her since Misha was born, let alone see him. Pasha has gone from unhinged to completely insane, and I’m glad that his reign ends now.
Something about a Bratva wedding makes us finalize shit.
When it is time for this wedding, we will finalize Pasha’s end and Timofei’s new beginning.
“There, there,” I whisper to Misha as I pick him up from his cradle. “Mama’s waiting,” I chuckle when his little face roots for sustenance.
I hand him over to Oksana, who is waiting and ready to feed him. I then climb into the bed next to her, next to them—my life.
“I won’t ask details, but can you please tell me if Aleksandra will be okay?” she asks. I’d been wondering when she’d ask me.
“Denis wants children. It’s not my place to say if he’s in the right or wrong. But I will tell you that I think Aleks will be much happier without him,” I grunt.
Denis is a fucking asshole, and Oksana should be doing cartwheel’s her friend will be getting rid of him.
“I don’t want her to be alone,” Oksana admits as she bends her neck and presses her lips to Misha’s head.
“She’s technically in Pasha’s area, but with everything being uncertain, Yakov has actually found a match for her,” I admit, though I probably shouldn’t.
“Yeah?” she asks, lifting her head as her eyes widen.
“He’s recently widowed. Four children, one a newborn. He’s in Russia, though,” I explain.
“Seriously?” she breathes.
“He’s young, in his thirties, and very interested in her,” I explain.
“Will he be good to her, though? Or is she just some nanny?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. It makes me laugh.
“I can’t say for sure, but I have met the man. I worked with him once when we were there. He’s a good man, better than Denis, that’s for sure. I believe she will be very happy, and that he will treat her right,” I explain.
“I just want her to be happy,” she says on a sigh as she leans her head against my shoulder.
“I know you do, lapochka.”
“I want everyone to be happy,” she says. “Do you think Timofei will be happy once he’s actually married to this girl?”
“You like to change topics,” I chuckle.
“I’m worried for him, for both of them. Timofei has never been in a long-term relationship, and she’s so young,” she says, biting her lip.
“I think they will be just fine, lapochka,” I assure her. “Now, let me change him and put him down. I need to make you come at least once more tonight.”
“I’m so tired, Mikhail,” she says on a yawn as I gather Misha in my arms.
“How about I do all the work. I’m hungry.” I grin down at her as I stand.
“You are?” she asks with a smirk tugging on her lips.
“Fucking starved, Oksana.”
“I love you, Mikhail,” she whispers as I start to walk out of the room.
“Forever, lapochka,” I respond.
Then I hear her whisper behind me.
“Forever, my badman.”
A Russian Bratva Short Story
I’VE NEVER FLOWN FIRST class before. I accept the champagne and the fresh warm cookie from the flight attendant with a nod before turning back to my movie. There’s so much room in my seat, I feel like I’m sitting in the back seat of an SUV instead of an airplane. I nibble on the cookie, hoping that it will ease my worries and calm my stomach, but it doesn’t. Neither do the bubbles in the champagne.
The fact is, I don’t think anything could calm me down. I promised my best friend, Oksana, that I was ready for this, that I was prepared and even a little excited for what was to come. I lied. Through my teeth, I lied my ass off.
I’m not ready. Not in the slightest.
My ex-husband, Denis, filed for divorce three months ago. It was final this morning. Now I’m on a plane to meet my new husband. Normally, a woman like me, barren and divorced by her Bratva husband, would be left with nothing but the clothes on her back. Left to survive on her own, or prostitute herself as a call girl.
Granted, being a Bratva call girl isn’t like standing on the street corner. They make a hell of a lot of money. I’m lucky, or maybe unlucky, depending on the man waiting for me in Russia. My father is a Soveitnik for the most powerful Pakhan in the United States, which makes me as close to a Bratva printsessa as possible. My father’s position is one of great respect.
So, when my husband decided he wanted children of his own and discovered that I couldn’t deliver those to him, Yakov Chekov found a match for me. It was a kindness he bestowed on me. Probably because I’m best friends with Oksana Rybina, the daughter of that powerful Pakhan, and I’m grateful for it.
The only thing I know about my new husband is that he’s a widower and his name is Vladimir Yartsin. Nothing else. I don’t even know what he looks like. Yakov, himself, brought me to the airport and wished me luck, ensuring me that everything will be well when I land, that he’s known the man for years, and that he believes this will be a positive situation for the both of us.
I wish that I could have the faith that Yakov seems to. That this will be some great thing for my future. That it isn’t simply terrifying.
One failed marriage before thirty is more than I ever thought I would have. The rejection of not only my husband but my own body is enough to send any sane woman to the crazy house.
“We’re about to land, miss,” the flight attendants soft accented voice states as she smiles toward me.
I nod, gulping down the rest of my champagne before I hand it back to her, keeping the rest of my cookie for the landing. As the plane descends, I buckle up and continue to eat my cookie, but I can’t taste it anymore. My taste buds are completely gone.
Shit.
This is it.
This is real.
Once the plane lands, I stand to gather my small bag before I walk away from the crew, trying to fake a smile to all of them as I murmur my goodbyes and continue down the jetway toward my new life. Before I walk to baggage claim, I slip into the bathroom to freshen up.
I change my clothes, since I’ve been in these same ones for over ten hours. I choose to put on a simple, teal, jersey wrap dress and keep my low, gold ballet flats on before I brush my teeth and run my fingers through my dark hair.
One last look in the mirror, and I know that I won’t be able to hide my wide, terrified, green eyes. It’s just not possible. I pull out my cell phone and call my father to tell him I’ve landed.
“Aleksandra?” he asks, his voice deep and husky with sleep.
“Yes, papa. I’ve arrived,” I state.
“You be good now, yeah?”
“Always,” I state.
I’m a good girl. I always have been—following the orders of the men in my life, my father, my husband, and the Pakhan’s of the Bratva.
“Call me if you need me for anything,” he says.
I agree and end the call, knowing that there are restrictions to the need for anything. My father wouldn’t rescue me if my husband wasn’t treating me well. Once I’ve said I do, there is nothing my father could do to intervene in our relationship. Not a single damn thing.
I’m
on my own and completely at the mercy of the man waiting in baggage claim for me. I exhale a deep breath before picking up my bag and walking out of the restroom.
As I make my way to baggage claim, my eyes quickly scan the area. I stop in my tracks at the sight before me. Standing in my direct line of sight is a man. He’s tall, his hair blond clipped on the sides, but the top is left a little longer and styled neatly back. He’s wearing a black suit with a black shirt underneath. His light brown eyes meet mine and the breath is immediately sucked from my lungs. His face is chiseled, and his body is big, wide at the shoulders and solid through his midsection.
Scanning my eyes further down his body, I see he’s holding a sign with my name on it. Hesitantly, I continue to walk toward him, forcing my legs to move. His eyes stay pinned to mine, and I exhale a shaky breath as I make my way closer.
Once I’ve reached him, stopping a few feet short of his incredibly tall frame, I crane my neck back before I speak. “I’m Aleksandra.”
He looks me up and down again before his lips tip in a smirk. “I know,” he says. He then walks past me, toward the luggage carousel, and reaches for the two last bags that are circling the area. I watch as he looks at the tags and pulls the handles up before he strides back toward me.
“This all you have?” he asks in a thick Russian accent.
“It is,” I nod.
“You speak Russian?” he asks as he starts to walk toward the door. I hurry after him, afraid to lose him in the crowd.
“I don’t,” I say, shaking my head. He stops dead and turns his head to the side.
“This will be a problem,” he states ominously, not bothering to elaborate. Instead, he continues to walk until we reach a large black sedan.
I’m surprised when he opens the passenger side door for me and closes it after I’ve slipped inside, then he loads my luggage into the trunk before he walks over and sits in the driver’s seat himself.
Keeping my head forward, I shift my eyes to the side and watch his long fingers curl around the steering wheel. He looks strong, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that, initially, I’m extremely attracted to him.
Maybe Yakov did take care of me?
I’m shocked when he brings me to a building that looks administrative and not to a home. I turn to face him as he parks, to ask him what’s going on, but he’s already out of the car and rounding the front to come over to my side.
“Where are we?” I ask as I take the hand he’s offering me.
“ZAG,” he states. I blink, unsure of what that is. When I don’t respond, he clarifies. “We’re to be married.”
I blink again as he tugs me away from the car and toward the building, “Married? Now?” I wheeze.
“Yeah,” he grunts.
In the next twenty minutes, there’s a lot of Russian speaking people around me. Vladimir says some things before he tells me to repeat some things that I’m sure I’ve butchered to death. Then he slides a ring on my finger, and hands me one to slide on his.
It’s all very mechanical, until he cups my cheek and lowers his face to mine. I hold my breath when his lips touch mine, and I open for him immediately. I feel his body jolt, and his other hand wraps around my waist before he hauls me against his chest and dives his tongue inside of me, consuming me. Lifting my hands, I wrap my fingers around his lapels to hold on, and to press my chest against his on a moan.
A throat clears and Vladimir takes a step back from me. His eyes look wide and wild as he searches my face, and then he immediately schools his features. I watch as he murmurs something to the officiant and then hands him an envelope before he wraps his strong fingers around my hand and tugs me out of the room. My arm aches from all his tugging, but I’m too caught off guard by how his kiss felt to say anything about it. I lift my hand to my still tingling lips, and I grin to myself.
Yes, Yakov did all kinds of right when he sent me to this man.
I glance to the woman at my left for a moment before I turn my attention back to the road. We have an hour drive before we reach my home in Nikolina Gora. My wife requested we move out of the city after our second child was born; so, although it was easier for me to live in the city for work, I granted her this desire. I settled for a modern styled home an hour out of the city. She wanted to live even further, on a bigger plot of land, but I did not grant her that whim.
Vera often had whims, and not many were practical, including her attempting to have a home birth with our last child. She’d had three C-sections, all close together. Her doctor had warned that she could rupture her uterus. I forbade her to attempt the delivery, but she went into labor while I was at work.
She didn’t call me, and she ruptured and bled out before anybody could get to her. The midwife she’d hired behind my back called the ambulance but it was too late. Thankfully, she was able to save my child. Four children were left with no mother because of Vera’s whims, and I was left without a partner.
I curse to myself, still angry with Vera for her selfishness, and angry with myself to giving her thought on this day. “Will the rest of your things be arriving in the coming weeks?” I slowly ask my new bride to try to distract myself.
She turns to me, and I can feel her gaze on me. My skin heats as her eyes stay on me before she speaks. “I brought everything I own with me,” she breathes.
“You’re joking,” I state with a snort.
“No, I was only allowed to pack two bags and whatever was left over was none of my concern any longer,” she says on a sigh.
Denis Azarov is a piece of shit. He no doubt sold her things, or is planning on his new wife using them—his new seventeen-year-old bride. This is a fact that Aleksandra probably doesn’t know, that her husband found himself a child bride. Disgusting.
“Once you’re settled, you may go into Moscow to GUM and pick up whatever you wish,” I say, gripping my steering wheel even tighter than I was seconds ago.
“Okay,” she says softly. Just the gentle, sweet sound of her one word answer eases my tension.
The rest of our drive is quiet. I don’t know what to say to her, my wife. The second Mrs. Yartsina. Although, according to her history with Denis, she cannot conceive children, something I was greatly pleased with in a prospective wife. Four children are enough, and one is less than three months old. They need a woman who is solely devoted to them. Hopefully, Aleksandra can give them an environment that they will be able to thrive in.
We pull up to the house, and I hear her gasp as she takes in the dark grey brick and glass modern home. I’m not sure if the gasp is good or bad. I, personally, hate the house. If she wishes to move, it would not hurt my feelings in the slightest.
“Do you like it?” I ask as I turn to focus on her, to see if I can read her expressions.
“It’s very… interesting.”
I chuckle, unable to contain myself. She hates it, and I’m glad for it. “I hate it as well. My late wife picked it out.”
“Late wife?” she asks as her eyes widen in surprise.
Watching her, I open my mouth to explain about the children, thinking she may not know that as well, but I’m thwarted when the front door opens and three of my four children come bounding out of the front door. Aleksandra turns slowly and her eyes widen in surprise. Then her mouth drops in complete shock as she registers just what’s happening.
Feliks leads them as he’s the eldest at seven years old, then Elizaveta, who is five, and finally Vadim, who tries to keep up at age three. They’re all calling papa as they rush to my side of the car.
“Papa,” Aleksandra whispers just as my door flies open.
Omigod.
Kids.
My new husband has kids. Three of them to be exact.
I watch in complete surprise as he picks the youngest of the three up, a little boy, and nuzzles his sweet neck while the boy giggles. It’s probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Then he opens my door and watches me intently as I climb out of the car.
The two older children have the same intent look on their faces as they take me in. They start speaking in Russian to me, and I can do nothing but smile, because I have no fucking clue what they’re saying. Vladimir says something to them, and they look surprised before they speak again.
“Hello, Ms. Aleksandra. I am Feliks,” the oldest boy says slowly in English.
“I am Elizaveta,” the little girl says with a grin.
“It is lovely to meet you both,” I state slowly with a smile, even though on the inside I’m struggling to just breathe.
“And this is Vadim,” Vladimir says, bouncing the boy in his arms. He giggles again, and the sound of his joyous laughter goes straight to my heart, tugging at it so hard that my chest physically aches. “Come inside, we’ll show you around.”
My heart completely melts when I take a step forward, toward the house, and Elizaveta wraps her hand in mine. Looking up at me, she smiles. “You look like a printsessa.”
“The children learn English in school, so they will greatly enjoy practicing with you,” Vladimir announces.
I find it hard to focus on anything but the blue eyed, brown haired beauty holding my hand so easily. She must look very much like her mother, as she doesn’t look a thing like her father. Feliks, however, looks as though he could be Vladimir’s twin. Vadim the same, an exact replica of my new husband.
As soon as we step inside, I’m taken aback by the modern styling of the house. It’s all black and white, no color and no personality. My brows furrow. There are sharp corners everywhere I look, and a lot of glass. It doesn’t look safe for children, especially Vadim. I wonder exactly what his late wife was like. Was she as cold as this home appears? And if so, how did they create three seemingly warm and delightful children?
I hear a woman’s voice, and I freeze just as we’re entering the living area. Then, as if it was possible to have any more air escape from my lungs or for me to be any more surprised, a woman walks into the living room carrying a bundled baby in her arms.
Forever my Badman (Russian Bratva Book 7) Page 27
