Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

Things have been going so well.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

I turn the key in the ignition once more. And once more, the car whines and shudders but refuses to start.

Things really, truly have been going so well up until this point. I’m actually loving my new place, despite the unexpected roommate situation. It’s huge, comfortable, and I’ve been able to add all the touches of decor and familiarity like I wanted to in my old place.

My roommate himself is pretty great, too. For the most part. I mean, I’d have to be out of my mind to not appreciate the eye candy every morning at breakfast. And he’s been respectful, sleeping on the couch so I can have the bed.

I don’t know why, to be honest. The penthouse is plenty big and I’m pretty sure there’s another room he could have put me in. But the one time I tried to ask him about it, Pasha just said that it made more sense to give me the biggest room with an adjoined bathroom so I could get to what I need faster.

He’s been so nice that it seems like massively overstepping to burden him with my sudden car troubles. It’s not that he’s ever made me feel like I’m too needy or clingy or a nuisance, but he’s already done so much to make sure I have everything.

And I mean, everything.

He even hid his guns. Which—and I don’t know much about his world—seems like kind of a big deal.

I try the ignition one more time. Just one more, please. Let this be the one that works.

Dammit. My good luck has run out.

Assuming I ever had any to begin with.

I sigh and yank my keys out of the ignition, then just slump back in my seat. I’d wanted to leave early so I could grab a box of donuts for Hazel and myself to enjoy later, so it’s not like I’m in a huge time crunch. I’m just out of energy to deal with this shit.

Pregnancy zaps my battery before I even get to use it.

I groan and heave myself out of the car. How much harder will it be when I’m fifty times bigger? I’m already noticing my stomach is touching my upper thighs at times, and I can’t bend forward as deeply as usual.

Sighing, I get out and ride the elevator back up to the penthouse. I shuffle back inside, fully planning on kicking my feet up while I wait for a rideshare. It’s too cold outside to wait by the car.

I rummage through my sweater pocket for a hair tie, but can’t find one. There’s none in my bag, either. I know I have some in the bathroom, so I check the time and decide I have plenty of it to go hunt down a decent ponytail.

Halfway there, I pause. Pasha’s still here? The shower in the master bathroom is running.

I’ll be fast. He won’t even notice I slipped in.

The door doesn’t make a sound when I crack it open. Steam bathes me in warmth, and it takes a second to blink through the haze. I spot my small bundle of hair ties on the counter by my brush and slip through the door just to reach it.

Pasha moans.

What the…?

I shouldn’t look up. I shouldn’t look over at the glass shower door, which doesn’t exactly obscure views of whoever is inside. The glass ripples just enough to warp the image, but it’s easy to see Pasha standing under the heavy stream of water, leaning on one hand braced against the wall.

The other hand is⁠—

Oh.

Oh… my.

I really can’t see anything clearly. But I don’t have to in order to know exactly what his other hand is doing between his legs. Judging by the way his arm is moving, he’s managing one hell of a downstairs situation.

I should go. I should retreat.

I just… can’t seem to look away.

I mean, my God. His backside alone is… how would he put it? “A work of art.” All rippling muscle and glistening skin and⁠—

“Daphne.”

Shit. He knows. He saw me and he knows I’m here and watching like the world’s biggest creep and I’m about to croak a response… when I see him tilt his head back and gasp.

“Fuck, Daphne…”

Oh.

My.

God.

He’s fantasizing.

About me.

Heat instantly blooms deep inside my core. It’s all I can do not to audibly gasp.

Pasha’s head tilts forward once more, and the pace of his hand around his cock quickens. I have no idea what he’s imagining us doing. But I’m feeling pretty left out.

“Fuck, baby… That’s it…”

I don’t know what Fantasy Me is doing to him, but I’m cheering her on. Whatever it is, he’s loving every second of it and I wish I could take notes.

You know. Just in case.

Pasha’s back tenses. His breath comes out in short, heavy gasps, followed by a series of grunts that reverberate through his chest.

Fuck. I want to feel him rumble against my lips. I want to taste him when he comes apart like this.

I—

Should not be thinking about him that way.

Or standing in the doorway, watching him like Pregnant Peeping Tom.

I shut the door as silently as I can and step back into the bedroom—and right on time, too, because Pasha turns off the water a millisecond later.

And then the notification alarm on my phone dings.

Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit!

I can’t just launch myself out down the hall. There’s not enough time and it would be way too obvious that I’m flustered.

I look around the bedroom and decide to cover my tracks by rummaging through my dresser drawers. Rearrange my makeup on the vanity counter. Something.

Oh, wait. I should check my phone.

Rideshare is here. Perfect. I’ll just⁠—

“Daphne.”

The sound of surprise that wheezes from me is probably the worst giveaway. I clear my throat, smooth out my hair, and turn to smile at him. “Hiii…”

Pasha looks at me from the bathroom doorway, brow furrowed deep. “I thought you left.”

He probably doesn’t mean it as accusatory as it sounds. Unless…

Double shit. Does he know? That I know? That I… saw?

“Car broke down,” I try to explain with an easy, breezy laugh. “I mean, it won’t start, so at least it’s still in the garage. My ride is here, so I should⁠—”

“Hold on.”

“But…”

I’m suddenly at a loss for words. The sight of his muscles—and whooo boi is he ripped—rippling while still glistening from the shower makes my mouth literally water. And when he moves to his dresser, his back facing me, the towel around his waist drops to the floor.

I look away.

At least, I try to.

Maybe it takes me a few seconds to realize I’m staring.

Maybe it takes me a few seconds to wonder why the hell we’re not currently horizontal and moaning.

Because it was a drunken, stupid, one-time thing. A one-night stand, emphasis on the “one.” If he wanted you that bad, he’d have let you know by now.

“Come.”

I’m snapped out of my thoughts by Pasha’s deep voice right in front of me. He’s completely dressed, splashed with cologne, and looking at me expectantly.

What were we doing? Oh, right. He wants to walk me down to my ride. Probably wants to make sure it’s not a serial killer and all that.

When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, Pasha follows me out into the lobby. I figure this is where he’s going to take a glance at my car, make sure one of his cronies is on my tail, and go saunter off to wherever it is he’s going today.

But he follows me through the front door.

And to what is apparently my ride, idling by the curb.

“Morning,” he casually greets the driver at the lowered passenger window. “Sorry for the confusion. We’re good.”

The driver starts to ask me what’s going on when Pasha pulls out a few bills from his pocket and hands them to him.

“For your trouble.”

And that’s how I’m left, dumbfounded, as my rideshare pulls away.

Pasha calmly turns around, loops his arm around me, and steers me toward the garage walkway. He doesn’t look up from his phone until the Charger pulls up next to us and one of his guards—Boris, I think—slides out of the driver’s seat.

“All yours, boss.”

They exchange keys, Pasha opens the passenger side, and I’m deposited into the seat like some errant child.

“I’m sorry,” I bluntly say once he’s in as well, “but what the hell just happened?”

“I’m driving you to work.” He adjusts the seat and a few mirrors, not once looking at me. “Buckle up.”

I frown at him. “But I had a ride.”

“You still do. Now, buckle up.”

I huff and adjust the seatbelt while he pulls out into the street, still feeling like he’s treating me like some child. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way to work,” I remind him.

“With a complete stranger?” He snorts. “I don’t fucking think so.”

“I didn’t ask what you think.”

His jaw clenches for a second. “You should. It’d save both of us a lot of time.”

The actual nerve of this man… “I have my own car.”

“You mean that death trap?” He snorts. “Time for a new car.”

“Hey! That’s my death trap. And I happen to like it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my baby inside you.”

Pasha’s gaze is glued to the road. Mine, however, studies his face to see if he meant what he said. I know our baby is important to him and all, but this feels like a bridge too far.

“I can’t afford a new car,” I finally admit, slumping back in my seat.

He’s silent. I figure that’s the end of that, when he breaks his silence with, “Boris will drive you to work until we get you a new one.”

I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I also shouldn’t let this man shower me with so many gifts. He pays for my food, I’m suspicious he’s paid for all my new clothing, and he’s put me up in his penthouse—which I’m pretty sure he’s also paying for. When he’s covering everything, what’s to stop him from asking me to start, y’know… uncovering myself?

As if you’d complain. That flutter-kicking in your stomach didn’t happen by magic.

“I really like my car as it is.”

Again, that vein in his jaw tics for a second or two. But then we’re in the drive-thru of the smoothie shop and he relaxes for the sake of the barista, who calls him by name and hands over an order with a beaming smile. He ordered ahead?

“Fine. We’ll get it fixed, too.” He hands me the smoothie. “But you’re only driving it after it’s thoroughly checked, and only when someone is available to follow you.”

“Why even have anyone follow me at all? I never go anywhere but work and home.”

“Because the rest of the world is unpredictable. And you’re carrying the future leader of our family’s Bratva. Any one of my soldiers will follow you to fucking Tibet if they need to.”

I sip on the smoothie to hide my pout. I don’t exactly love being under so much constant surveillance, or being valued for what’s growing inside me. Makes me feel like a mule.

“I hear Tibet is beautiful,” I grumble to myself between sips.

I definitely don’t expect the chuckle next to me.

Or the hand palming heavy on my thigh.

I use the next sip as a cover for the heated gasp I almost let out. Not that I’m in any kind of mood for this impossible man, but… well, sue me if I’m reminded of what I saw this morning in the bathroom. What I heard.

Pasha doesn’t say anything more. Just drives me to work, caresses my thigh with his thumb, and gives no indication that he knows my little secret.

Figures. But that’s okay with me.

It’s better for both of us if the walls between us stay right where they are.