Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

That was too fucking close.

One moment, I’m in control. Calm. Cool. Fucking collected.

And the next moment, she’s in my arms and looking up at me with those big, beautiful, guileless eyes.

It would have been so easy.

So goddamn easy.

But I’ve never taken Easy Street. It always leads into a trap. So I let her go and got the hell out of there before the beast in me took advantage of her vulnerability.

She’s hormonal. She’s been through a lot. She might want something now, but would she want the same things in the morning?

I grab my keys and head down to the main floor of the building to check the mail. At least, that’s the excuse I make up in my head to leave the penthouse without actually leaving.

As expected, the mailbox is empty. And why wouldn’t it be? I have people who work for me who do this shit. Men like me don’t check their own fucking mailboxes.

I grimace and cast around for something to do, but when I nod and say hello to the guard manning the front desk, he stiffens like I just issued him a death threat.

I suppose men like me don’t chit-chat about the weather, either.

Sighing, I go back upstairs. The elevator ride is both quicker and quieter than I would’ve liked. Too easy to hear my own thoughts. Not enough time to sort through them.

But by the time I reach my door, I’m cooled down enough to think clearly. I’m ready. I’ll be able to keep myself in check.

I can hear the shower running as I walk back toward the bedroom. Her clothes are strewn across the bed; I resist the temptation to touch her silky bra just to feel her warmth still soaked into it.

So many other things would be easy, too. Like opening the bathroom door a crack and watching her, exactly the way she watched me.

Because hell yes, I knew she was there. The fact that she was watching me made my fantasy of her that much better.

But I can control myself. I can make myself walk away from temptation, no matter how seductive it is. So I do exactly that. I rip away from the bathroom and rummage through my dresser drawers for a clean pair of sweatpants to sleep in, grab a blanket and pillows from the closet, and turn toward the couch.

But I pause halfway. I could just sleep in the bed. What is she gonna do? Stop me? It’s my bed.

The real threat, though, is what if she didn’t stop me? What if she melted into my arms and whimpered for more?

I shake off the thought and storm out to the living room couch. Aside from the one night all this shit started, I don’t throw caution to the wind and let my guard down so easily.

Men like me can’t afford to do that.