Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

I love coming home to the sound of Daphne’s laughter.

I hate knowing I’m about to ruin it.

“Pasha!” My mother wipes her hands on her apron and nudges Daphne toward me. “I hope you’re in the mood for pierogi. We’re trying to find comfort foods that agree with her tummy.”

“Solyanka sounded amazing until we popped the can of brined pickles,” Daphne explains as she slips into my arms, wrapping her own around my waist. It’s getting a little more challenging to do now that her womb is growing.

I give my mother a look over the top of Daphne’s head and murmur in Russian, “I need to speak to Daphne.”

Mama, to her credit, doesn’t press for details. She shucks her apron, kisses Daphne on the cheek, and slips away.

Daphne watches in confusion, saying nothing until we’re alone. Then she turns to me with a hesitant eyebrow raised. “Is something wrong?”

I sigh. “Brittany Cleary paid me a visit today. In my office. In what was basically themed lingerie.”

Daphne stiffens. Her face falls. “Oh.”

Fucking hell, I hate the sight of her looking so defeated. But I promised to be open with her, and this is how that looks. “Mak and Sofi were there the whole time. So was security, once we called them to escort her and her father out of the building.”

“Oh.” She busies herself with rolling out the dough Mama left behind. “That… sounds like quite a day.”

“How do you know her again? Aside from being Ewing’s side piece, of course.” I almost said whore, but I’m working on dishing out what I want my daughter to receive. Baby steps. Literally. “I got the impression there’s history there.”

Daphne scoffs. “Oh, yeah. There’s history.” When I motion for her to keep talking, she sighs. “Have you ever met one of those people who peaked in high school? And so, like, everything afterwards is compared to those four short years of mediocrity because nothing else could possibly be better?”

I chuckle bitterly. “My teenage years were a bit different than yours, I think. More blood. Less prom.”

“Right. I should’ve known. But, well… So, when it comes to Brittany…” Her hands go still, fingertips dotted white with flour. “It’s like she hit her peak in boarding school—before I enrolled. That part’s important. Because I was really friendly back in those days and I liked meeting new people. And I was a pretty good student, too. So once I arrived, she felt… threatened. Although honestly, I think the arrival of someone with a shred of human decency—not to gas myself up or anything—made other people realize just how much of a giant bitch she was.”

“Is,” I correct.

Daphne laughs. “You’re not wrong. But yeah, so—I got there, and everything became my fault. She swore up and down I was stealing from her, so she made it her mission to steal from me. My prom dates, my prom gowns. If I won an award, she had to win something bigger. When I landed my first job, she lied about my credentials and took it from me.”

“Looks like that trend has continued as well.” My fingers tighten on the edge of the marble counter in anger.

But I keep it in—for now. She needs my compassion, not my fury.

With a bob of her shoulder, Daphne continues. “You’re not wrong about that, either. And now, you know why she went after Conrad. It was never about him; she just wanted to make sure I couldn’t have any happiness in life, since it’s apparently my fault she’s so miserable.” Daphne slides her gaze toward me. “It’s why she threw herself at you. She knows you want me. She wants you to see she’s better.”

I snort a laugh. “Not even in her dreams.”

Daphne bites the corner of her lip. It’s gradual, but I can see her start to pull inward on herself. “It’s okay, you know.” Her words barely come out as a whisper.

“What is?”

“If… if you do want her. She is prettier, and⁠—”

I’m stunned into silence for a moment.

But only a moment.

Then I’m springing into action. I whirl Daphne around and pin her between my body and the island. The bag of flour gets knocked over and erupts everywhere, sending swirls of white powder cascading through the air like fresh snow. Daphne’s mouth has fallen open in a delicious O and I want to claim it—and heaven and hell and everything in between knows that I will, any second now—but first, I need her to understand what’s happening.

“I don’t ever want to hear you say some shit like that again,” I snarl.

Her jaw falls wider. “But I’m—I’m huge, and she’s beautiful and, and⁠—”

“You are pregnant with my child, plamya.” Drifting flour settles on the tip of her nose as I stare down at her. “Do you want to know what I was thinking when she sashayed into my office, wearing basically nothing?”

“I don’t think I want to⁠—”

“Not a goddamn thing. It meant nothing to me. You were all I could dream of, all I can dream of. You’re mine. My woman. My only woman. So Brittany and anyone else who thinks they can supplant you can all get fucked. I’ve chosen what I want, and she is standing in front of me, perfect and beautiful and un-fucking-deniable. I… I… Fuck, there aren’t even words for how much you mean to me, Daphne. I can only show you what you are.”

With that, I scoop her up in my arms. She screams and a foot flies out to send the tray of unbaked pierogies clattering to the ground, but I don’t give a shit.

Fuck the pirog. I’ll order pizza later.

Food isn’t what I’m hungry for, anyway.

“You, Daphne, are everything I have ever wanted. Everything I never knew I needed.”

I pause here and there along the way to taste Daphne’s sweet mouth. She lets me sweep my tongue past her lips and claim her again and again.

“Pasha…”

“Hush.” I slowly trail more kisses along her jaw to her ear. “Be my good girl. Let me show you everything I love about you.”

When we reach the bedroom, peeling off her leggings takes no time at all. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her panties, too, and nip her soft skin when I see how wet she already is for me.

It’s so tempting to stay down here, to taste her pussy and make her cling to my head to stop from levitating off the bed.

But I have other plans.

When I stand back up, I turn her around so her back faces me and we’re both facing the long dressing mirror by the bed.

“Don’t look away,” I whisper in her ear.

Daphne blushes and moves to cover herself, but I capture her wrists and pin her arms to her sides.

I slowly—so, so slowly—pull her sweater up over the top half of her body. My hands palm her baby belly possessively, rubbing and pressing gently enough for her to feel what I’ve been telling her for months.

That she’s mine.

She lifts her arms for me, and I take the sweater off all the way, tossing it to the side. I tug my own shirt off so I can feel her bare skin pressed against mine.

“Do you see what I see?” I rumble as my eyes rake over her reflection.

Her body is a testament to everything we’ve shared together. Everything that we’re going to share together for the rest of our lives.

I move her long hair over one shoulder as I strip off what’s left of my clothes. Then it’s just us, warm and bare in front of the mirror. My hands span her swollen belly greedily, possessively.

“We did this,” I breathe. “Together.”

Again, I rub my hands up to cup her breasts. She whimpers and tries again to shy away from me, but I don’t let her. “Our love, our bodies—all of it is messed up and messy. But my God, Daphne… I want to make such a mess with you.”

I touch between her legs to confirm what I already knew: if she was wet before, she’s dripping now.

She grinds against my fingers and mewls again. I could keep whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I could keep teasing and stroking her body until she’s begging for release.

But in all honesty, my patience flew out the window back at the office.

I needed her then.

I need her right fucking now.

The only warning I give her is in guiding her hands to the sides of the mirror so she has something to grab onto.

Then I’m diving into her.

I vaguely remember wanting to make this moment sweetly passionate. Something slow and soft and full of reassurances that she’s the only woman I’ll ever want or need.

Vaguely.

It’s all foggy to my hungry mind. And I’m sure as fuck being anything but slow, soft, or sweet.

She comes once like the greedy little plamya that she is, which makes me laugh and bear down harder. My own orgasm is lurking, but I’m not ready to be done yet.

I need more of her squeezing down on my cock with every muscle she has.

I need more of her moaning and gasping and clinging to my hips as her breath fogs the mirror.

I need more of her staring wide-eyed as I fuck the living hell out of her, so she can see that she is perfect to me.

I don’t know how long we keep going. I lose track of how many times I feel her ripple and spasm around me. All I know is that I want her, I need her, and I won’t be satisfied until I’ve poured myself into her.

When I finally do, it’s with one protective hand over her belly and one possessive hand over her throat and one proud roar ripping free from deep within my soul.

My mind is blank, but somehow, we tumble into bed. And yet as soon as we hit the pillows, all my plans of recuperating in a daze go out the window.

I was going to collapse on it with her. Maybe hold her for a while and make sure she’s rid of all those ridiculous thoughts of me leaving her for someone else.

But now that I see her sprawled on my bed, her skin glistening head to toe and my seed smearing between her thighs…

I’m suddenly thinking of so many other ways to make sure she gets the message.

Besides—I’m not exactly an expert in showing, or giving, or feeling love.

I need the practice.