Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

limb. Foo Foo won’t be making a reappearance before sometime tomorrow, and not without some miracle surgery to boot.

I lift Tiana and fake-race, complete with car noises for squealing brakes and gunning engine, to the kitchen. Maybe a distraction will work. I have to try something because I only have the one nerve left that her crying hasn’t frayed.

I plop her into her chair and dart to the pantry. There are cans of vegetables, boxes of cereal, nine kinds of flavored coffee, but none of the things I asked to be picked up for Tiana. Nary a fruit roll-up in the whole damn place.

And still, from beyond this walk-in cupboard, Tiana wails. I snatch a bag of marshmallows from a shelf and rip the bag open. Then, because I’m out of options, and have no brilliant ideas left in my brain, I stuff a handful of marshmallows into my mouth. Cramming them in until my cheeks bulge, and white gooey sweetness puffs from between my lips.

Ready or not, Marshmallow Mouth is on the way to save the day. I burst from around the pantry door and jump into place in front of her. There is a line between silly and insane, and I may be crossing it, but she’s stopped crying. Stares. Reaches a finger to poke into my cheek. And I blow out a marshmallow that vaults over her head and into the sink.

“Having fun, Miss Lowe?”

Oh shit. Kostya is standing in the doorway, all six foot four inches of him, with his tie askew and his top button free.

It’s been a week since we … and he hasn’t said … hasn’t even spoken to me, more than to ask about Tiana in passing. Not that I could answer now with my mouth full of marshmallow that is refusing to be chewed and swallowed with any kind of ease.

I smile as I chew. And chew. And finally, a sugary glob of what’s certain to be responsible for an impending diabetic coma slides down my throat.

As I’m about to reply, his face hardens. “She should be down for her nap.”

Of course she should, but a missing bunny, a teenager, and a bag of marshmallows have all come together to make me look incompetent. Again.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Right away, sir. “We were just …” I motion over my shoulder toward the door as he picks up the bag of marshmallows.

I scoop Tiana into my arms and carry her out of the room because my skin is about to explode with embarrassment. Or maybe desire.

As I’m putting her to bed, sitting beside her and singing a quiet lullaby until her eyes close and her breathing evens out, I think of Kostya. I need to speak with him about Lila. It won’t be long until Mom calls me again and I want to have something I can tell her. If not progress, at least an update.

That’s the only reason I go to his office. Not because I want to see him. Not because … okay. Yes, because of that. But I also need to ask about Lila.

Though I don’t knock or even breathe as I approach his office door, his voice vibrates through me. “Come.”

He gave that command before. Come now, Charlotte. His voice was deep, husky, sexy. I shiver at the memory.

“Kostya.” I can’t say more because his tie is hanging loose around his shoulders now, his shirt untucked as he stands at the window. Dear God. This man is delicious, and my mouth is too dry, my pussy too wet for any other conscious thought to make it through.

“Charlotte.” He perches against the sill, one hand on each side holding the marble, his back against the glass. “Close the door.”

There’s no tell-tale squeak, no whoosh of the wood against the carpet. I concentrate on what isn’t present because the idea of being alone with Kostya behind a closed door intoxicates my mind until I can only think in nonsensical syllables. Hum. Whoa. Blurgh.

As I turn from the door, he’s at his desk, holding the bag of marshmallows. My skin is already hot, burning before he even speaks. “I’ve never considered a marshmallow to be a particularly sexy device.” His eyes rake from my throat to my kneecaps and then take the return path slower, so slow I can feel the gaze like a caress. “It appears that I have much to learn.”

Oh, I doubt that. But I don’t elaborate because he’s around the desk, tossing the bag on his blotter, hauling me against him. His hand slides down my thigh, captures the back of my knee, and forces my leg up, bringing the hard length of his cock into direct contact with the damp spot on my panties as he crushes my mouth with his. Then, I’m against the wall with my legs wrapped around him. He holds me there with his body until I slide down and he walks me toward the sofa in his office.

It’s plush and suede, smooth under my back when he strips me of my shirt and lowers me to the cushion.

There’s an out-of-body moment when I look at him and think of when I met him. Beautiful. Powerful. A man to be feared and respected. He plucked me from the pits of temporary secretarial positions. And now, he has his lips closed around my nipple so that my back arches and my thighs clench.

There’s also a what the hell am I doing minute. I’ve got some pretty damning evidence that suggests this guy is a mob boss who kills people for kicks. No matter how many creative ways I’ve found in the past week to suppress those memories, the reality refuses to be denied.

I saw the blood. I heard the whimpers. I know he lied to me.

But right now, I can ignore those thoughts for a little bit longer. The fear fades away and I lose myself in his touch. In his kiss. In the way that kiss sends skitters of sensation along my skin. I