Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva) by Nicole Fox (read aloud .TXT) 📕

There are memorials to people who have been killed on various corners or in front of stores. The air of resignation is suffocating.

Maksim stops in front of a small building with a sundae-shaped sign hanging above it.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re manufacturing drugs in here. Something is hidden in the bottom of the ice-cream containers or behind one of the machines. There’s also a secret room somewhere.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t own this place at all.”

He indicates in one direction with his head. There, sitting at a bright pink table is Lily with one of Maksim’s soldiers. She drops her spoonful of whipped cream and a cherry and waves at the two of us.

I jump out of the truck, barely thinking as I run over to her. I hug her so hard, she makes a small squeaking noise.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Wow.” She fixes her hair. “You’re a great hugger. Better than anyone at the house.”

Maksim joins us. I get the same as Lily—a fudge sundae—while Maksim sticks with vanilla ice cream. Talking to Lily about her life—the tribulations of math homework, the social intricacies of fifth grade, and the way that Ronnie Carlton says the word “magicians” in a funny way—I see her intelligence, her earnestness, and her precociousness. She is everything I could have wished her to become and more.

I turn to glance at Maksim at one point and he’s equally taken by her. It’s such a strange thing to see—a Bratva boss, my ten-year-old child who was stolen from me, and a silent, brooding Bratva soldier—but there’s also something leisurely about it. It almost feels like a family.

After we drop Lily off at home, Maksim drives me back to the mansion. He takes the long route, speeding down the backstreets with a well-developed fearlessness. The sense of freedom inside his truck is more energizing than the adrenaline or the fleeting panic. Alone together on the road, nighttime all around us, and the warm glow from our time with Lily creates an ease between us that burns brighter than all the city lights.

When we start getting closer to his house, car lights stumble out of the darkness as it crests the hill. His arm swings out, hitting against my chest as he stomps on the brake. We jerk to a stop just as the car drives in front of us in the intersection. He turns and his eyes sweep over me wordlessly.

When we get back inside his mansion, he takes me in his arms. His hands are in my hair. He’s kissing me. We’re crashing against the wall. He’s pressed up against me. His breath hits against my lips.

I kick off my shoes and run, adrenaline pouring through me, past the library and up the stairs, hearing Maksim’s footsteps catching up to me. I run straight to my bedroom, collapsing onto the bed, my ankles draping over the mattress. Maksim comes for me a second later, his body falling beside mine as his arms curve around me, pulling me on top of him, kissing me through the drape of my hair. Everything feels so natural between us, so good.

He pulls my blouse over my head. Our bodies return to each other. We kiss, his hands exploring my exposed skin and my hands undoing the buttons on his shirt. He unclips my bra as I reach the last button. We start a pile of clothes beside the bed.

We twist against each other, finding friction and undressing each other. His hands slide down my thighs, pushing down my underwear and pants. Kissing down my ribs, my hips, my thighs, his lips leave a trail of tingling heat.

Even when completely naked in front of him, I’m not self-conscious or nervous. I just want him with me. I want to feel him on top of me, feel him inside me, and feel like we’re the only people in the world.

I run my finger over his tattoo of the NYC skyline on his chest, covering it with my palm as he kisses me again. I try to stop him as he pulls away, grabbing onto his arm, but he slips out of reach at the end of the bed. He drops his boxer briefs and pants and then he, too, is bared to the night.

When he lies over me again, his weight soothes me, but as he kisses me again, his mouth nudging open my mouth, and I feel his arousal against my thigh, the comfort vanishes and it’s replaced by desire.

When he presses down into me, his cock completes me. As he moves inside me, slower than usual, I keep my eyes on his face. He looks back at me with an almost puzzled amazement.

He bows his head, kissing the curve of my neck. The heat of his skin transfers to me and the heat rolls through me in quick waves, sending shivers through me. When he looks at me again, the world becomes small enough that I can’t recall anything, but the ache, the vulnerability, the way his body—tattooed and scarred—belongs to me in this moment.

He cradles my face in his hands. The callouses on his palms are rough, almost scratching my face as my body moves with his thrusts. He places a kiss on my forehead, my cheeks, and my lips.

I open my legs wider. His thrusts pick up their pace. He knows how to hit me in the exact right spot and I can feel the coming tide. I stare at the red handprint tattooed on his shoulder, trying to block out the sensation to make the moment last. I place my hand over the tattoo, but my hand is smaller than the outline. My fingernails dig into his skin as he drives into me, small moans catching in my throat.

He bows his head again, but this time he nips at my shoulder. My hips buck, meeting his thrusts. Our bodies beat against each other as every collision takes me closer and closer to the edge.

When the crashing