Dark Christmas: A Bratva Next Door Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)
Dark Christmas: Chapter 7

“So… did you look at, um, all of the pictures?”

I’m trying to sound casual, feeling anything but.

Melor seems amused, his lips curving into that little half-smirk that’s starting to drive me wild. He leans back slightly, all relaxed and in control.

“Yes,” he says, his voice smooth, leaving it at that. No further elaboration. Not even a hint of what he thought about them.

I slowly sip my whiskey, trying to play it cool. I got what I came for so there’s really no reason for me to sit here awkwardly with a man who melts my panties with a single look.

Right?

Just as I’m about to make up an excuse to go, Melor speaks. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I reply, swallowing hard.

He tilts his head, studying me with those intense, dark eyes. “Why did you pose for the pictures? Were they for a boyfriend or perhaps husband?”

His button-down shirt is undone just enough to show off a glimpse of his pecs, and it’s taking everything in me not to stare. My heart races as I try to keep it together.

“No. No boyfriend or husband. They were kind of a gift to myself,” I say, blushing. Why does answering him feel like I’m admitting something way more personal than it is?

“They were a gift from my best friend,” I continue, rambling like I always do when I’m nervous. “You know, just for fun. To remind me that I’m a woman with needs.”

As the words leave my mouth, I freeze, realizing I’m oversharing. Like, majorly oversharing.

Melor chuckles, clearly enjoying this way too much. His amusement only makes me squirm more, and I’m hoping that my face isn’t completely red from embarrassment at this point.

“Did it work?”

I blink. “Did what work?”

“Did they make you feel sexy?”

His words send my pulse racing, and I can feel my pussy clench involuntarily. The way he says it, so casually yet so full of innuendo, makes my whole body heat up.

“Well, kind of,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He leans in just slightly, those dark eyes watching me. “Did you have fun?”

The question is loaded with meaning, and I know exactly what he’s getting at. I clear my throat, trying to stay composed. “Not the kind of fun I wanted to have,” I admit, surprising myself with how easily I’m playing along.

This man has me tangled in his words, and it’s both terrifying and thrilling.

I can’t believe I’m flirting with him like this. I don’t even know him, and yet here I am, having a conversation with him knowing full well he’s seen me in vulnerable poses nearly naked. There’s no denying it—he brings something out in me I didn’t even realize was there.

I clear my throat, desperate for a change in topic. “So, um… did you like the muffins?”

He chuckles again. “Yes, they were amazing.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing over him. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who lets carbs come anywhere near him.”

His lips curl into an amused smirk. “I like to indulge every now and then. Life wouldn’t be nearly as fun without the occasional indulgence.”

His eyes roam over me as he says it, making his meaning very clear. My breath catches, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode right out of my chest. The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, and I’m fighting the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“Well,” I manage, trying to keep my cool, “glad I could satisfy some indulgence for you.”

He watches me like a predator sizing up its prey, and I’m not sure whether I want to run or let him catch me.

“I have to admit something,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Those pictures? They were the sexiest damn things I’ve ever seen.”

My heart skips a beat, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks again. “Well,” I stammer, searching for something to say, “I never would’ve guessed you had a thing for elves.”

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that makes my skin tingle. “I didn’t. Until I saw you dressed up as one.”

I blush harder, biting my lip as I mumble, “Thanks,” unsure what else to say. I can feel the weight of his gaze, as if he’s undressing me with his eyes, and while there’s a part of me that enjoys it way more than I should, another part of me is panicking. I’m not sure I’m ready for where this conversation’s heading.

So, I move, shifting slightly as if to make my exit. “Well, I should probably—”

“Stay for dinner,” he interrupts, stopping me mid-sentence. His words hang in the air, and I can’t tell if he’s being polite or if there’s something more behind the offer.

“Just dinner. I’d like to get to know you.”

I take another sip of my drink, trying to sort through the mess in my head. The tension, the flirting, the way my body responds to him.

Should I stay?

“Sure. Dinner sounds nice.”

“Wonderful,” he says with a smooth smile, then gestures for me to follow. He heads out of the office, and I follow, empty glass in hand.

As I walk through his house, I take in the space around me. It’s all clean lines and minimalist decor, but there are little flourishes here and there—classic art pieces on the walls, a few sculptures that look way too expensive to be just for show.

There’s a sense of control, of purpose, in every part of his home. There’s no sign of anyone else living here.

We enter the kitchen, and I’m once again struck by how spotless and spacious it is. White countertops, stainless steel appliances—everything looks like it’s barely been used. He motions for me to sit at the island while he gets started on dinner.

“Won’t take long,” he assures me. “It’s a classic beef stroganoff, my personal favorite.”

I watch as he moves around the kitchen with precision, grabbing ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. His movements are confident and practiced.

“So,” I ask, curiosity finally getting the best of me, “where are you from?”

“Russia,” he says, and I catch the faintest trace of an accent in his words. Just a hint, like a whisper from the past.

I watch as he starts prepping the ingredients, chopping onions, and tossing butter into the pan with a casual ease. “What’re you doing there?” I ask, more curious than I’d like to admit. He doesn’t mind the question, though. In fact, he seems to enjoy it.

“Making the sauce,” he says, glancing at me with a half-smile. “Onions, garlic, some sour cream to bring it together. Nothing too complicated.”

I tilt my head. “I’m a baker. I like to watch how other culinary aficionados work.”

He chuckles, flipping the onions in the pan like it’s second nature. “You’ll have to grade my technique, then. But don’t expect too much—I wouldn’t call myself a chef. Barely an amateur, really.”

I watch him for a second, his movements far too smooth, too effortless, for someone who claims to be an amateur. He’s not even glancing at a recipe—just working from memory, like someone who’s done this a hundred times. He grabs a knife, spinning it in his hand with a quick, precise flourish before chopping the mushrooms.

The control he has over that blade is almost too skilled.

I raise an eyebrow. “Muscle memory?”

He meets my gaze, holding it for a moment longer than necessary, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. “Exactly. Comes in handy.”

Maybe I’m being crazy, but there’s something about the way he handles that knife that tells me he knows how to use it for more than just cooking.

The kitchen is starting to smell incredible, the rich aroma of butter, garlic, and onions filling the air. My eyes drift to Melor’s huge, powerful hands, the way they move so confidently as he works. I start imagining what those hands would feel like on my body, sliding between my legs.

Before I get too carried away, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Would you grab a bottle of wine from the pantry?” he asks, gesturing toward a door on the far side of the kitchen.

I nod, sliding off the stool. “Sure, but full disclosure—I know nothing about wine.”

He chuckles, wiping his hands before following me into the oversized pantry. The space is almost as big as my entire kitchen, several shelves lined with expensive bottles. I glance around, trying not to look completely lost.

“What do you prefer?” he asks, scanning the labels.

“Uh… box wine?” I joke, then immediately feel my face heat up.

Oh my God, why did I say that?

He doesn’t miss a beat, laughing softly. “Does your box come in red or white?”

I feel the heat spread from my cheeks down my neck.

“Red.”