Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)
Chapter 51

I’m in nothing but my bra and panties when Pasha waltzes into the bedroom an hour later.

“Excuse you!” I gasp, automatically trying to cover myself.

He sighs at me. “Did you just forget all about the baby growing inside you? The one I put there?”

“There’s still a door to knock on!”

“That would ruin the surprise.” He sets the box he’s holding on the bed and pulls the lid off. “See? Surprise.”

My eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of my head. “Surprise” is one way to word it.

Stunning is another.

Pasha lifts the gown by the beaded shoulder straps and draws it out of the box. The straps and bust are completely beaded over a backdrop of taupe satin, a deep V-neck that ends at an empire waist. The rest of the gown is a cloud of chiffon silk. Beneath the dress, still in the box, is a pair of matching beaded flats.

With memory foam padding for my aching feet.

Bless this man.

“Here,” Pasha says, holding the dress low for me to step into.

“I can manage myself, you know. Been getting dressed for years with little to no help.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” He lofts a brow, his gaze continuously skimming my mostly-naked body.

“So…?”

“So, I bought the dress. I get to put it on you.”

Why does that turn me on? He’s so possessive. So territorial. So demanding. Why do I love it so much?

I do as he requests and step into the gown. He offers his hand for balance and I have to admit—to myself, if not aloud—that it’s not as easy doing this as it was a few weeks ago. My center of balance is a bit more off than usual.

Thanks bunches, kiddo.

When he slides the gown up my body, I can feel his warm breath on my skin. It’s like he’s barely a kiss away, like he’s drinking me in before covering me up. And when he gets to the top, we both realize my bra is not going to work with this outfit.

“Pity.” Pasha’s voice does not sound one bit concerned. “Looks like the bra is going to have to go. What ever shall we do?”

He undoes the clasp before I have the chance to come up with ideas. “Pasha! I need a bra!” I half-gasp, half-laugh as I try to keep the bra from falling off.

“You’ve never been more wrong.”

I should feel somewhat violated as he spins me around. Instead, I feel like he could bend me over this bed and I’ll just beg him for more.

“Perfect.” Pasha ties up the back laces. “Comfortable?”

Honestly? It’s making my breasts look incredible. “Feels… perfect, actually.” I turn around to show him what it looks like put together. “What do you think?”

Pasha stands there quietly. His own outfit, the promised tuxedo, is only halfway assembled, with his cufflinks still missing and the bowtie hanging loose around his neck.

Do we have time for me to tug on that strip of satin and have a little fun?

“I think I need to heighten security.” His mouth curves into a hungry smile. “I might have to fight off a few dignitaries once they see you.”

Pasha reaches for the shoes in the box. Then, kneeling down, he lifts one of my legs by my ankle and slides the slipper on. “How does that feel?”

It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Dammit, I don’t need tears ruining my makeup. “Why are you doing all this?”

He looks up at me, my foot still cradled in his hands. “Why am I taking care of you? Because you’re mine. You are mine, aren’t you, Daphne?”

He’s made the claim so many times. But this might be the first time he’s actually asked me if I really am his. If I want to be his.

“Yes.” The word slips through my lips, breathless and heavy all at once. “I’m yours, Pasha.”

He lifts my foot and presses a warm kiss to my ankle. “Then let me take care of you.”

I don’t know if I should.

Not because I don’t want it.

But because I don’t feel like I deserve him.

And I sure as hell shouldn’t be falling in love with him.

I hate this.

Some senator’s wife flutters her fake lashes at Pasha and giggles so incessantly, her turkey neck wobbles. “Oh, stop! You’re too much!”

You’re too much, lady. Too much surgery, not enough moisturizer.

I almost slap myself for the thought. I cannot stoop to their level. It’s too easy, though, especially when half the table is making eyes at Pasha like he belongs on the fucking menu.

The other half is eyeing me like I belong in the dumpster.

Pasha leans back in his chair and makes a show of wrapping his arm around the back of mine. “If you’ll excuse us…” he says while standing. He offers me his arm. “It’s been a pleasure.”

With all the charm and grace of a practiced socialite, Pasha sweeps us away from the table and into the flow of conversationalists eagerly looking for new connections to schmooze.

“Who was that old guy sitting next to you?” I whisper to him out of pure curiosity. “He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“When you’re that close to death’s door, you see a lot of ghosts,” Pasha jokes. Smile disappearing, he adds, “He’s also someone who owes me more than he can afford to pay.”

“Is he even going to live long enough to pay you back?”

Pasha grins at me. “Listen to you. A woman after my own heart.” He turns me to him in a graceful move. “It’s like you were born for this life, Daphne. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I wish so much I could ask him to clarify. There are two lives happening simultaneously here, but I don’t know if he realizes he’s not the only one walking between both of them.

If he means this world of tittering dignitaries and glittering gowns… what is he going to think when he replaces out I literally was born for this life?

And I threw it all away?

I don’t get much time to dwell on it before he glances at his phone and winces. “Stay here,” he orders. “I’ll be right back.”

“Everything okay?” After the past few days, I’m ready to run at a moment’s notice.

Hell—please, please give me an excuse to run from here.

Pasha cups my face in his hand and kisses me tenderly.

Is it for show? Probably.

Do I still love it? Absolutely.

“Everything’s fine. Just need to make sure the transition between guards goes smoothly, that’s all.”

“Okay. I’ll wait right here.”

He’s gone in a whiff of cologne. I know I could mingle, and maybe I should. But I really don’t feel like schmoozing, so I pluck a glass of water from a service table and sip from it as delicately as if it were champagne.

Ugh. Champagne. How I miss thee.

“Well, well, well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

I hide my sigh as best as I can. Here we go. But when I turn to shoo off the sleazeball sidling up to me, I pause.

He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him in the newspapers, sure.

No… he looks really familiar.

How do I know him?

“I never knew Pasha was into pregnant whores. But hey, who am I to judge?” He downs what’s left in his martini glass. “The man’s like a fucking STD. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get rid of him. But I guess I can’t complain about tonight.” He slides his gaze over my body. “He brought you.”

There are a thousand things I want to say to this asshole. A hundred more things I want to do, several of which involve stabbing the stem of my water glass into his jowl.

“How much are you charging?” The man snatches another cocktail from a passing server and knocks half of it back in one gulp. “Whatever that asshole is paying you, I can double it.”

I take another sip of my water and stay silent. Pasha will be back any second. Any second now…

The man grows irritated. “What, are you deaf? Or just dumb? I’m talking to you, you stupid bitch.”

A few curious glances shift our way. Alas, in true high society fashion, no one is decent enough to intervene on my behalf.

Until—

“Ah. Senator Brennan.” Pasha greets him with all the warmth of an iceberg. “I see you’ve met my fiancée.”

The man—Senator Brennan, apparently—shuts his mouth and looks away. Pasha studies him for a moment, suspicion in his eyes, before he turns to me. The way he gives me a far more careful once-over tells me he’s not blind to what might have been going on.

I’m not sure I should tell him. For everyone’s sake.

“You okay?” he asks me quietly as he leans in.

“Friend of yours?”

“Let’s go with that.” His arm slips around my waist and pulls me close to his side.

“‘Fiancée’?” The drunk senator clears his throat. “You never mentioned you were seeing someone.”

“I’m sure, if our schedules aligned, I would have.”

I have no idea what’s going on between these two, but the air feels like it drops several degrees just from the way they’re talking. Senator Brennan is wobbling somewhere between pissed and sheepish.

Pasha looks… well, like himself.

Like nothing has ever ruffled his feathers—and also he might kill the guy.

“Sounds like Senator O’Cronin has firmly wedged himself in your camp, regarding the contract,” Brennan tries again.

“Sounds like Senator O’Cronin isn’t a complete imbecile.”

Damn. I don’t know what beef these two have, and I don’t want to know.

“I believe our ‘friend’ here is due to give his speech any minute now,” Pasha offers into the thorny silence. “Let’s go replace our seats, shall we?”

Without waiting for an answer, Pasha steers me away from the slack-jawed senator. He replaces a chair against a nearby wall just as the lights dim. I yelp when he pulls me into his lap, but his hands clamped on my waist say he’s not letting me go anytime soon.

And honestly, I’m not upset about it. My old etiquette teacher would have a heart attack if she could see me now—I’m pretty sure “Don’t sit in your date’s lap while his massive dick gets harder and harder beneath you” is on, like, page one of the cotillion rulebook—but after that shiver-inducing interaction with the senator, I don’t mind if Pasha’s wandering hands help me forget being called a “pregnant whore.”

“You look beautiful tonight.” Pasha eases me closer to him, pulling me back until my head lays against his chest. His warm breath fans over my skin as he whispers lightly in my ear.

My skirts shift. They’ve billowed out over most of the chair to the point where we’re both pretty much hidden behind them, so I think Pasha needs to move them aside to reach for something or⁠—

Oh.

He’s reaching for “something” alright. Something my cotillion teacher would definitely disapprove of.

I want to gasp. I want to squeak with surprise.

But I can’t. Because we’re in public.

His fingers walk over my skin to the edge of my panties. If he knows what’s good for him, for us, this is as far as he’ll go. He’ll move his fingers back to my thigh, maybe give me a light little pat, then remove his hand so we don’t get thrown out by security.

Pasha does none of those things.

I’m forced to swallow back a moan when his fingertips press against the fabric of my panties over my mound. So slow, and yet so firm. Like he’s letting me know that this is definitely happening, and I need to relax and let it.

I take a deep breath. Hide my gasp of pleasure as a happy sigh. Steal a glance at him.

He’s “focused” on the emcee like everything is perfectly normal.

I want to slap him.

I should slap his hand away for being so publicly indecent. But aside from the fact that no one can actually tell he’s now inching aside my underwear, I’m kinda enjoying this.

I’m kinda loving this.

Pasha presses his free hand to my side for a brief moment. He adjusts himself on the chair and settles back in without more than a contented sigh.

Under the skirts, though?

My ass is resting squarely on his very, very sizable bulge.

The host speaker announces something I don’t quite catch; whatever it is, it has the room applauding with a few half-hearted cheers. The asshole from earlier skip-walks to the dais, a perfect politician’s smile stretched across his weathered face.

“Good evening, everyone!” Senator Brennan wastes no time in delving into his platform, some political mumbo jumbo that means very little to me and, I’m sure, very little to Pasha. The same old promises everyone makes. The same old observations, the same old complaints.

Pasha shifts under me again. His fingers hook inside the crotch of my panties, pulls them aside…

And then he’s inside me.

I barely have enough wherewithal to cough my way through the sudden gasp he rips from my chest. A few people glance over.

The senator is one of them.

A pink flush has traveled up to his puffy cheeks. He’s staring at us.

He knows.

Pasha stretches his arms out with a yawn and rests them on either side of the chair. He is so visibly unbothered by all this. I don’t know how he’s managing it, but there’s no way anyone could tell just by looking at him that he’s completely impaled me on his throbbing dick.

But from the waist down, he’s killing me slowly.

Every squeeze, every roll, every subtle grind is driving me up the wall with pleasure and need. I feel him throbbing and pulsing inside me.

God help me, I’m already on the verge of coming.

On stage, Brennan keeps stumbling over his words and clearing his throat. This is maybe the fourth glass of water someone’s handed him to help. He’s gone from pink to red all over his face, and he keeps shifting his focus between the teleprompter and our cozy little spot in the corner.

Part of me wants to know what the hell is going on between these two. For Pasha to be so vicious, and for the senator to be so hung up on whatever he assumes we’re doing.

Not that he’s wrong in his assumption.

I hear Pasha take a slow, deep breath. His hand on my hip tightens.

And then I’m filled with warmth. It spreads low through my belly, filling me and reminding me of how thoroughly I belong to this man.

It takes every ounce of self-control within me to hide my own release as a sudden shiver. I want to scream, I want to grind, I want so badly to ride him until we’re both limp. But I’m stuck here, in the middle of this crowded room, playing off one of the more intense orgasms of my life as a “sudden chill.”

Pasha rubs my arm and leans in close to my ear. To anyone else, it looks like he’s asking me if I’m cold.

“Enjoy that?” he asks instead.

I nod. I hope I don’t look too enthusiastic about it.

Brennan glares at us. At me.

So I give him a sweet smile and a little wave of my fingers.

He sees it. If he was upset before, he’s fuming now. “That’s all for tonight,” he says abruptly. The senator downs one more of the tepid glasses of water, clears his throat for the hundredth time, then rushes off the dais.

Pasha is grinning from ear to ear. Once he’s eased himself from me, he tucks my panties back into place and pats my thigh.

“Best dinner I’ve been to in a long time,” he murmurs mischievously. “Dessert was damn near orgasmic.”