Page 24 of Taken & Bred By The Bratva
In the car, she leans her head on my shoulder and laces her fingers through mine.
“Honey?”
“Yeah.”
“Next time, I’m picking the restaurant.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you try to keep a straight face when it’s MY hand in YOUR pants.”
I laugh. Hard. The sound filling the car. My wife. My fucking wife.
16
Zara
I’ve never been to my husband’s office. In my head, it was something out of a movie: dark wood, cigar smoke, a wall of guns, maybe a tiger in the corner. Very Scarface.
The reality is worse. It’s a legit high-rise in the Financial District. Glass and steel, thirty floors, a lobby with a receptionist who looks like she moonlights as a Victoria’s Secret model. The sign on the building says Maksimov Holdings. Holdings. Like he’s holding mutual funds and not the entire city’s underworld by the throat.
“This is where you work?” I ask, staring up at the building.
Nikolai nods, his hand on my back, guiding me through the lobby. “This is where the suits work. Our lawyers, accountants. The people who make problems disappear on paper.”
“Like an HR department from hell.”
His mouth twitches. “Something like that.”
The elevator requires a keycard for the top floor. Of course it does. We ride up in silence, his hand still on my back, his thumb drawing circles through the fabric of my blouse. I’m wearing one of the outfits from a recent shopping trip: black pants, a cream silk top, heels that make my ass look incredible and my feet want to die. I look like I belong here. But I don’t really feel like I belong here. I feel like someone’s gonna ask for my ID and escort me back to the diner where I came from.
The doors open on massive windows overlooking the bay. A handful of men in suits turn when we step out, and every one of them straightens like someone shoved a rod up their spine.
“This way, baby,” Nik says, steering me down a hallway.
His office is the corner suite. With floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, a desk the size of my old apartment’s kitchen, a leather couch, and, I’m not making this up, a framed photo of me on his desk. It’s a candid of me on our couch at home, reading with my legs tucked under me, wearing his shirt. I’m not even looking at the camera. He took it without me knowing, framed it, and put it on his desk where everyone who walks into this office can see it.
“When did you take this?” I ask, picking it up.
“Couple weeks ago.” He replies casually.
I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. “Nik.”
He shrugs. “You looked beautiful.”
I giggle, shaking my head. “I was wearing your shirt and no pants.”
Another shrug of his broad shoulders. “Like I said. Beautiful.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. He has a picture of me, not some dressed up, made up version, just me, messy and natural, on his desk.
I set the photo down and look around. “So this is where you run your empire.”
His full lips twitch. Then he drops into his chair and pulls me on his lap before I can protest. With an arm wrapped around my waist, his hand resting on my stomach where it always gravitates now.
“Nik, I’m not sitting in your lap at your office.”
He huffs a short laugh into the crook of my neck. “You’re already sitting in my lap at my office.”
