29. Chapter 29

29

Leonid

" T ch , whatever,” I mutter, shrugging off Galina’s orders with a roll of my eyes. Arguing isn’t worth the hassle. Because there’s just no point.

Because I know that they know—I want to fuck this woman until she screams my name, until she can’t remember why she ever hated me. But not like this. Not with vodka clouding those blue eyes, not when she can’t tell her ass from her elbow.

Besides, the way she’s swaying, she’s more likely to puke on me than suck me off.

Clara makes it three steps from her chair before nearly taking out a table. Ivan moves faster than a man his age should, sliding furniture out of her path like he’s clearing a minefield. She giggles, stumbling sideways, and I catch her around the waist before she can face-plant into the checkered floor.

“ Spasibo ,” I tell Ivan with a slight bow of my head. Some things are sacred in our world—respect for our elders, even when they’re being nosy bastards, is one of them.

The wooden stairs creak under our weight, each step worn smooth from decades of use. Faded photos line the wall—snapshots of old Russia, black and white memories of Katerina’s glory days. Clara stumbles, catching herself on a dusty frame of Lenin giving some speech or other, and I have to grip her waist tighter to keep her upright.

“Oops!” She giggles, dragging her fingers over my knuckles like a goddamn tease. The sound echoes up the stairwell, and I grip her tighter. If these walls could talk, they’d tell stories of blood and betrayal.

But, tonight, they’re getting front-row seats to me playing fucking babysitter to a woman who can’t walk straight.

“You’re so…” her hand finds my abs, fingers splaying wide, “… hard.”

“Stairs,” I growl. “Focus on the stairs.”

She ignores me, as usual. “Ever’where hard.” Her other hand joins the first, mapping my stomach like she’s reading fucking braille. “Like, here…” She pokes my chest. “An’ here…” Her hand drifts lower, and I catch her wrist before she can make this situation worse than it already is.

“ Blyat . You want to fall and crack your skull open?”

She snorts. “You’d catch me.” Then she wiggles her ass against me. “Like you caught me b’fore. When we…” She tries to turn, stumbling. “Remember that night? When you bent me over and—”

“ Zatknis .” Shut up. Because if she keeps talking about that night, I really will bend her over. Right here on these stairs.

Third floor. Only two doors up here, and I know the other one’s empty—Galina keeps it that way when I’m around. Old habits. The hallway’s dim, just one yellow bulb casting shadows on the floral wallpaper that’s peeling at the corners. Soviet-era charm at its finest.

Clara trips again, this time falling back against my chest. Her head tips back, and blyat —the way she’s looking up at me makes my cock throb harder.

“Are we going… home?” she mumbles, trying to turn in my grip and nearly taking us both down.

Home? The word hits harder than any bullet. But this drunk woman slurring that one fucking word makes my throat tight.

I step closer, positioning myself a step below her so she won’t tumble down like a fucking yebuchiy Humpty Dumpty.

Bad move.

Now her ass is perfectly aligned with my cock, and every tiny sway of her body has her pressing back against me. One wrong move and—

“ Nyet. ” I steady her with both hands on her waist now. I glide one hand lower, tracing the curve of her spine, trying to get that perfect ass away from my cock and up the stairs where it belongs.

“No?” The word barely leaves her mouth before she’s grabbing for the railing, the drunk little menace trying to prove she can handle stairs. Instead, she falls back and grinds her ass right against my cock. Fuck. My dick jumps, and so does she—like she’s just discovered a loaded weapon.

She spins around, tits pressing against my chest through my hoodie, and nearly brains herself on the railing. I grab her just in time. Her face is so close I can taste the vodka on her breath, those fuck-me blue eyes trying to focus as she sways.

“Uhhh…” she smirks, tapping that finger against my chest. “You’re… hard down there.” Her finger trails lower, tracing a path that makes my cock jump.

Her tongue swipes across her lips, eyes glazed but hungry. “God, you were so big I couldn’t even—” She hiccups, then giggles.

“ Blyat, ” I curse. I know that look—the same one she gave me that night before dropping to her knees.

Nyet. Not happening.

Before those sinful lips can reach mine, I’ve got her over my shoulder like a sack of trouble.

“ Suka ,” I growl, because now her ass is right by my face, my hoodie riding up to show black lace that barely counts as underwear. My hand slides up her thigh, dangerously close to where I can feel her heat.

“Hey…” Her bare feet dangle by my chest, dirty from the floor but somehow making my dick harder. Everything about her is fucking filthy perfect—raw and real and making me want to mark every inch of her skin.

I tear my eyes away, juggling this squirming handful of trouble while fighting with Galina’s ancient fucking key. Clara shifts again, and I feel wetness through that thin lace. Yebat . The key nearly slips from my sweating hand.

“Leonid,” she moans, and Christ, the way she says my name—like she’s already coming.

I shift my grip, palm full of her ass, to keep her from somersaulting over my shoulder.

“Stop squirming,” I growl, but she just wiggles harder, making these little sounds that go straight to my cock. The shirt’s ridden up to her waist now, giving me a front-row view of that black lace barely covering her ass. Fuck me, it’s the kind that disappears between her cheeks, leaving exactly nothing to my imagination.

“Make me,” she purrs. Her position over my shoulder has my hand splayed dangerously close to where that thin lace is already damp. Every time she moves, my fingers slide a fraction higher up her inner thigh, and I know one more inch will have me touching that wet cunt.

Focus!

The key finally catches, and I shoulder the door open, flinging it wide as we burst in. Clara’s head lolls against my back, her words slurring into my shirt.

“Where’re you takin’ me, Bratva man?” Her hands hang limply, swaying with each step. “Better be somewhere fun… ‘cause your shoulder’s not very comfy.”

“ Suka ,” I mutter, trying to focus on getting us to the bed without dropping her.

I’m two steps from throwing her on that iron-frame bed when she goes completely still. “Leonid?” Her voice is small, different.

“What?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.

“I don’t…” She swallows hard—I can feel it against my back. “I don’t feel so…”

Blyat . I know that tone.

I spin toward the tiny bathroom, but I’m not fast enough. She makes this little hiccup sound, then—

“Sorry,” she chokes, and I feel something wet hit the back of my sweatpants.

Yebat menya.

The most dangerous woman in my world just puked down my ass.