50. Nat

I'm still on the sofa, staring at the screen in shock, when there's a sharp knock on my door. The news anchorwoman has moved on from the tragic death of Miriam Romanova. She's talking about a planned casino development on a tract of undeveloped land on the south side of the city. It will create lots of new jobs, apparently, and bring more tourists to the area.

Whoever's at my door knocks louder. My phone buzzes on the table and when I look, it's Max. The message says: let me in.

My brain can't be functioning correctly. I'm sure he said he had work stuff this evening. So why is he here?

I stand, aware that I look like shit and not caring all that much. Miriam is dead. Is it because she talked to me?

Max strides in the minute I disengage the locks and open the door, kicking it closed behind him.

"Tell me what's wrong, why are you crying, baby?" he demands as he grabs my shoulders and scans my body for injuries.

"Nothing's wrong," I lie. It's not like I can tell him why I'm upset. How would I explain the fact I'm crying because some random woman died? He'd think I was nuts. There are so many secrets between us I'm losing track at this point.

He scowls. "I don't believe you."

For fuck's sake!"Stop being an overbearing asshole!" I yell. I'm not sure who's more surprised by my outburst, him or me. For a moment, I freeze, waiting for him to lash out like Rick would have done, but then to my surprise, he steps back, raking his fingers through his dark hair. The way it's all messed up, he's been doing a lot of that this evening.

"I'm sorry," he says in a softer voice. "I was worried when I saw you looking so upset."

"How come you're here?" I ask, deflecting like a pro. "I thought you were working this evening?"

"I am supposed to be working, yes, but…" He looks away, rubbing the scruff on his jaw. Is it wrong that I lose my train of thought when he does that? Asking for a friend.

"I wanted to see you," he admits. I sense there is more he's not saying, but the vulnerability in his voice distracts me. How is it possible that this powerful, sexy man is willing to admit he might have feelings for me?

I… I don't know what to think. I've not been in this position before. Rick told me he loved me but it was all a lie. Just pretty words that meant nothing.

He pulls me into his arms before I can brush off his confession. "If you're upset, you come to me, malyshka," he murmurs into my hair. "It's my job to take care of you."

Have I missed the conversation where we discussed our relationship status? I thought this was just a casual thing. Maybe Max thinks differently. It sure as hell feels like it.

"I don't need taking care of," I mumble against his chest. He growls with annoyance.

"Yes, you do." Once again, there's a subtext to his words that hints at the many things he's not saying. It seems we're both keeping our own counsel.

"Max, I really don't—" I try to pull back but he has me firm in his grip.

"Natalya, remember what happens when you're a bad girl?" This time, I am under no illusion about what he means. A blisteringly hot memory of being spanked sends a shiver of lust through my body. My panties are soaked in seconds.

I'm pulled against his hard body and a small whimper escapes. Never mind that 20 minutes ago I was sobbing on the sofa. Max's superpower is the ability to make me forget my own fucking name.

"Do you?" he repeats.

I nod. How could I forget? I don't think I've ever come so hard in my life as I did the night he put me across his knees and spanked my ass red raw.

"Good, because let me make it very clear: I can and will protect you, whether you think you need protecting or not."

He's right, of course, I do need protecting. If I'd known how much danger I would be in from investigating Mayor Kolanski, I might have thought twice about embarking on this story, but it's too late now. The truth will come out, one way or another.

The television blares away in the background, but neither of us is listening to the game show that's now playing. It's distracting, though, so I pull away and hit the off button on the remote.

Now I'm no longer physically touching Max, some of my confidence fades away. I'm fully aware I look a mess. My hair could do with washing and my sweatpants have a suspicious stain across the thigh. Yeah, I have Bag Lady chic nailed.

"I should probably get a shower… or something." Like right now. Ugh. If I'd known Max was coming over, I might have worn something sexy, applied some makeup, and definitely not pulled on my old gray cotton panties this morning—the ones with the Minnie Mouse cartoon on the butt that make me look about 12.

"No, Natalya. You're not running away. You look perfect as you are." He grabs my hand and places it firmly on the massive erection threatening to break free from his pants. "Does this feel like I don't want you?"

Well, fuck. I guess not. Maybe the grungecore look is a turn-on for him?

He must read some lingering doubt in my expression because he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom. Thankfully, I made the bed this morning and the sheets are clean. I'm tossed down unceremoniously on the cover and my sweatpants yanked off.

"Nice panties," he smirks.

My cheeks flush bright red and I rue the day I didn't throw out all my old underwear. Don't throw until they have holes in them has always been my motto. Well, not anymore. Tomorrow, I will go online shopping for new underwear and fill my virtual basket with dozens of pairs of pretty lace and silk panties. Never again will I be caught out by an unexpected booty call.

"Is this a booty call?" I blurt out, my brain failing to keep up with my chaotic emotions.

Max freezes, both hands resting on my thighs, perilously close to my pussy.

"Is that what you think, malyshka?" The heat in his eyes has faded a little and I get the impression I've hurt his feelings.

"I don't know," I admit. "I'm not used to guys wanting more than sex."