The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,32

love you. And Story is a flighty bird.

Story sucks on her cheek. “Oleg, I don’t—” I put a finger to her lips. Of course, she doesn’t love me. She barely knows me. It’s not something I would’ve said out loud if I could have.

She wraps her legs around my back to pull my body the rest of the way down onto hers like eye contact was too intense for her. I roll us both to the side to keep from crushing her.

She hides her face against my chest. “I don’t really do relationships.” Her words are muffled against my skin. Her breath moves the hairs on my chest. “That’s why I never asked you to take me home. Relationships always end quickly for me. I don’t do the love thing. My mom ruined her life chasing love.” She nuzzles her cheek against my chest, almost like a cat would. “And I didn’t really want us to end. I like what we had. You coming to my shows. Watching me. Supporting me. I liked it, and I didn’t want it to end.”

She sounds shaken.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight and hum again. Ya lyublyu tebya.

I don’t mean to project it. I didn’t even mean to think it, but it’s the truth. I love her. I don’t care if she doesn’t love me. Even if she won’t have me, I will never stop going to her shows.

Chapter 7

Story

I curl into Oleg on the low bed and rub my ass, which still stings from Oleg’s large palm.

"You spanked me.” There’s amusement in my tone. A tinge of wonder. “Is that like… your thing?” I definitely think it’s my new thing. “Do you do that with every girl you’re with?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Dude.” I pinch his nipple, and he gently catches my hand. “I asked you a question. Just because you can’t speak doesn’t mean you don’t try to communicate.”

He pulls me back in to snuggle closer against his warm chest and shakes his head.

“No? You don’t do that with every girl?”

Another shake. His hand slides down to grip my ass possessively. It makes my belly flip with excitement.

“Only me? Am I the first?”

Shrugs and nods. He strokes up and down my thighs, over the place where the buttock meets thigh.

“You were so reserved about making any moves with me for all those months. You just came and sat and watched. Now I find out you’re rough and passionate.” I lean up on one elbow to look at his face. He has light scars running beneath the stubble on his face. The guy has been in lots of fights.

“Hey, we need to figure out a way to talk to each other.”

He nods and reaches for the bedside table. I see he’s written out a list of the Roman alphabet letters with the Cyrillic alphabet symbols beside each one.

“You’re learning our alphabet.” My heart lurches a bit. “For me?”

His brows come down as he nods, which I interpret to mean, of course, for you.

I push up to lean on my hand, sitting up more. “We should learn sign language.”

Oleg blinks at me.

“I’ll bet they teach it at the community college. We can both learn it. Your friends can learn it, too.” I’m pretty excited about my idea although I don’t know why I’m making long-term plans with this guy. It scares the hell out of me.

Oleg nods, watching my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away.

“Yeah? I’ll look into it, then.”

Maybe I’ll even break down and finally get a smartphone, so we can text translate.

I get my guitar out and sit cross-legged on his bed. Oleg stays where he is, watching me with the same intensity he watches me perform. I watch him watch me, and try out the song I’ve been working on. The one about sex. With him. I have a chorus, but not the verses yet. Not the hook.

I don’t sing the words, but they play in my head as I try out the notes.

I’m up against the wall / your hands tangled in my clothes

I’m kissing, I’m biting, I’m begging for more

Knowing once this rocket’s launched, it will never be restored

Knowing once this rocket’s launched, you’ll never bring me more.

Inspiration isn’t mine at the moment, though. I’m too clogged up with the intensity of last night and this morning. The fuzzy-headedness of my on-going denial about it all. I’m very good at compartmentalizing.

Instead, I pick out the tune to Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” I don’t