The God (Bratva Blood #3)- S.R. Jones Page 0,45
were the moment I saw you again when you were sixteen, and you had that gorgeous red hair falling around your shoulders.”
Him mentioning that moment brings up another woman over him, sucking him, and I wasn’t sexy enough to stop him looking elsewhere, was I?
He must read some of my thoughts in my face. “Dasha, I’m so sorry about what I did. I have no excuse except to say I was fucking wasted. Beyond anything I’d been before. I got drunk and someone gave me something, and I didn’t realize it was ecstasy. I was not in control of my faculties. It’s not an excuse, but the truth. I wish you hadn’t seen it.”
He knows I was at the party due to a very acrimonious phone call we had afterward. Acrimonious on my part; he was fucking off his head still.
I nod and try not to cry because damn it I don’t cry when my husband beats me and covers me in trash, so why am I wanting to now?
“But what I did,” he continues, “it was all on me because I was fucked up, and it felt good for a brief moment in time. It meant nothing, and the woman, I can’t even remember what she looks like.”
I can.
He sighs. “There’s been a lot of women, Dasha. I’ve got to be honest with you before we go any further. I’m clean. I use condoms, and I get tested, but I’ve not been exactly celibate since we last saw one another. But the only woman who ever meant anything was you. That’s not me spouting flowery bullshit. It’s the truth. I thought of you nearly every day. You’re one of the few people in this world to really know me. I also thought you’d betrayed me in the worst way. So, you see, I’ve spent years loving and hating you in equal measure. Some days my hatred for you was white hot, on others my love for you was as deep as the ocean, but through it all you were never nothing.”
Holy crap. What do I say to that? I’ve thought of him too, obviously, but not every day.
He looks at me. “I’ve been thinking about what we’d do if you were pregnant, and I don’t want you stuck in this loveless marriage.”
His words hit me hard. He thinks I can get pregnant?
“I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill,” I lie.
“Birth control isn’t always one hundred percent. All I’m saying is I thought about it, and if you were—”
“Bohdan,” I interrupt testily. “I’m not fucking pregnant.”
He laughs. “Okay, Dasha. I’m not trying to get you pregnant. I’m trying to tell you something else. It made me realize that I don’t want you to have to spend your life living with a man you hate and who hates you.”
“So you’re offering what? A new life with you?”
“Maybe.”
“What?” I shake my head. This is insane. This is also everything I could ever want offered on a plate, but I can’t go and just be with Bohdan. If he helps me leave Jasper, I need to be alone. I don’t know who I am anymore. Plus, it’s hardly sane what he’s proposing. We don’t know anything about one another now. We only know each other as the past versions of ourselves.
“I can’t talk about this,” I say. I start to get up from the bed, hating the feeling of panic gripping me.
“Okay, it’s okay. We won’t talk. You came here looking for something. Let me give you that, Dasha.”
The way he says my name is so seductive. Not quick and irritated, the way Jasper does, but heavy, drawn out. Daaaassshha.
“I want to give it to you too,” I say.
He pulls me into him and kisses me, and it’s where I need to be. The talking, the feelings, the past, none of it matters when he’s kissing me.
His fingers trail down my arm and take the right strap of my camisole with them, exposing my breast. He looks down and murmurs, beautiful, before kissing his way down my neck, down my throat, onto my collarbone and then over my breast. He takes my nipple into his hot mouth and tugs on it.
I cry out and pull his head into me, needing more.
His hands skim up the back of the silk camisole, and his callouses catch on the material. He’s not a man who has manicures like Jasper, but a man who uses his hands.
When he takes it off, I help by lifting my arms