Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) by Fox, Nicole (classic books for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

us. It’s a little overbearing, but I’d rather have someone watching out for me than risking getting stabbed by Blake.”

Blake is the meth-head that lives on the first floor. Julia has saved his life twice and she’s not overly enthusiastic about the guy.

“Allison,” Lev says. “Why does it sound like you’re outside right now? Go back to your apartment. Lock the door.”

I hang up on him.

* * *

When I slide back into bed, it already feels like a dream—one of those dreams where your brain tells you that something is your childhood home, the courthouse, or your bed, but it doesn’t resemble any of those at all. Everything has changed so much since I went to sleep last night that it might as well be a different bed.

It’s too quiet in this room.

And empty.

My heartrate should be slowing down, but it patters along like the mice in the walls. I stare up at the water-stained ceiling, the shapes reminding me of Lev’s wound.

And the thought of blood reminds me of the man he killed.

In the quiet, the truth sneaks into the room. Seeing the man be killed in front of me was more traumatizing than seeing Jeffrey slowly die because I was less than a second away from dying, too. We were nearly in opposite positions. And it was all because of my own naiveté. It was because of my black and white morality. Lev was right—my morality didn’t help me at all. I made Lev hesitate, and it almost got us killed.

But Lev saved my life.

I grip my hair, pulling it up into a bun, imagining tying it up, but instead, the prickle of pain in my scalp only makes me think of Lev. I need his hands in my hair, his body pressed against mine until my thoughts dissipate.

The kiss. It was war and peace and all those tense times in between.

I take my phone off its charger. I find Lev in received calls and tap on the number.

I could blame it on being sleep-deprived.

I could blame it on trauma.

I could blame it on how long it’s been since I’ve been in a relationship.

But those are all mitigating circumstances and I’m still guilty.

He answers on the first ring. “Hello, Allison.”

“I just wanted to know if you cleaned out your wound,” I say. There’s a pause. It seems to stretch the distance between us.

“Yes. Thank you for calling to check.”

“Well. It’s evidence,” I say.

“Is that the only reason you called?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I also don’t have the money to buy a dress for the gala.”

“I can provide you with any funds you may need.”

“Oh. Okay.” I tug on my hair. “But …”

I let the word drift off. I don’t have any dispute with what he said, so I don’t know why I keep talking.

I wait for him to fill the silence. He doesn’t.

“But I’ve only shopped at, you know, cheap places. Department stores. If I’m your date, I’d assume I need something more elegant. I don’t know where to buy those things.”

Silence. The seconds creep by.

“If there was a question in that statement, I missed it,” he says.

“You’re an asshole,” I say.

“Also not a question.”

“Well, I—I was just thinking that you could show me some places to shop at.” I rub my thighs, the burning sensation from running coming back. “You wouldn’t even need to take me anywhere. You could just give me addresses. But from what I’ve seen in the movies, I don’t think they’ll help me without someone rich by my side, so if you came with me … I could pay you back by doing housekeeping or something like that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask. “After all that, you’re just going to say okay?”

“I own one of the most profitable vodka companies in the United States, Allison. I don’t have time for people who talk around what they want or people too hesitant to ask for what they need. The meek won’t inherit the earth.”

“I’m not meek.”

“Of course not,” he says. “You would never give up what you wanted because you were too frightened at the idea of chasing it. Good night, Allison.”

“Wait.” I yank my blanket off, sitting up. “You don’t get to say that and just hang up.”

“You called me,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice. “Tell me why.”

The command hits me like a verdict. Guilty.

“You saved my life,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says.

“And I can’t sleep,” I add.

“Don’t think about what happened tonight. Just forget about it.”

“The problem is that I’m not thinking about that,” I say. I lie down again. I close my eyes, the words that I should and shouldn’t say colliding in my head.

“Tell me,” he says. That dream-like sensation returns. If he asks about it tomorrow, I could pretend they were the words of a woman in a state of shock.

“I’m thinking about what would have happened after the kiss.”

There’s the softest intake of breath. “Nothing. Because you’re a saint.”

“What if I wasn’t?” I ask. There’s a sound of his body shifting against soft material—possibly his bed.

“I would have bent you over the table and fucked you.”

I slide my hand under my pajama shorts and underwear. My fingers dance around my clit.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Oh?”

“No. I would have wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

There are more sounds of him moving on his bed. “Oh?”

“But you’d have to help me.”

“How would I do that?”

“Because I’ve never … um, I’ve never gone down on someone before.”

There’s a small laugh, but it’s not degrading. It’s like he thinks I’m cute. I press my fingers against my clit, my hips rising to meet my hand.

“I could help you with that,” he says, his voice sounding more strained. “I would tell you to get on your knees. To unbutton my pants. To take my cock out.”

My slit is slick with wetness. I’ve always taken forever to become aroused, to the point that the only man I’ve slept with—a high school boyfriend—always fucked me dry. My