I consider it for maybe three seconds before I decide…
Hell no. I fuck because I want to fuck.
End of story.
I should be halfway to her shack by now to tear the whole place apart in search of Sobakin’s impromptu little gift. But for some reason, I can’t stop looking at her. It’s those goddamn jeans. They fit her like a second skin, same as her tank top. Her nipples pushing through the thin fabric show that she’s not wearing a bra, either.
I snort to myself. If she was wearing a bra, there’d probably be a fucking cartoon dog on each cup. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Alyssa Walsh tonight, it’s that she can’t pick underwear to save her life.
The thought of her in black lace lingerie rises up in my mind. Towering heels, a corset to push those—
No. Not going there. I did not bring this innocent little irritant into my house under false pretenses just to stand by the bed and stare at her all night like some moony-eyed teenager.
I turn abruptly and head outside. Since she’s sleeping in my bedroom, it’s only fair that I go examine hers.
When I arrive, my men are already in her house, scoping the place out. Ratimir is in the living room, literally lifting up the couch to see what’s hiding underneath it. As it turns out, the answer to that question is: years’ worth of dust bunnies, cobwebs, and a fair amount of chocolate wrappers. Apparently, Alyssa has a thing for Snickers bars.
I make my way to her bedroom and find it thick with her honeysuckle scent. I breathe it in and walk around. By the looks of it, Alyssa has never met a clear surface that she didn’t hate. She’s managed to fill this tiny room with endless sentimental bullshit. Pictures, knickknacks, handwritten notes. There’s a chair lodged in on the right side of her bed where a bedside table should be. It faces the window, so I’m assuming this is her ‘reading nook’ and, wouldn’t you know—it boasts a direct view of the southwest gardens as well as my front door.
An embroidered lampshade hangs over the chair and a footrest in the shape of a tiny gray elephant sits just in front of it. Shoved off to one side is a battered wooden chest. I root through it and find nothing but bed linens and towels. Scowling, I leave that aside and go investigate the dresser.
The first drawer I open is full of her underwear.
Leave no stone unturned, right?
I start rifling through it. I’m somewhat surprised to find that not all her underwear is of the sad and depressing variety. She’s actually got a few sexy panties and thin, lacy bras in the mix. One lavender lace thong in particular has my cock perking up. It doesn’t look like it gets out much, but at least this one doesn’t still have a price tag on it like most of the others do.
What a fucking waste.
“Boss?”
“What is it?” I snap, shoving the drawer closed so that Ratimir doesn’t see what I was looking at.
His eyebrows rise, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. “Um, sir, just wanted to let you know that we found this back on your property a short while ago. It was taken in by one of the maids and left on your desk.”
I don’t have to look at the name on the package to know who it belongs to. Alyssa Walsh.
“You’re excused. Let me know the minute you find anything.”
Ratimir leaves the room and I stare at Alyssa’s package. Then, with a sigh, I get to work. As I rip into the box, I tell myself that I’m just being thorough. I need to know that she ordered what she said she ordered. But even when I find the interior box that reads Eve’s Garden: Pleasure of Every Variety in curling white script, I don’t stop. “Pleasure of Every Variety”—that could be anything, right? I need to be certain. So I tear into this one, too.
Is that a… dildo?
Except it’s purple and looks like it came from an octopus, flanged and curved and spiked in every direction.
I’m so hard it hurts.
I pretend I don’t notice my aching erection as I sort through the remaining contents. There are handcuffs, restraints, flavored lubes that I can’t imagine Alyssa using.
Of course, the moment I think as much, my brain figures I’ve just issued it a challenge. Because suddenly, my head’s spinning with images of Alyssa; her tight little body, wrapped in lace and leather, holding up one of the sex toys and gesturing for me to come closer.
Blyat’.
The whole point of this search is to find my package. Not to snoop through hers. Although I’m starting to see why she’d decided to go all Mission: Impossible on me in order to retrieve it. Sex toys are no big deal in my book—but after spending a couple of hours together, I can see why it might be a big deal in hers.
I put the toys back in their box, but like an addict, I go back to her underwear drawer.
I pull out the lavender panties I spied earlier and stuff them in my pocket. Just a little memento to mark the night. Not that I need one, what with her currently snoozing in my bed. But now that I’ve got a prize tucked away, it’s easier to force myself downstairs and focus on business.
I duck into the kitchen and start opening drawers. Her cupboards are mostly filled with cereal, canned goods, mundane shit like that. Nothing that can spoil. There’s a carton of skim milk in the fridge next to some fresh fruit and yogurt cups. And to my amusement, a half-eaten salad and a moldy loaf of bread.
Fucking nailed it, I think to myself with amusement.
I shut the door and go for the freezer compartment next. Nothing out of the ordinary here. I’m halfway to shutting it when—
Wait.
I look back inside. I’m staring at a box that definitely doesn’t belong in the fridge. My pulse pounds in my temples. Bingo. This is it.
Pulling the package out, I register how light it is. If she’d thrown away the contents, why put an empty box in the freezer? Then I take a look inside.
Ah. Well—it’s definitely not empty.
I set the box down and call the one person I know I can call for anything. “Niko.” I can practically hear him grinding his teeth. He hates when people call him anything other than Nikolai.
“What?”
“There’s a situation. I need you.”
That’s the thing about brotherly bonds: it doesn’t matter how annoyed you get; it doesn’t matter how many resentments you have. When you’re called…
“I’m on my way,” he says immediately.
You show up.
10
URI
Nikolai is standing by my front door when I walk up. “This better be good,” he says. “You know Lev will freak out if he wakes up and I’m not there.”
I roll my eyes. “I told you to replicate the basement at your place. That way, he’ll be more at ease when he sleeps over.”
“You want me to spend a fortune so that my French-inspired bedrooms can be remodeled to mimic that depressing basement?”
“That ‘depressing basement’ has a marble counter kitchenette, a king-sized bed, and built-in surround sound.”
“And no windows.”