Page 10 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

Why?

He wasn’t there to enjoy the view. Neither was he a novice screwing up his first task for whoever pays his salary. Not with those moves. He must also have known that I would report my findings back to my Pakhan.

Only, I haven’t reported back to Leonid because it feels like snitching on the wrong person. So, I remind myself when I see the disappointment in my Pakhan’s eyes that I was there to get information on the Petrovs, and the Irish giant doesn’t count.

Leonid sits back in his seat. “Did you check out the storage units?”

“The rest of the team checked them out. Whatever information you were given, perhaps it was wrong.”

Leonid is quiet for several long beats, while every fiber of my being is itching to retreat to my room and replay the evening’s events in my head before I forget the tiny important details.

“Perhaps,” he says finally but without conviction.

I don’t question where his information comes from; it isn’t my place to know his sources. If Leonid trusts them, that’s good enough for me. Tossing the Irish into the mix will only confuse matters, so I tell myself again that I’m doing the right thing.

“Is that all?” I ask.

His expression is unreadable, but it feels as if there is a whole load more to be said. “Yes.” I reach the door before he stops me. “You would tell me if there was something bothering you, Tamara.”

It isn’t a question, so I reply with a nod and close the door gently behind me.

In my room, I lie on my bed in my clothes and close my eyes. The throbbing ache in my pussy has dulled to a pleasant tingling sensation, but still, I slide my hand inside my panties, slip a finger between my legs, and work my slick around my clit.

I can taste him. I can smell his clean citrussy cologne and the faint tang of alcohol that is nothing like the vodka that Leonid and his family prefer to drink. I can feel his weight on me, pushing me back against my mattress, making it difficult to breathe, and I spread my legs wide to accommodate the images of him in my head. He isn’t here, but I imagine him filling me up, and am shocked when I hear myself gasp.

My orgasm is close. It has been close since he covered my body with his and I felt his erection between my ass cheeks, and I don’t know why. This has never happened to me before. Love doesn’t exist in our world; it doesn’t belong to people like me and Ivana because we learned when we were very young that men only want to own us, and that ownership gives nothing in return. We are happy the way we are.

But the blood pumping around my veins right now, the trembling in my legs, and the way my clit is spasming is telling a whole different story.

I want the Irish giant. I want him in a way that I have never wanted anyone else, and when my orgasm erupts, and my panting breaths become erratic, I find myself wishing that I had asked for his name instead of that of his boss.

That night, I sleep badly.

Ivana doesn’t come to my room, and I don’t check on her, so this guilt sits on my chest alongside the giant’s beautiful smile, and the lingering damp between my legs. She was obviously disappointed about not being tasked with tracking down the Petrovs. I knew this, and yet I allowed my inexplicable reaction to the Irish guy take precedence over my own sister.

I rise early, shower, dress, and prepare my sister’s favorite breakfast: pancakes with bacon burnt to a crisp, maple syrup, and fresh cream. Then I take a small white daisy from a vase in the kitchen, knowing that Leonid’s wife Gianna won’t mind, and carry the tray up to Ivana’s room.

I knock softly on the door and wait.

Nothing.

I knock again, and this time, I murmur, “Ivana? Are you awake?” It’s a silly question; my sister has always been an early riser, and nothing has changed since her injuries.

Pressing my ear to the door, I get the first twinge of doubt inside my chest. The silence behind the door is louder than the blood gushing through my veins and roaring in my ears.

I balance the tray on one hip and test the handle. It’s unlocked. My sister never sleeps with the door unlocked.

The plate rattles as I enter her room, set the tray down on the dressing table, and check out her neat bed and the smooth comforter. She isn’t in the ensuite bathroom, and her toothbrush is dry. I check the time on my phone. 7:10. Perhaps she spent the night at the refuge if they were busy and there was no one else to cover the night shift.

I find the number on my Contacts app and hit the green button.

Cartier answers the phone with a cheery, “Hi, how can I help?” even though she is six months pregnant and has probably been working all night.

“Is Ivana there?” My mouth is dry. “This is Tamara.”

“Hey, Tamara.” Cartier’s voice always sounds as though she’s aglow with sunshine. “She isn’t on the schedule for today.”

“She was there yesterday. Did she work overnight?”