18. Veronica
18
VERONICA
T he supplier’s showroom is nothing short of magical. Rows of polished bookshelves, plush armchairs, and warm-toned lamps create a maze of possibilities.
The air smells faintly of cedar and fresh varnish, and the soft hum of jazz plays in the background.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as we weave our way through.
“Elena found it.”
The staff step aside as we march past, looking intimidated. I can see why. Maxim’s presence is as commanding here as it is in the mansion, though he seems softer somehow. Less like the intimidating Bratva boss and more like a man who belongs in this space, among the shelves.
I pause in front of a corner display featuring a cozy setup: a deep armchair, a side table, and a lamp that casts an inviting glow. “Something like this,” I say. “I want the bookstore to feel inviting, like a place where people can lose themselves.”
Maxim nods, his expression thoughtful. “A corner like that could work. You’d want to place it near a window, though. Natural light makes a difference.”
I blink at him, surprised. “You know about interior design? How come?”
He shrugs, his hand brushing mine as he moves to a nearby bookshelf. “One, Elena talks about this shit all the time. Which means Dmitri does. Which means I hear it. Two, when I was a kid, there was a bookstore near my house. It was a place I’d go to when I didn’t want to think about anything else.”
I study him, trying to imagine a younger Maxim, hiding away in a bookstore. It’s hard to picture him as anything other than the intense, guarded man I’ve come to know. But this glimpse into his past feels like a gift, a piece of him he doesn’t share easily.
“What did you read?” I ask, stepping closer.
He runs his fingers over the edge of a shelf, his gaze distant. “Everything. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, even some Westerns. Learn to understand you Americans.”
“Learned. Past tense.”
His eyes narrow for a moment. “Learned. Of course.”
I turn away, pretending to examine a set of bookends shaped like owls, but I can feel him watching me.
“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “Why a bookstore?”
I trace the edge of one of the bookends, my fingers brushing the cool metal. “Because books were all I had growing up. My dad used to read to me before he got sick. After he died, well, books were my escape then too.”
He steps closer, his voice softer now. “And your mother? Did she ever read to you?”
“She wasn’t exactly the nurturing type,” I say, my tone flippant to cover the sting of the words. “Let’s just say I got very good at fending for myself.”
His hand brushes mine again, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver up my spine. “You shouldn’t have had to.”
I glance up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “Yeah, well I learned one thing from her.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’ll never treat my kids the same way. Never, ever walk out on them.”
He kisses my cheek. “I think you’ll make a good mother.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be affectionate,” I say quickly, trying to lighten the mood. “There’s no one important watching.”
His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes my heart race. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he murmurs.
And then his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is slow, deliberate, and intoxicating. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer as his lips move against mine with a mix of dominance and tenderness that leaves me breathless. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him as the rest of the store falls away.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine. “We need this to look convincing,” he says, his voice rough.
“Right,” I reply. “Convincing.”
But as his thumb brushes my cheek and his eyes search mine, I can’t shake the feeling that this is about more than appearances.
He spins away from me. “Leave. Now.”
It’s not directed at me. He’s speaking to the employees, his tone leaving no room for argument. I hear the faint murmur of acknowledgment, the soft rustle of movement, and then the sound of a door closing.
We’re alone.
I turn to face him. He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders framed by the perfectly tailored lines of his suit. He’s not smiling, but there’s something in his expression—a glint in those icy blue eyes—that sends a shiver down my spine.
His lips curve into a smirk, and he gestures to the chair beside us. “This one. It caught my eye.”
I glance at the chair, its polished leather gleaming under the light. It looks expensive, luxurious even, but hardly the kind of thing that would captivate someone like Maxim. Still, I play along. “And?”
“I want to test it out,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “With you.”
My stomach flips, but I keep my expression neutral. “Test it out? As in sit in it?”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that does things to me I won’t admit. “Not quite.” Before I can react, his hands are on my waist, spinning me around so my back is pressed against his chest. His breath hits my ear as he murmurs, “Take off your skirt.”
A thrill runs through me, but I force myself to hesitate. “Here? Now?”
“Yes,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “Unless you’d rather I do it for you.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. He watches, his gaze burning into me, as I slide the skirt down my legs.
“Panties too.”
I do as he says. The cool air brushes against my bare skin, and I feel exposed in a way that only Maxim can make me feel.
“Good girl,” he purrs, guiding me toward the chair. He sits first, his long legs splayed casually, and pulls me onto his lap.
I straddle him, my knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of his thighs. His hands grip my hips, steadying me, and I can feel the heat of him beneath me, even through the layers of his suit.
“Now,” he says, his voice dripping with wicked intent, “let’s see how comfortable this chair really is.”
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me, hot and insistent as he kisses a trail down my neck.
His hands roam my body, exploring every inch of me with a possessiveness that makes my breath hitch. And then, without warning, he lifts me slightly, positioning me just right, and his tongue plunges into me.
Oh god.
My head falls back, a gasp escaping my lips as he devours me. His tongue works in lazy circles, teasing and tasting, before switching to long, deliberate strokes that leave me trembling.
One hand grips my thigh, holding me in place, while the other slips between us, his fingers finding my most sensitive spot.
“Maxim,” I moan, my fingers tangling in his hair as I grind against his mouth.
His only response is a hum of satisfaction, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. He drives me higher and higher, his pace relentless, until I’m teetering on the edge, my entire body shaking with need.
“Come for me, Veronica,” he growls, his voice muffled but no less commanding.
It’s all I need. I shatter, my orgasm crashing over me in waves as I cry out his name. He doesn’t stop until I’ve ridden out every last shudder, only pulling away when I slump against him.
Slowly, I lift my head to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire, his lips glistening from where they’ve been buried between my thighs.
“My turn,” I whisper, sliding off his lap and sinking to my knees in front of him. His eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his features, but he doesn’t stop me.
I unzip his pants, freeing his cock, already hard and straining against the confines of his boxers. I wrap my hand around him, savoring the way he groans at my touch, and lean forward to lick a stripe up his length.
His hand fists in my hair, firm but not harsh, tilting my head back until I meet his heated gaze. The flicker of control in his eyes sends a thrill rushing through me, and I can’t help but smirk as I lean forward, taking him into my mouth, inch by torturous inch.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound a low, guttural growl that makes my stomach flip. His grip tightens as I bob my head. My tongue swirls around him, teasing, tasting, and his hips jerk involuntarily.
When the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat, I don’t falter—I take him deeper, swallowing him fully as his breath shudders above me. The power in this moment hums through my veins, addictive and exhilarating.
He curses again, his control unraveling with every movement, every flick of my tongue. His muscles tense beneath my hands, and I know he’s close. I don’t let up, relishing the way I can reduce this composed, ruthless man to something raw and unguarded.
His orgasm comes with a guttural groan, his body shuddering as he spills down my throat. I take everything he gives, swallowing every drop, my eyes locked on his as I slowly pull back, my lips curling into a triumphant smirk.
“Good boy,” I murmur, my voice teasing as I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip and wink.
His chuckle is dark, breathless, and laced with satisfaction. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest tighten.
We move quickly as we straighten our clothes. I smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, fixing my blouse with a flick of my wrist, while he adjusts his tie in a mirror, his movements cool and efficient.
When we’re both presentable, he strides to the door with his usual commanding grace, pausing for only a moment to glance back at me. His voice is calm, authoritative, but there’s a subtle edge of amusement as he calls out, “You can come back in now.”
The staff enters moments later, their expressions carefully blank but their movements just a little too precise, as if they know exactly what happened in the short time they were asked to leave. Their professionalism doesn’t falter, though, and they glance at us only briefly.
Maxim, ever composed, slides an arm around my shoulders, the gesture both possessive and casual as he pulls me close. His charm turns on like a switch, and he flashes them a smile so dazzling it could disarm anyone who didn’t know better.
“We’ll take the chair,” he announces smoothly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Veronica thinks it’s perfect. Who am I to disagree?”