Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

For a second there, I thought he was going to kiss me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper as I lead Rufus into his crate. I might be projecting, but I could swear his eyes have a certain Bitch, you stole my man quality about them all of a sudden.

But I didn’t steal him. Not even close. All I did was fantasize, just the tiniest little bit.

One kiss. That’s all. What would be the harm in one kiss?

It’s just two lips meeting. Biological, you know? Surely it wouldn’t be hot. Surely it wouldn’t be long or gentle. There’s no way in hell it would be a star-melting, Earth-shattering collision of Samuil’s mouth on mine, the kind of thing that doesn’t just cross a line, but smashes it to bits and scatters those bits to the wind.

… Right?

Anyway, it didn’t happen. No kiss. Thank God.

Rufus whacks me with his tail on his way into the crate, which does not feel like an accident. It’s like he can hear my thoughts and is trying to tell me that one kiss would indeed have shattered the Earth, but more in a And then everybody died kind of way.

Then he settles inside and presents me with his ass, head burrowed into the deepest, darkest corner like the dramatic bitch he is.

“You aren’t his type,” I mutter, but guilt gnaws at my insides. I reach in to scratch him, and he rewards me with a slobbery lick to my wrist. Forgiveness comes cheap when you have fur and four legs, I guess.

I close the crate and step back—only to collide with a wall of solid muscle. Sam’s chest presses against my back, his hands steadying me with a grip that sends electricity dancing across my skin.

“You okay?” he asks.

Ha. The audacity of that question. I’m so fucking far from “okay.”

I was just thinking about kissing the man who plucked me out of my life like a weed in his fucking garden. That doesn’t exactly scream “okay” or “well-adjusted” to me.

But as I turn around, I also can’t stop looking at his mouth. So what the hell do I know?

“Nova…”

My heart thrums in my chest. I’m sure he can hear it, too. I meet his eyes and panic lances straight through me. “I should go to bed.”

“It might be a little tight with Rufus already in there,” he remarks with a straight face.

A laugh escapes me, dissolving a fraction of the tension crackling between us. “I think I’ll let Rufus have the crate. I tried it out, but turns out I’m not built for kennel life.”

“Glad you got there on your own. I didn’t want to have to order another one.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Someone’s a comedian tonight.”

“Actually, I’m nothing of the sort.”

Sam reaches around me to latch the crate door, brushing against me as he does. The contact, slight as it is, sends electricity dancing down my spine.

But even once the lock is fastened, he doesn’t step away immediately, and neither do I. I don’t move. Can’t move.

We’ve moved beyond dangerous territory into something nuclear. One wrong move and we’ll both go up in flames.

Who am I kidding? We passed “careful” a long fucking time ago.

His breath fans against my neck, warm and intimate. “Share my bed.”

“Are you or are you not a comedian?” I ask weakly.

He doesn’t laugh. “No more crates,” he continues, still so close I can feel the rumble of his words against my back. “No more guest rooms.” His hand comes up to rest against the crate bars, caging me between cold metal and his heat. “No more making your point by sleeping with the dog.”

For a moment, I almost give in. Almost toss aside twenty-six years of hard-learned lessons about men who think they own the ground they walk on.

But that’s the thing about growing up with cops in the family. You learn early that authority doesn’t equal righteousness. That sometimes the scariest men are the ones who claim they’re protecting you.

Sam’s different. Or at least, I want him to be. But I’ve watched him these past days, seen how naturally command sits on his shoulders. How easily control comes to him.

And that’s exactly why I can’t just give in.

Because I’ve spent my whole life building something that’s mine. A life where I choose who to trust, who to help, who to let close. Where broken animals and scared old ladies know they can count on me to show up. To be there. To be real.

If I let Sam pull me into his bed without conditions, without proving he sees me as more than a convenient warm body or potential security threat, I’ll lose that. Lose myself.

So I spin to face him, heart thundering but spine straight. His heat and size overwhelm me, but I’ve faced down aggressive German Shepherds and my father’s rage. I can handle Samuil Litvinov’s intensity.

“I’ll share your bed if you treat me like a woman—an equal—not a hostage in whatever fucked-up game we’re playing.”

His expression darkens, jaw clenching. “This isn’t a game.” He steps closer, towering over me until his shadow swallows me whole. “None of this has been a game.”

“You’re right,” I say, refusing to back down even as his cologne wreaks havoc on my senses. “This is my life. And if you want to share it, you need to prove you understand what that means.”

I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart slam against my hand like it’s trying to break free. Most people would mistake that rhythm for anger, but I’m starting to read the sheet music of Samuil Litvinov’s body language.

This is something else entirely.

“Tomorrow morning, I want to have breakfast with my grandmother and stop at my office.” I tilt my head back to meet those storm-cloud eyes. “Come with me. Show me you respect who I am outside these walls.”

I hold my breath, watching his face as he studies mine. I expect resistance. Expect him to remind me that I’m still technically his prisoner until his team clears me. Expect some cutting remark about how Chicago’s most powerful CEO doesn’t do breakfast with little old ladies.

Instead, he surprises me.

“Done,” he says simply.

The word hangs between us, heavy with possibility. I search his face for signs of mockery or manipulation, but find none. Just that intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in his world.

It’s dangerous, this feeling. More dangerous than any of his threats or commands. Because for a moment—just a moment—I actually believe him. Believe that he sees me as something more than a potential security threat or a convenient bedmate.

The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it.

“If I’d known it was this easy to negotiate with you⁠—”

“Don’t.”

His hand catches my chin, and the world narrows to that point of contact. Firm but not harsh—everything Sam isn’t supposed to be.

“Don’t mistake my agreement for weakness.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath hitches. “I want to know your world, Nova.”

He steps closer, until I’m backed against Rufus’s crate. The metal is cold through my shirt, but Sam… Sam is all heat.

“But make no mistake.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “When you finally come to my bed, it won’t be because of bargains or negotiations.”

My heart thunders against my ribs as he leans in, his lips almost brushing my ear. “It’ll be because neither of us can stand to be anywhere else.”

I want to argue. Want to maintain some semblance of control. But my body betrays me, arching slightly into his heat, seeking more of that electric connection that sparks between us whenever we’re close.

His eyes darken as he notices, and for a moment, I think he’ll kiss me. Want him to kiss me, even though it would prove his point.

Instead, he pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, letting me see the raw hunger there. The promise.

His hand falls away from my face, but the ghost of his touch lingers and burns.

“The guest room is yours tonight.” His voice has returned to that controlled timbre, but something molten still lurks beneath. “Sweet dreams, little fighter.”

I watch him walk away. My heart pounds with equal parts triumph and frustration. For each step he takes, something in my chest cinches tighter and tighter.

The click of his bedroom door echoing through the penthouse should feel like victory. I got what I wanted—my conditions met, my autonomy respected.

So why does it feel like I’ve lost something essential?

For the first time since this strange dance began, I wonder if we’re both getting in deeper than either of us intended.

In his crate, Rufus lets out a dramatic sigh.

Yeah, buddy. Same.