The Russian's Christmas Present Read online

  He pauses, looking down then back up his hand covering a crooked smile.

  “What? What’s the dumb-ass look on your face?”

  “She didn’t tell you everything.”

  “You better start talking.”

  “It’s a charity auction.” The tone in his voice tells me it’s not that simple.

  “Okay, so I’ll bid on something.”

  “A bachelor auction. And you,” he pokes a finger into my chest, then jerks it back, his thumb pointing toward himself, “and me, are on the auction block. She’s had us both signed up for months.”

  No fucking way.

  By the time I get to Mauricio’s, I’m ready to tear the steering wheel off my truck.

  Bachelor auction?

  My mother knows that would piss me the fuck off but I’ll do nearly anything for my Grandfather so I grit my teeth, pull my truck into a spot next to a beat up old horrible-green Taurus parked way over the parking line, throw my pick up into park and stomp into the shop, where I see Mauricio and his wife, Irina, smiling at me.

  “Martel!” Irina throws her hands up and heads my way, hugging me like she has since I came here the first time for my first suit when I was just a kid. “It’s so good to see you.” She runs her hands down my shoulders. “You look tired. Are you hungry? You look hungry. I made some pirozhki—”

  “No.” I give her a smile. They are both sweet people, remind me of my grandparents in a lot of ways. “I’m fine. Have to be back to dinner with mom by eight.”

  Mauricio only stands to my chest, and his hair over the years has receded until only a few strands cover the shine of his head, but he’s always impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, pocket watch and antique filigree tailor scissors, on a black ribbon around his neck.

  Irina’s dark hair, now swirled with silver, is always spun on top of her head in a tight bun, and she makes Mauricio look six feet tall. She’s in a perfectly fitting suit sort of dress, sturdy black heels and an apron that jumped straight off the pages of a 1950’s Sears catalog.

  She designs and sews custom dresses, especially wedding dresses, and anyone who’s anyone around here in the country club circuit makes sure as soon as the engagement ring is on, they have an appointment to have their wedding dress created by Irina.

  “Sure, sure. She called, told us you were on your way. We need to get your measurements. You’ve gotten bigger since we saw you last. I think the kids these days call it thick.” There’s a jolly twinkle in her eye as Mauricio waves me to the little measuring platform in front of a three-way mirror, as Irina narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you not married yet, Martel? So handsome, you’re a good man. You’re getting old. You need a wife.”

  “And a shave.” Mauricio grabs his clean-shaven chin on a smile and another wink, as Irina gives him a playful swat with a finger to her lips, telling him to shush.

  He returns her swat with one of his own, straight to her backside, making her cheeks turn pink and there’s an empty feeling in my chest as she continues to bemoan my continued bachelorhood, and extolling all the merits and comforts of finding me a wife and making babies.

  I know she means well, but she’s been telling me the same thing since I was in college. If they had their way, I’d be married with twelve kids by now.

  What they don’t know is, I would too. But seems like that’s just not in the cards for me and I’ve made my peace with that.

  “One second.” Mauricio leans toward the red curtains separating the front of the store from the back. “We have a new employee. If you don’t mind, they will do your measuring.”

  “Sure.” I heave a sigh. I don’t care.

  Until I hear him call for the trainee.

  “Bria! Come, come. The customer is here. Bring your tape measure and notepad.”

  Mauricio winks at me again and I see him look over at Irina, who has a devious look in her eyes.

  I curl my fingers into fists at my sides, ready for what, I’m not sure.

  But, when I see her walk out from the center of the hanging red fabric, there’s a solid boom in my chest and for a second, I forget to breathe.

  The knockout blonde comes out and already my cock, which has for all practical purposes been on sabbatical for years, starts to stretch and come to life.

  Her dark eyes catch on mine for just one eternal moment, before she looks down.

  She’s wearing an off-white pleated skirt that settles just above her knees, with matching off-white tights and black patent leather low pumps. Her fuzzy white sweater dips into a low V on her chest and the hint of her cleavage I see has my mouth watering, and all I can think is, she looks like a snowflake.

  One of a kind.

  Perfect.

  I want her to melt on my tongue.

  Damn, this girl could walk a runway anywhere in the world.

  But I’d rather she walk a private runway in my bedroom.

  “Okay.” Mauricio claps his hands together and looks at me, then nods at the exotic, blonde beauty that has me wishing I had worn compression underwear. “Let’s start with his inseam, shall we?”

  Dead.

  Chapter 2

  Bria

  “Now, remember, you need to ask him the question...” I hear Mauricio’s voice from behind as I lower myself to my knees in front of the client and try to take an even breath.

  I look up to see my boss nod in encouragement, the tips of my ears on fire as I try to find my voice—usually not a problem. In fact, this morning both my best friend and my father within the span of an hour told me if I could turn talking into cash, a lot of our problems would be solved.

  My friend was joking. My father was not.

  “Do you dress right or left?” I grit out the words as I look up his pantleg. The answer is already clear, because it’s filling the top of his jeans in front of my face. And I swear, I see it throbbing.

  Something like a growl comes from above, but I feel the world is spinning around me. Blood rushes in my ears as I push my hair back and feel my nipples tingle. When Mauricio told me a long-time, valued client was coming in, I expected someone that looked like a Republican senator.

  What I got was a man standing there like a bearded, sturdy Oak tree.

  “Left.” The lumberhunk grunts out his answer, sending a zing through my body. “Way left.”

  This isn’t my first measurement session with a man. I know what way left means. It’s never effected me before. But right now I feel like I’m about to burst into flames.

  What is happening?

  When I walked out from the backroom, there he was. Not just big, enormous. Thick, hard, chiseled. But that wasn’t what hit me first.

  It was his eyes. As blue as the spring sky breaking out beneath dark brows pulled tight as if to warn anyone close by to keep their distance and mind their tongue.

  There’s a warmth between my legs and a flutter in my belly as I clench my inner muscles, trying to quell the growing tension threatening to burst free and have me flopping on the floor like a fish.

  Get it together, Bria. You need this job.

  I tug at the hem of my skirt as I take my place on the floor beside the stranger with the mountain-man beard and the Big Foot sized everything.

  He’s looking down at me like a bear planning his next meal. I’ve only worked here a week, but in this part of town at least, he’s an anomaly. He’s flannel and jeans and chest hair, with no semblance of order to his beard.

  It’s wild.

  Like he’s driving me.

  He’s wearing a white t-shirt under his unbuttoned red checked shirt, and his torso is so large I don’t think I could wrap my arms all the way around. He’s older, but the perfect sort of older. Like he knows things about life that I don’t. Like his years give him a wisdom that would keep me safe, cherished, like a little girl feels from her father.

  Well, like she should feel from her father.

  But it’s not just his upper body that is large. My eyes fix on the front of his je
ans again and that little flutter in my belly leaps up my throat and comes out of my mouth in a little squeak.

  “Now.” Mauricio does his little signature clap when he’s pleased. “I’ll leave you to finish his measurements while I go and choose a few suits for Mr. Martel to try.”

  God, please, don’t leave me alone with him.

  “Fine.” Bearded-sex-man answers toward Mauricio, but even that single word spreads a chill over my skin. “Black or gray. No pinstripes. Simple.”

  I know my face must be Santa-suit red as I pick up my measuring tape and try to keep my hands from shaking uncontrollably.

  “If you could just spread your feet a little more…” I say, looking at his worn leather boots then up at him with a tense half-smile. “Please?”

  He looks down at me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. His thick beard circles full lips and his face isn’t conventionally handsome or symmetrical. To the contrary, his nose is a bit crooked and his forehead hints at some lingering caveman DNA. His hands look like they know hard work, and the contrast of it all in this high-end formalwear shop, where the elite of Oakland Hills are tended to like royalty, is making me dizzy.

  His eyes linger on mine, a brilliant lapis sort of blue like I’ve never seen, as he takes a sidestep with his right foot to give me better access to…his inseam.

  God help me.

  The front of his jeans are drawn tight down his leg in contrast to the way they give ample room everywhere else.

  I do my best to hold onto the measuring tape as I bring the end up to where I need to start the measurement, but instead of confidently and quickly taking the measurement I drop the tape, staring at the clear outline of his dick hanging…

  Way down.

  I’m no prude, but experience with dicks is not on my resume. Watching my parents put the ‘D’ in dysfunctional marriage maybe had something to do with my disinterest in the opposite sex—or anything resembling a relationship.

  Having the distinct honor of being the first girl in middle school to blossom and the inevitable gross catcalls and mooing sounds from the boys in the hallways didn’t help. I went from the awkward, geeky outcast to sudden popularity. At least with the boys.

  When I realized it was all a sick joke they had come up with to see who could get under my shirt first, well let’s just say it left the taste of something like shit in my mouth.

  To make matters worse, my best friend Alice convinced me to take my usual beige sort of no-color hair to a brilliant platinum last week when I was feeling my usual let down as Christmas day came and went in my house with no acknowledgement from my father. She said it was her gift to me and I have to say I’m still trying to get used to the new me.

  I reach down and pick up my tape, taking a long shaking breath, and place it at the top of his inseam, dragging my knuckles down the softness of what I know are his balls, then over the harder landscape of the growing length of his dick down the leg of his jeans.

  “You enjoying yourself?” His voice from above nearly sends me over the edge.

  “Sure,” I reply, writing down the measurement on my pad of paper then looking up at the hunk of man meat that has me rethinking all my objections to giving up my V-card. “Are you?”

  “Way more than I thought I would.”

  There’s another low rumble like growl coming from him as I stand and stretch the tape down his arms, then around his waist, drawing in a breath of his deep masculine scent that has a direct connection to my clit.

  He snaps his tongue along his front teeth, eyeing me up and down, and I notice the way his fingertips twitch when I bend over to make a note on my measurement pad, and his eyes get a generous view of my chest.

  I’m teasing him and I’m not sure why. I’ve never felt so emboldened before. Maybe it’s the new hair, I’m feeling very Anna Nicole Smith pre-drug addiction, more like her Guess jeans era. For the first time I understand what my roommate, Alice—stage name Cherrie—tells me about the thrill of the tease.

  She’s a stripper, making money to pay for her pre-med classes. She’s constantly trying to recruit me as well, but I have not just two left feet, but two left feet and the rhythm of a someone receiving shock treatment. It is not that I look down on her job, quite the contrary. I just know that breaking my neck on the first day would not lead to the goal of paying for design school. Whereas here, the worst that could happen is I stick myself with a pin several times a day.

  With each measurement, I do my best Elle Woods inspired bend and snap…bending over to pick up a pin or my notepad, knowing his eyes are on me, and feeling that rush that Alice talks about when you have a customer in the palm of your hand.

  But now that I have him, I have no idea what to do with him.

  I finish up the measurements, listening to his every breath, doing my best not to drool or stare blankly at the obvious erection that now looks wildly uncomfortable straining against the fabric.

  “So…” Mauricio strides in, hanging three suits on the hooks on the wall and breaking the tension for a moment. I turn on my toe, flipping my hair, imitating a few of the moves Alice taught me, arch my back, stick out my rear, high stepping and—

  “Bria!” Mauricio and Irina yelp in unison as the hunk with a hard-on steps forward, catching me in mid-fall before my face centers into the crotch of a mannequin wearing an Armani suit.

  Arms as hard as burled wood wrap around my waist, stabilizing me while I scrape around to find what’s left of my dignity.

  His warm breath is near my ear and as crazy as it sounds, I swear I can feel his heartbeat in his bulging biceps.

  “You’ve got some moves. You’re teasing me.” He whispers and I realize for the first time in my life, I want a man.

  This man.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kozlov. Please, Bria is still learning.” Irina comes around in a fluster to untangle me and I right myself, avoiding his eyes. “She’s a good girl.” Irina gives me a soft smile. “Bria, go in the back and bring Mr. Kozlov an espresso and a vodka.”

  “Sure.” I run my hands down the front of my skirt as I break back through the red curtains.

  On the other side, I slump down into a chair behind a sewing machine and grab the top of my head, resting my elbows on my knees, still trying to make sense of what just happened.

  Once I can stand, I work my way to the back kitchen of the shop, which is filled with the scent of pastry and roasting meat from the dumplings that Irina made in between appointments today. The business is really a large old converted Victorian house where the original kitchen space remains.

  I twist the controls on the espresso machine and listen to the whirring sound, then take in the scent of the rich coffee, squeezing my legs together in a vain attempt to stop the low throb that seems intent on overriding my more practical senses. I reach into the freezer and pour a shot of chilled vodka from the tall bottle with Russian lettering, thinking maybe I should do a quick shot myself.

  By the time I get back to the front room where Martel is standing, arms crossed, I’ve managed to return my heart rate to near normal.

  It doesn’t last.

  When I hand Martel the little white porcelain cup it looks doll-sized in his hands, his eyes have turned wild and Irina and Mauricio look amused.

  He tosses back the steaming, highly caffeinated liquid, as my bosses offer me a tense smile then disappear behind the red curtain shushing each other as they go.

  The gigantic Russian stares silently at me as I hold the shot glass. He takes it from my shaking hand and brings it to his perfect lips, sucking the vodka down in one quick motion then handing the glass back to me.

  “I need you to do something for me.” He looks me up and down, drawing a long breath.

  “What? Remeasure you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. We’re going to help each other.”

  “Help you? With what and why?” I narrow my eyes at him. As hard as it is to look right into those eyes, I’m finding it nearly impossible not to
.

  “Because it’s in your best interest.” His answer rumbles from his chest and a spike of fear races through me. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  I stick my bottom lip out, the swirl of terror and lust turns into a tornado inside me, but before I can figure out what to say next he runs the backs of his fingers up my chest, moving upward, tingling the flesh on my neck until he’s pinching my chin.

  He grits his teeth then finishes. “Besides, tomorrow is my Christmas Eve, and you wouldn’t want to ruin that for me Snowflake, would you?”

  “No, but…Christmas was two weeks ago.”

  “For many, da, yes.” His accent hangs on the words more so that it has before now. “Russian Christmas is January seventh and I know what I want under my tree.”

  Heat spreads from my face downward and explodes in white twinkling lights between my legs.

  “What’s that?” I gulp as his fingers stay firmly planted, gripping my chin.

  “I’m about to tell you…”

  Chapter 3

  Martel

  “Are you serious?” Her wide, doe eyes have a fire behind them, but all I can think about is how she felt when I reached out and grabbed her as she stumbled.

  Soft.

  Warm.

  Perfect.

  One of my hands grazed her tit as I held her, and fuck, if my cock wasn’t an out of control bastard before that it took some iron willpower not to coat the inside of my jeans with my cum.

  When she stumbled, as little danger as there truly was to her, a flash of protectiveness stabbed me in the heart. The thought of her being hurt had my blood running hot and even though it was just a mannequin, I wanted to kill that fucker for almost touching her.

  An inanimate object, for Christ’s sake.

  I grind and twist my palms together in front of us, trying to find my center of control. I’ve explained my proposal to her and now I just need to close the deal.