Free Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3) by Hayley Faiman Page A

whatever you please with your free time now,” he whispers against my neck.
    His warm breath sends goosebumps over my skin that I cannot control. His words, however, hurt me. Free-time , as if I am a prisoner or a child. In all honestly, I suppose that I am.
    “I don’t enjoy it anymore, Kirill,” I lie. I flat out lie.
    “Then you will find a new hobby. It doesn’t matter. You have money and time at your disposal now,” he says, taking a step back from me.
    I turn around to face him and am surprised to see such ferocious anger swimming in his eyes. I look down, avoiding his penetrating gaze, and sigh.
    Money and time, both luxuries I have not been able to reward myself with these past years; both things that he can give me now; both things coming with a price tag I don’t think I’m capable of being able to pay.
    My freedom and my heart .
    My heart has always been his, always will be. But my freedom, I’m not sure I want to give that up.
    Without a word, he wraps his hand around my wrist and tugs me toward the bedroom, our bedroom. I don’t know how Kiska will react. She’ll probably be pleased to think of us as together—rekindled. She is much like me when I was a child, a hopeless romantic—before life threw me curveball after curveball.
    Kirill pulls me into the room and locks the door behind me. He’s still angry. At what, I’m not sure. Can he be so angry that I don’t read any longer? That I don’t enjoy the things I once did an entire lifetime ago?
    “Dance for me,” he orders as he walks over to the nightstand. He places his phone into the speaker dock and turns the volume up.
    The tune is sexy and low. No words, just music. I had forgotten this about him. My Kirill enjoyed music. He would always say that lyrics were merely a distraction. He wanted to hear the actual notes of each song. He said the story the music told was usually so different than the lyrics portrayed. I loved that about him. Not very often would he show any sensitivities, but in this, he reminded me of a poet or a painter who enjoyed scenery.
    I glance at him from over my shoulder. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard, his socked feet crossed at the ankles, and his eyelids hooded and directed straight at me.
    I don’t want to dance for him. I have danced for hundreds of men. For Kirill, I just want to be myself. The me I hide from the world. But I don’t think he wants that anymore. Maybe that is part of me that’s now dead for him. I’m this object, this thing that hurt him, and now he’s going to use me up until he’s had his fill.
    I close my eyes and I dance, grateful for the quick shower I took after we arrived here earlier. My face is now bare of makeup and I don’t feel sexy, but he wants me to dance, so… I’ll dance for him.
    I pluck a routine from my head, something I know will fit in with the music, and I begin. It’s a routine where I can pretend to be demure at first. Throwing flirty glances from behind my shoulder while my hips tell another tale, swaying seductively.
    I slowly shimmy the tank top I’m wearing up and over my body before I throw it to the side and turn around to face him. Bare breasted, I begin to make my way to where he’s lounging on the bed. My eyes flick down to his crotch and I notice that he’s already hard.
    At least physically we still work for each other, even if nothing else.
    I push my shorts down and over my hips before I climb up his legs, from the foot of the bed to his hips. Straddling him, I slide my hands up my stomach, pinching my nipples before I run my fingers through my hair and thrust my chest forward.
    Kirill doesn’t touch me, or even speak.
    Slowly, I begin to unbutton the rest of his shirt. He sits up slightly and shrugs it the rest of the way off. I wrap my fingers around his belt and start to unbuckle it when his hand halts my movements. He tugs me down and my chest collides with his before I yelp in surprise at the sudden movement. His eyes look