Dark Christmas: A Bratva Next Door Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

The chime from the front door echoes through the house, but I’m not in the mood for company. Whoever it is can wait or, better yet, go away.

Instead, I strip off my sweat-soaked running clothes, tossing them aside as I make my way to the shower. The sleek tiles are cold under my feet, but I welcome the chill.

On my way, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, and a body still in fighting shape. The scars tell stories I don’t care to relive—one across my side from a knife fight in Moscow, another on my arm, a bullet that came a little too close. The Bratva tattoos etched into my skin are a permanent reminder of who I was, and who I still am beneath the surface.

I frown at my image. I’ve been working too much lately—meetings, deals, logistics—so much that I’ve been slacking on the gym, even though it’s right in the basement. No excuses. I can’t afford to slip up, not in the world I live in.

I shake my head and step into the shower. The hot water hits my skin, rinsing away the grime from the run, but not the tension that’s settled in my shoulders. Steam fills the space, but my mind is elsewhere, already working through the next items on my list that I need to handle.

No distractions. Not now.

I’ve got a meeting with Borealis Tech—a billion-dollar corporation drowning in their own incompetence. They’ve been hacked three times in the past six months, and now they’re desperate enough to finally come to me. No doubt they cut corners and went with some low-rent cybersecurity firm instead of the best. And now, they’re paying for it.

The deal will be mine. That’s all that matters.

I finish up in the shower, steam swirling around me as I dry off. I pull on a crisp, tailored off-white shirt, open at the collar, and pair it with dark grey slacks. Sharp, business-casual, but with enough edge to remind them who they’re dealing with.

I head down the stairs to the first floor, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the quiet expanse of the house. My thoughts drift back to the doorbell earlier. Whoever it was, they’re probably long gone by now. I can always check the camera footage later if necessary. But as I open the front door, something unexpected catches my eye.

A box.

Strange.

On top of it sits an envelope, but my attention turns to a little note scribbled across the top of the box. I read it, the corner of my mouth twitching in mild amusement, though I remain cautious. It’s from one of the girls at Sweet Talk, the bakery I jog past now and then. I don’t frequent places like that, but I’ve noticed them working inside. And I know right away which girl this is from.Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

There are only two women who run the place. One of them is heavily pregnant, which leaves the other—the one I’ve caught sneaking glances at me more than once from across the street.

She’s hard to miss. Shoulder-length blonde hair that falls in loose waves, striking green eyes that always seem to linger a second too long, and pale skin that practically glows under the sunlight. Short, curvy in all the right ways. Sexy enough that I’ve got a clear image of her in my mind, and just thinking about her now makes my cock twitch.

Still, this is unexpected, and I don’t trust it.

I don’t open the box. Instead, I set it and the envelope inside the house and prepare to head out. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I have more important things to handle.

I’m halfway out the door when curiosity gets the best of me. I pause, then head back inside, eyes on the box. With a slow tug, I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

Sure enough, inside are artfully arranged muffins, still warm. The smell of fresh-baked goods hits me hard—sugar, cinnamon, a hint of something fruity. My stomach grumbles in response, but I know better than to devour one before a meeting. I don’t need a sugar rush when I’m closing a major deal.

I grab my keys and head out, locking the door behind me. As I descend the steps, my eyes flick across the street to the neighbor’s house, her house. I’ve seen her more than a few times, often lingering near the window or porch when I jog by, always watching. The idea of her being interested in me amuses me more than it should.

I smirk to myself, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car. I’ll deal with her—and the box—later. Right now, there’s business to take care of. And I never mix pleasure with business.

Not yet anyway.

The drive home is uneventful. I have the top down on my car, the cool San Francisco breeze igniting my senses. I cruise through the Financial District, skyscrapers looming above, reflecting the late afternoon sun. The streets are buzzing with suits and tourists, but I keep my eyes forward, one hand on the wheel, feeling the wind ripple through my shirt.

The meeting went exactly as expected. Borealis Tech practically begged for my services; desperation written all over their faces. All I have to do is build them an impenetrable security system. Easy enough. Every firewall I create is bulletproof, not just because I’m good at what I do but because failure isn’t an option. Not for me.

As I weave through traffic, I reflect on how far I’ve come. A career in cybersecurity was never part of the plan, but after everything that happened with the Bratva, I needed a change. Something cleaner, smarter. And so far, it’s been satisfying. There’s a thrill in creating something unbreakable. Something only I control.

As soon as I pull in the driveway, my eyes absently flick over to the house across the street. For some reason, I catch myself hoping she’s there, standing at her window or outside on the porch, just so I could catch another glimpse of her. I stop myself, shaking my head.

Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a girl. A curious, sweet little distraction.

I remind myself that distractions lead to mistakes. And mistakes are something I don’t make.

I park in the secure garage below my house, the heavy metal door sliding shut behind me. Every inch of my house is secured—cameras, reinforced doors, alarms. A fortress, just like I need it to be. I step out of the car, my footsteps echoing in the expanse of the garage, and make my way inside.

Climbing the stairs to my office, I glance around my place—simple, clean, and above all, private. When I reach the office, I take a moment to admire the view from my desk. The Mission District, with its mix of old Victorian houses and modern condos, stretches out in front of me. The sun’s starting to dip lower, casting a golden glow over the city.

I pour myself a small glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as I sit down behind my computer. The first thing I do is check my account. Sure enough, there’s a deposit from Borealis Tech—$1.2 million for a month’s work. Half of it paid now, the balance when the firewall is complete.

I lean back, sipping my whiskey, feeling that satisfying burn settle in. This is what I live for—control, power, success.

Glass in hand, I head downstairs. As I pass the kitchen, my eyes fall on the box of muffins. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten since this morning. Maybe it’s time to see what my neighbor left for me.

The muffins are impressive, decorated with care. My eyes land on one that looks like it’s bursting with blueberries, the sugar crystal glaze catching the light. I take a bite, and holy shit. The taste hits me so hard I nearly moan. Soft, sweet, with just the right balance of tartness from the blueberries and the buttery crumble on top. I take another bite, then another, losing control in a way I rarely do. The muffin isn’t just good, it’s incredible. I can only imagine how perfect it must’ve been fresh out of the oven this morning. I cheated myself by waiting this long.

I savor one more bite, my appetite barely restrained, when the envelope that was on top of the box catches my eye. I set the half-eaten muffin down, curiosity piquing as I tear open the envelope. Pictures. I flip through the first few and my breath hitches.

The pictures are of my neighbor. Professionally done shots of her in a holiday-themed outfit. In the first, she’s standing with her hands on her hips, a sultry smile on her face, wearing a tight green velvet costume that hugs her curves in all the right ways. The hem is so short it barely covers her thighs. As I flip through, the poses become more provocative—legs crossed, back arched, each photo revealing a little more skin.

One shows her sitting, legs spread just enough to tease, her chest pushed forward, the neckline plunging dangerously low. In another, she’s tugging at her top, slipping it off one shoulder, exposing creamy skin but never quite giving it all away. The photos are in the order of a slow striptease, removing just enough clothing to drive any man insane, but always stopping short of fully revealing her body.

She’s fucking sexy. Sexy enough that my cock is getting hard just looking at her.

Using all the restraint I can muster, I set the photos down, pulse racing. I flip over the envelope, searching for a clue as to why she would have sent these when she’s never so much as spoken a word to me. Muffins are one thing; racy pictures are quite another.

On the front side of the envelope it’s addressed to an Amelia Jameson.

I realize immediately that I’ve seen something I wasn’t supposed to. Those photos weren’t meant for me—they were delivered to my address by mistake. But one thing’s clear—I’m horny as fuck. My cock is rock-hard, stiff as a spear, the images of her now burned into my brain.

I tuck the photos away, trying to get a grip on myself, but it’s too late. I’m already imagining her in that tight elf outfit, and every muscle in my body is begging for release. I hurry upstairs and step into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

Once there, I pull out my cock, already swollen and throbbing. I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly at first. I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me with those bright green eyes, that sly, teasing smile on her lips. She’s still wearing that ridiculous elf costume, her breasts barely contained in the fabric, the hem of her skirt just brushing the tops of her thighs.

She parts her lips, taking me into her mouth, slowly at first, teasing the head of my cock with her tongue, then sucking me deeper, her hands sliding up my thighs. I imagine the heat of her mouth, the way she’d relax her throat, her eyes watering as she swallows all of me.

Fuck, I can barely hold back.

I imagine the sounds of her mouth working on me—the wet, eager sucking as her lips glide up and down my shaft, her tongue swirling around the tip, then traveling down to my balls, taking one gently into her mouth, teasing me with slow licks. The thought alone nearly drives me over the edge.

In my mind, I reach down into her top, slipping my hand beneath the fabric and taking hold of one of her full tits. Her nipple is already hard against my palm, and I squeeze, feeling her moan around my cock. I pull her to her feet, turning her around and bending her over in front of me.

‘You want this, don’t you?’ My voice is low and commanding. She nods, biting her lip, her breath coming out in shaky gasps.

She’s not wearing any panties. Her pussy is pink and glistening, already wet and ready for me. I grab her hips and mount her, sliding inside her in one swift motion. She cries out, her back arching as I take her from behind. Her ass bounces against my hips, and I can feel her body trembling with every thrust.

She’s moaning my name, her voice breathy, desperate. Her pussy clenches around me, so tight it feels like she’s pulling me deeper with every stroke. I grip her hips harder and pound into her, the sounds of our bodies slapping together filling the room. She’s close and so am I, her cries growing louder, needier.

I can feel her about to break, and I’m right there with her, holding back for only a moment longer.

‘Come for me,’ I growl, gripping her hips even tighter, my voice commanding and low.

‘Yes,’ she gasps, her voice shaky, desperate. ‘Yes, I’m so close, please…’

‘Say it,’ I demand, thrusting deeper. ‘Tell me you’re mine.’

‘I’m yours,’ she moans, her body trembling. ‘I’m yours, I’m—oh God, I’m coming!’

She breaks, her body tightening around me, gripping my cock like a vice as she shudders, coming hard. The feeling of her pulsing, squeezing me, pulls me over the edge, and I lose control. My orgasm hits like a hammer, and I erupt inside her in my mind, imagining the heat of my release filling her up, draining into her until it overflows down her thighs.

I keep thrusting until every last drop is gone, her body still quivering beneath me. The pleasure is blinding, overwhelming. I can barely hold myself together as I ride it out, feeling every inch of her as she trembles in my grip…

Just then, I snap back into reality. I’m in my bedroom, my hand still wrapped around my cock, slick with my own cum.

Fuck. I can’t believe I got so carried away.

I quickly clean myself up, wiping away the mess and shaking off the fantasy. But the images from those pictures—her curves, the teasing smiles—won’t leave my mind.

I know better than to let sex distract me, but right now, it’s all I can think about. All I want is to see her again, to make that fantasy a reality.

I grin to myself. I’m a man who always gets what he wants.

And right now, I want her.