by Nicole Fox
She’s golden brown everywhere, and I can see the muscles of her abs and obliques working as she twists and tosses the shirt on the floor behind her. Then, she turns back and immediately drops her hands to my waist, unbuttoning my jeans and shoving the material down to my knees.
I kick my pants off in two quick movements and then stumble forward—both drunk and hungry for her—grab her narrow waist, and lift her up. She curls her legs around me like she has done it a thousand times before, and I all but cannonball into the bed.
My fingers find the clasp of her bra while she licks a line across my collarbone. I moan and then grit back a groan of pain as she bites down on my shoulder. It feels hard enough to draw blood, but I can’t help but notice how much blood the aggression is pumping elsewhere.
In jumbled, frantic movements, I peel her bra off and pull her panties down to her ankles. Whether she kicks them off or not, I don’t know, because I crawl over her and position myself between her legs before I can see.
Then, not a moment too soon, I push inside.
She gasps as I fill her, digging her claws into my back, but then she goes loose. She spreads her legs wider, allowing me more space to fill her, and lays her arms out straight above her head, wrists crossed as though they’re bound there.
I reach up to cover her wrists with my hand.
As soon as I pin her arms down, she comes alive. She arches her back and rolls herself onto me, and I realize this woman—full of fire and spunk—wants to be dominated.
So, I do just that.
I slide into her again and again, hard enough that our bodies slap together and she lets out a small yelp with every thrust.
Then, she begins to meet me in the middle until our bodies are ebbing and flowing in unison, making the sensation that much better.
I pull all the way out, teasing her, and then slide myself up and down her slit until she fights my hold on her arms, trying to break free.
I tighten my grip and then plunge back into her all at once. She gasps and just as she gets accustomed to my size again, I slide my hand between us and circle my thumb over the apex of her thighs. Over her most sensitive bundle.
It’s like electric shocks moving through her with every stroke. Her back arches, muscles tighten, and it takes all of my strength to keep her down on the bed.
“Yes,” she whispers softly, as though she’s ashamed of wanting this. Of letting me know how good this feels.
I work my thumb faster over her, matching it with quick thrusts, and Courtney unravels.
Her breathing reaches a fever pitch and then her entire body goes rigid and still. She holds her position for one second, two, three, and then lets out a shuddering sob and collapses into the bed.
Tremors move through her arms and legs, and I let go of her hands. She curls her arms around me and smooths lines down my back as I continue to drill into her, riding out the last of her orgasm.
When she’s done, I continue moving in her, searching for my own release, but Courtney shoves on my chest hard enough to knock me off balance.
Then, before I can complain, she presses me down into the bed and crawls over me.
I look up at her and am shocked at the woman I see.
She looks nothing like the rage-filled woman I met at her father’s shop or the nervous girl who danced for me. Her pupils are dilated, the blackness driving out the caramel brown of her eyes, and her expression is focused; driven. She’s a woman on a mission, and, at the moment, that mission is me.
She straddles my waist, then wraps a hand around my base and positions me at her opening. Then, all at once, she plunges herself onto me.
I tip my head back, mouth open, and breathe, doing my best not to lose it.
Thank God I don’t, because Courtney rewards my restraint with sensual rolls of her body. She plants her hands on my chest and puts her dancer’s body to use, bouncing against me before transitioning into a long, slow thrust, and then shifting back to staccato pulses.
The change of pace and the perfect view of her breasts bouncing in my face make it impossible to hold on for long, and I find myself gripping her waist and straining into her as pleasure warms through my body.
Not quite done yet, Courtney grabs my hand and slides it between us again. For a moment, I’m too lost in my own release to understand what she wants, but then she grinds herself against my finger, and I know.
She wants it again.
I flick at her nub, massaging and drawing circles against her while she rocks her hips over me, milking me of the last of my orgasm while I lead her to her second.
And just as I’m spent, Courtney stiffens and shudders.
Her face contorts into a brief flash of pain before easing. Her lips part, and she closes her eyes and lets her head loll to the side. Her body moves over me in soft, lazy pulses until she’s done.
She slides off me and lies down on the bed next to me, eyes still closed, and I watch her, amazed at the interaction we just had.
It was nothing like what I expected. Yet, it was everything.
Incredible sex with a beautiful, fierce, submissive woman who isn’t afraid to ask what she wants.
The thought of it is enough to have me ready for round two.
7
Courtney
The vinyl booth sticks to the back of my legs, and my neck is damp with sweat. The restaurant is sweltering—especially sitting this close to the kitchen—and Dmitry’s guards are making me nervous.
Two large men, clad in black and clearly out of place in the mom-and-pop hamburger joint, take up a six-person table in the corner. They stare at me as though they’re afraid I’ll run.
The thought crossed my mind more than once, but Dmitry was pretty clear what would happen if I ran, and I can’t risk my dad’s life like that. Or mine.
Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, living with Dmitry hasn’t been as terrible as I imagined. No dungeon, no rations of stale bread and water, no routine beatings. In fact, he has done his best to make me comfortable. Including letting me meet up with Sadie for lunch.
She’s texted me every day for a week, asking to meet up, and I finally ran out of excuses and had to ask Dmitry if I could go. He said it would be fine as long as I took guards with me. I thought that seemed like a fair compromise, but now that they’re sitting in the corner glaring at me, I can’t help but think Sadie will notice their presence.
My phone rings and it’s Sadie. The guards both perk up, brows furrowed, at the sound of me answering my phone.
“Hey, where are you?”
Sadie groans. “Stuck on the highway. There was some kind of wreck up ahead. Lights, sirens, a tow truck—the whole deal. I may be even later than I was already going to be.”
I’m not surprised; Sadie is always late.
“That’s fine, but don’t get mad when you get here and I’ve already eaten,” I say. “I’m starving.”
“Please order something for me too! I skipped breakfast, so I’ll need sustenance the moment I arrive. Ya girl is famished.”
I take her order and then tuck my phone in my purse. When I look up, the guards are standing next to the table.
“God!” I yelp, hand pressed to my chest. “You scared me.”
“Where is your friend?” one of the guards asks, his Russian accent thick.
I explain she’s just running late, but the guards both look at each other, nervous.
“She’ll be here soon,” I say.
“Will you be staying later than planned?” the other guard asks. “We need a plan to report back to Mr. Tsezar.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you have to report everything back to Dmitry?”
The question was an attempt to gauge the level of control Dmitry has over his men, but also a subtle jab at the fact these men act more like his loyal pets than his employees.
They both narrow their eyes at me, and the first guard nods his head. “Of course we do. Any attempt by you to convince us otherwise will also be reported. So don’t try
anything funny today. When your friend gets here, stick to the plan.”
The plan: sit at booth, eat food, do not attempt to leave or tell anyone where or by whom I’m being held, and then leave with my armed escort to be taken back to my cell at Dmitry’s house.
My cell that has an incredible bed, a closet full of luxurious—though revealing—clothes, and a housekeeper who cleans up all of my messes before I’m even done making them.
Yanka told me she has worked for Dmitry’s family since he was just a little boy. However, unlike the guards, Yanka seems to love Dmitry rather than fear him. I even caught her teasing him about the state of his laundry one day, telling him if he kept staining all of his clothes, he’d have to do his own laundry.
I smiled at the exchange until she held up the shirt, and I saw what looked like blood splattered across the front.
Each interaction is just another puzzle piece I can add to the picture of the man who is acting as my de facto jailor.
Except, in this jail, I get to come and go as I please. As long as I take a couple guards with me.
The two guards stomp back to the corner, and the man behind the counter watches them with a furrowed brow. He keeps smiling at me, and I can tell he’s trying to make sure I’m okay, so I just smile back.
When the waitress comes around—a red-haired woman with a half sleeve of tattoos on one arm and a large flower tattooed on her calf—I order a cheeseburger meal for me with a milkshake and a hamburger meal with a piece of apple pie for Sadie, who is lactose intolerant.
While I wait, my mind wanders. I think about where I’d be now if I hadn’t made this deal with Dmitry. Where my father would be.
I can’t help but think six months was overkill. Surely I’m worth more than what my father owed. High-end sex workers make high-end money, and with my age and experience in dance, I have to be considered high-end.
I mean, Dmitry sure seemed to enjoy what I had to offer.
My face warms with the memory of what we did last night. And the night before. And the night before.
The first time he came into my room and put his hands on me, I wanted to hate it. I wanted to lie like a lifeless doll on the bed and let him do what he wanted, hating him all the while, but I couldn’t. Every brush of his hands over my skin and his hips against mine felt like an electric current. Each shock made me wilder with desire and want and need.
And the orgasm.
God, I’ve never felt anything like that before.
Being touched by Dmitry is so much different than touching myself. It’s better than with anyone else I’ve ever been with.
I’m in the midst of remembering Dmitry on his knees behind me, drilling his considerable length—I was wrong when I teased him about being small—into me again and again, when Sadie slides into the booth across from me with a groan.
“Worst traffic ever.”
I cross my legs, assuming she’ll be able to smell the lingering scent of sex on me after my vivid replay of last night’s events. “Sorry you got stuck in traffic. Was everyone in the accident okay?”
She shrugs and pulls her apple pie towards her, taking a bite out of the crust first. “I don’t know. As soon as I got free of the standstill traffic, I blew out of there.”
I roll my eyes. A real bleeding heart empath, this one.
“I just knew I needed to get here,” she says around a gooey cinnamon slice of apple. “It took five days for me to get you to agree to lunch. I wasn’t sure I’d get so lucky again.”
“Sorry,” I say with a wince. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” she asks. “Your dad? Because I went by the shop the other day. I needed my oil changed, but you weren’t there, and he didn’t seem to think you’d be around anytime soon.”
Okay, Sadie would smell a lie, but I couldn’t tell her the entire truth. So, I settled on a half-truth.
“I’m staying with a guy,” I say quietly, hoping this isn’t against the rules. “I just met him, but—”
“But he brainwashed you?” Sadie finished, mouthing hanging open in shock. “Since when do you do anything spontaneous? Ever?”
“Hey!” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I’m not that boring.”
“Yeah, but, no offense, you aren’t this interesting usually, either,” she says with a shrug. “So, who is he?”
“His name is Dmitry,” I say quietly, feeling the guards’ eyes on me the entire time. “He’s a … small business owner.”
“What business?”
“You wouldn’t know it,” I say quickly. “It’s online. I don’t know much about it. It’s pretty boring.”
Sadie frowns and chews on her lower lip. “Courtney, this all sounds pretty fishy. Why are you staying with this guy? Did you and your dad have a fight or something? Because you can stay with me if you want. Devon has been over a lot lately, but I can kick him out.”
“Are you and Devon—” I start to ask.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re just friends … with occasional benefits.”
I try not to, but I wrinkle my nose.
“Don’t judge,” she says with a smile. “He’s good.”
If Sadie knew the truth about my situation, she’d know I have no right judging anyone’s sex life. Mine is currently so fucked up, I’m not sure it will ever be made right again.
“But anyway, what is up with you and this guy? Dmitry?”
I’m spared answering the question when a car pulls up in the lot right in front of our window and Devon climbs out of his tiny, rusted car. He sees us through the window and winks.
“You invited Devon?”
“Well, I told him we’d be here,” Sadie says, a grin spreading across her face. “I guess he wanted to surprise me.”
“That sure sounds like you two are—”
She shushes me and then slides over to make room for Devon. Except, when he gets to our table, he slides in on my side, scooting me over with his hip until our legs are pressed together.
“Hey, ladies,” he says, draping an arm over the back of the bench and stretching out. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing. Sadie told me you’d be here and it sounded like a good time.”
I’m so relieved I don’t have to talk about Dmitry anymore that I almost don’t mind Devon’s sudden appearance. Though, that quickly changes when he drops his arm around my shoulders.
I try to shrug away from his touch, but he squeezes me into his side. “I’ve been telling Sadie to bring you around more often. I’d like to get to know you more.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say with a grimace.
“Busy with a new man,” Sadie emphasizes.
“A man?” Devon raises his eyebrows in surprise but then squeezes me even tighter, adding his other hand to my upper thigh. “Is this man taking care of you?”
I can feel Sadie’s eyes boring into me, and I hope she doesn’t think I want this. Because even though she said Devon was just a friend, I know her well enough to know when she likes someone. And despite Devon being a lumbering, handsy idiot, she likes him, and I refuse to get between them.
“Yep,” I say, shrinking away from his arm. “I have a new man.”
Devon leans down until his nose is almost against my cheek and whispers, “Is he the jealous type? Because Sadie and I, we like to share.”
My eyes go wide, and I look up at my friend, but she’s staring daggers at Devon.
“We like to get a little wild,” he continues, oblivious to the swirl of emotions around him. “If your new friend isn’t insecure, maybe we could go for a little swing, if you know what I mean.”
Sadie’s face flares red, and my stomach flips.
I’m already a sex slave to a Mafia boss, which is bad enough. The last thing I need is to start swinging with my best friend and her “just a friend” boyfriend.
Devon drags a hand down my neck towards my collarbone, inching dangerously close to my breasts. “You seem like the kind of girl who could do with a little unwinding.”
Just before his finger can hit the curve of my chest, I turn and shove him away from me with both hands.
Devon is bigger than me, but he also was not expecting me to fight back, so he tips sideways and falls flat on the diner floor, yelping in surprise. Sadie scrambles up to help him, and I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind and tell him what a creep he is.
Before I can, however, two large shadows descend on our table.
“Time to go,” the guard with the thick accent rumbles.
“Who the hell are you?” Sadie asks, looking from the guards to me and back again.
I try to explain, but before I can, one guard grabs my arm and pulls me from the booth. They each pick me up by an elbow, lift me over Devon, and rush me towards the exit.
I wave over my shoulder at Sadie, but she just stares after me, slack-jawed.
8
Dmitry
Dried blood covers my hands and there are splatters of it across my shirt. Yanka is not going to be pleased about having to stain-treat more clothes, so when I peel the shirt off, I drop it in the trash. I may be the boss of a Bratva, but in a fight, my money would be on Yanka.
Luckily, none of the blood is mine.
Our Bratva-wide meeting this morning—yes, I decided we needed one after all—ended when Pasha showed up with news of the Italians trying to interrupt another shipment. Vadik finally regained consciousness and told him he overheard the Italians talking about where they would strike next. So, we grabbed our guns and ran.
It wasn’t organized or well-planned like I usually like, but my men needed to be let loose. After the losses we suffered the night before, they wanted their pound of flesh, and I wasn’t about to hold them back.
We got to the docks just as some Italian goons were arriving and a shootout ensued.
We killed the men easily with just a few shots, but I searched through their pockets for identification and got myself covered in blood in the process.
My phone rings, and I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans, though it proves useless. Giving up, I fish my phone out of my pocket with two fingers. I know who it is without bothering to look at the Caller ID.
