by Renee Rose
She doesn’t wait for a response, but the band kicks into one of their upbeat numbers. People who weren’t paying attention while she was talking now bob their heads in time with the music.
A strange feeling settles over me.
Contentment.
It’s like all the pleasure of every time I’ve seen Story perform condenses into this single moment.
Because now she’s mine.
This supernova of a girl belongs to me. Was in my bed last night. Let me tie her up and ravish her all night long.
I check the crowd again, popping my knuckles. The thought of anyone ever trying to hurt her again turns me lethal. But I don’t see anything amiss. No one who stands out as not belonging.
My brothers are here watching, as well. They wouldn’t let anything happen to Story, either. I should have trusted them with the details of my ugly past a long time ago.
Story smooths into their next song and then another. The pub is alive now, people happy and talking, people listening. No one’s up to dance yet, but that doesn’t usually happen until later. The Storytellers have perfected the art of playing just the right groove for the moment, picking things up at the end, when drinks have made the crowd happy and sloppy. Ready to dance.
When the band goes on break, Story beelines for my table and drops into my lap. I band my arm around her waist, feeling as tall as a mountain.
You were great, I type on the iPad.
She twists to kiss me. A long, lingering kiss that probably makes Maxim and Sasha uncomfortable. “I love having you at my shows.”
I’m so fucking sorry I missed the last one, I type. I know I let her down, and now that we have the means to communicate, I need to explain myself. I overslept because of the concussion. I promise, will never miss another one.
She looks at me for a long time, then she takes my face in both her hands. “I believe you.” There’s a look of wonder on her face. “That’s so scary for me. I think I just expect people to let me down, and then I’m pleasantly surprised when they don’t. But with you… I don’t know. I could come to…” —she swallows— “depend on you.”
Depend on me, I write.
She smiles.
Move in with me, I type.
She freezes, her eyes skittering from the words on the iPad to my face and back.
Blyad'. I pushed it too soon.
I want you in my bed. I try to lighten it up by making it about sex. Every night.
It works. She smiles.
“You would terrify all my guitar students.”
Oh fuck. Is she actually considering it?
We’ll soundproof that empty office for you and the band, I promise. Of course, I’d have to run that by Ravil, but I would do anything to make it happen for her.
She drags her lower lip through her teeth. “Okay.”
I was so busy preparing my next offer for how to make this work for her that I barely process what she said.
I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.
She laughs and nods. “Let’s try it.” She shrugs. “I would love to live with you and the gang.”
“What’s this?” Maxim interrupts. “Did I hear you’re moving in?”
Story shrugs with a big smile. “Well, you do have a great rooftop pool.”
Sasha throws back her head and laughs. She points at Story. “You and I are going to raise the roof together at the Kremlin.”
Maxim groans, but his expression is indulgent. He’s crazy about his wild unruly bride.
Story lifts her glass of water and toasts us all around. “Here’s to raising the roof.”
Story
Oleg pushes me up against the side of his Denali, pressing his huge body against mine. His mouth finds my neck, and he bites, insinuating his thigh between my legs for me to grind up.
“Are you going to give it to me rough again?” I ask, breathless.
His large hands cup my ass, and he growls in my ear.
I’m already hot for him—performing makes me horny and so did sitting on his lap between sets. I love the way it feels to get claimed by him.
He hoists my hips up and dry-humps me, the bulge of his cock pressing right against my sweet spot.
“Promise?” I ask.
He chuckles. First chuckle I’ve ever heard from him.
Then he gently sets me down, opens my door and lifts—not helps—literally lifts me inside and onto the seat.
The guy likes to manhandle me.
And I like being manhandled.
He puts the Denali in gear and beeps the horn at Maxim and Sasha, who were waiting in a gorgeous blue Lamborghini to make sure we got out of there safely.
“They want us back next month,” I tell Oleg happily. “I was over there collecting our pay and Sasha shows up and introduces herself as our manager.”
Oleg steals a glance at me as he drives.
“She basically asked him if he was happy with how we lit the place up and then asked when he’d like to have us back and if he wanted to make it a regular thing. He agreed to have us monthly, and then she asked if he would consider charging a cover and giving it straight to the band.”
Oleg looks over at me for more.
“So he says how much is she thinking? She tells him we would start with a five dollar cover, but after we’ve built our following, she’d bump it to ten.”
Oleg tips his head to the side, which I interpret to be his asking what I think.
“I think it’s brilliant. He agreed because in the short term, we’re taking the hit. Like we probably won’t make as much the first few times, but Sasha said if we start collecting emails from Rue’s and then let everyone know where we’ll be, we could get the groupies following us everywhere.
Oleg points at his chest.
“You’re my groupie?” I ask.
He gives me that ghost of a smile that makes my toes curl in my boots and nods.
“No, you’re my bossman. Big Daddy. The guy in charge—in bed, anyway. I twirl a pink lock of hair around my finger and smile at him. I already soaked my panties back in the parking lot when he pushed me up against the vehicle. I can’t wait to see what he chooses tonight.
His smile twists into a smirk, transforming his face from dangerous to devastatingly handsome.
He parks at the Kremlin—my new home, I guess, if we’re really going through with this thing—and holds my hand until we get into the elevator.
Then he nails me against the elevator wall, kissing the hell out of me, pinning me with his body as his hands ruck my skirt up and tear open my fishnets. I moan when he rubs a finger over my slit, then sinks the tip into my entrance.
The elevator dings, and he lifts me to straddle his waist, carrying me to his bedroom.
I kick off my combat boots. “I should shower,” I tell him not because I want to delay the fun, but I probably stink after performing. He catches me around the waist and spanks my ass.
“No showers allowed?” I laugh.
He shakes his head.
“Why not?”
He gives his straining cock a rough squeeze through his jeans, then points to the bed with a mock-stern lift of his brows.
“You need me in your bed now?”
He doesn’t wait to confirm, just hauls me off my feet and swings me around to the bed, where he folds me over and shoves up my skirt.
“Oh my God,” I moan, already trembling with excitement. I don’t know why I find it so exciting when he gets rough this way, but it doesn’t require analysis. It’s my thing.
Oleg is my thing.
He smacks my ass. His palm is large and solid, and it propels me forward onto my hands on the bed. I wait, trembling for more.
Oleg is a monster tonight. He tears my fishnets open, and they fall in tatters around my ankles. I don’t have panties on underneath them, so I’m bare to him from the waist down. He starts spanking me, fast and hard, like he did my first day here at his place. It hurts but excites me. The pain just filters into pleasure. Into more excit
ement. The intensity matches the level of Oleg’s passion.
Of mine.
My ass burns and tingles, but he still continues, reaching around the front to rub my clit at the same time.
“Oleg, please,” I beg, needing more than clitoral stimulation. I want him deep inside me. Showing me his strength and power. Making me feel small and at his mercy.
Cared for.
Protected.
Don’t ask me how spanking me makes me feel protected, but it does. My knees are weak with submission. I throw my white flag of surrender at his feet.
Take me, Big Daddy.
Show me what you’ve got for me.
He delivers one more slap, then I hear his zipper and the rustle of fabric as he steps out of his jeans. I start to crawl up on the bed, but he catches my waist again and drags me back, arranging me in the same position, bent over the bed, my legs spread apart, my bare ass lifted to him.
He lightly slaps between my legs.
I whimper. It didn’t hurt, but it’s sensitive there—obviously.
He taps my outer thigh, then nudges my feet wider. I obey, spreading my legs even further for him.
He spanks my pussy again.
“Oleg,” I whimper.
He strokes his calloused palm down my outer thigh, caressing me. Showing me I’m safe—not that I was worried.
Another quick slap between my legs. I gasp. Then he delivers a series of short, quick slaps that nearly make me come. My pussy is wet and swollen beneath his fingers, making a slick, sticky sound each time he spanks there.
I waggle my ass. “More. Please, Oleg. I need you inside me.”
He tugs my skirt, with its elastic waistband, over the top of my head, along with my t-shirt. My bra comes off next. I’m now fully naked for him. He positions me again then growls and drags the head of his cock through my juices. I roll my hips up and push back, desperate for penetration.
He slaps my ass then enters me. I moan in pleasure.
He hums back—my favorite sound.
After a few short thrusts, he pulls out. Gripping my hips, he lifts me up onto my hands and knees on the bed then crawls up behind me and enters again.
“Yes, please.”
He hums.
Wrapping one hand firmly around the back of my neck, he plows into me in a firm and deliciously disrespectful manner. Just when I don’t think it can feel any better, he presses between my shoulderblades, forcing my torso down to the bed in an even more submissive position.
“Oleg,” I whimper.
He bucks against me, showing me who’s boss with each powerful thrust. His thumb finds my anus, and I squeal in surprise, squeezing against the intrusion.
To my dismay, he pulls out and gives me a few spanks. I hear the sound of the bedside table drawer opening, and then he crawls back behind me and pushes my cheeks wide.
I whimper, suspecting what’s going to happen. I both want it and don’t want it at the same time.
Or maybe I want it, but I’m embarrassed by the idea.
A little nervous.
It doesn’t matter because I know Oleg will take care of me. He’ll pay attention to my needs and listen.
I feel a dollop of a cold gel drop over my anus, and I flinch and shiver. Oleg brings his cock to my back entrance.
I hold still, waiting.
Oleg reaches around, rubbing my clit as he applies gentle pressure. After a moment of resisting him, my little ring of muscles relax and open, and he sinks in.
“Oh,” I moan. It’s intense. Oleg squirts more lube over my crack and rubs it around. When he pushes again it grows even more intense until he gets the head through, then he slips all the way in.
I let out a long vowel on my exhalation.
Oleg goes slowly, taking his time as he fills my ass with his huge cock. All the while, he rubs my clit or finger-fucks me, giving enough attention to my girly-parts to keep me in pleasure.
He hums again.
I hum back.
Oleg works his cock in and out of my ass. My belly flutters with the naughtiness of it. My pussy squeezes on his fingers every time they enter me.
I hear Oleg’s breath growing rough. His thrusts take on a little force.
I cry out with the pain/pleasure of it.
He pushes me forward, following until I’m flat on my belly, and he’s on top of me, his fingers still under my hips working their magic. He humps my ass in this position, which feels safer—maybe because my flesh isn’t as tight this way.
I surrender completely to the sensations. It is total pleasure. There’s enough lube, the position’s perfect, and the clitoral stimulation has my rocket ready to launch any moment.
“Oleg, oh my God,” I moan. “It’s so good. So intense. So good.” I’m babbling now. I don’t care. I don’t ever care with Oleg. I’m never self-consciousness. Never self-editing. “Please,” I whine. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”
Oleg’s breath grows erratic. His thrusts get harder. He buries three fingers inside my pussy, pushing the heel of his hand over my clit with firm pressure. I squeeze my walls around his fingers, desperate to come.
He grunts and shoves in deep. I feel his thighs shaking against mine as he comes.
I cry out. My pelvic floor muscles don’t squeeze—maybe I’m afraid to contract my anus around his dick. Maybe it’s just too big. I don’t know. It’s a different sort of orgasm. Very different, but infinitely more intense.
I shake and shiver beneath him, and it ripples through my body.
He wraps his arms around me and hums softly.
“I love you,” I whisper. I haven’t said it before, even though it’s been true from the beginning. I was too scared. Too certain things would end, and I’d regret saying it.
But now, I’m moving in. We’re taking things forward. I’m still terrified, but I’m trying to trust that Oleg will still be around tomorrow.
That I can count on him to be as solid as he’s shown himself to be.
I feel him send the words back to me. Maybe it’s not telepathy. Maybe I’m just an empath. It doesn’t matter—all that matters is the message.
He loves me.
Oleg loves me, and he’s solid as a rock.
I can trust in this. In him.
I can trust in us.
Oleg
I ease out of Story and help her up off the bed and into my bathroom for a couples shower. Washing Story has become my favorite pastime. Right after fucking her. Kissing her. Having her in my bed. Having her in my apartment. Having her as my girlfriend.
I take my time with her, running soapy hands all over her smooth skin, shampooing her hair.
She’s tired and can barely stand after the orgasm I gave her, so I hold her up as we go. Towel her dry when we’re done. I tuck her into bed and go out to the kitchen to get us a couple glasses of water.
And that’s when I see it.
A bottle of Sovetskoye Shampanskoye sitting on the countertop with a red ribbon tied around the neck. I somehow force my fingers to move, to pick up the little card attached. My name is printed in the bold scrawl I would recognize anywhere.
Skal’pel’s handwriting.
Skal’pel’s gift.
Soviet champagne was a favorite of mine when I worked for him. It was the first alcohol I’d had to drink as a youth, and I suppose I still bought it out of familiarity. Certainly not out of good taste. I hate the stuff now.
My heart thuds thick and painfully in my chest. My stomach fills with acid.
Skal’pel’s here—in Chicago. As I feared, when word got out about me, it also reached him. I’m the loose end that he didn’t tie up well enough when he closed up shop.
With trembling fingers, I flip the card. A small photo is taped to the back of the card. It takes me a moment to make it out, but when I do, I almost throw up.
The image is of Sasha and Story in the hot tub on the roof.
Skal’pel’ was into games. He would set up tests for me to complete. Testing my loya
lty again and again.
I always passed.
Perhaps that’s why he let me live.
Many, many times in prison I wished he’d just killed me.
But now? Fuck—now?
Story is in my bed. The most beautiful light of my life. The only thing I have worth living for.
Skal’pel’ knows about Story. He shot at her from the rooftop, or more likely, had one of his lackey’s shoot at her. That fits. The shooter should have known they couldn’t hit anyone. The bullets were a warning. A threat. So that when I held this photo in my hand, I would experience real fear for the safety of my beautiful swallow.
My insides turn cold. Swampy. Slimy. Skal’pel’s next move, if I don’t answer this message, will be to hurt Story. And it won’t be in a typical way. It will be something sick and twisted. Something that would cause me nightmares for the rest of my life. Not that I would live to let it happen to her.
No.
I won’t let him near her. Story Taylor must be protected above all else. And that means I have to offer myself up to Skal’pel’. If he wants me dead, he can have me.
He already knows I will sacrifice myself for her. He has no need to make the dark, overt threats. We both know what he’s capable of. And he knows me, inside and out.
He knows I would step in front of a bus for the people I love.
But he has no idea the depths of what I’d do for Story.
I leave the bottle on the counter, untouched. I walk quietly back down the dark corridor to my bedroom and open up the drawer in my walk-in closet where I store all the money Ravil’s paid me since I started working for him. Other than buying the Denali, I don’t spend it. The only activities I have are watching Story play.
I pull out a duffel bag and pack all the stacks of cash into the bag. I get the iPad and open a window with my Swiss bank account—the one Skal’pel’ left me somewhere between cutting off my tongue and framing me on drug charges. I make Story the beneficiary, then I compose a message for her.
It’s only a couple hours until sunrise. Time enough to lie down beside Story one last time before I go…
Chapter 13
Story
