Contents
Mischa
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STEAMY
Prologue Him
Chapter One Her
Chapter Two Him
Chapter Three Her
Chapter Four Her
Chapter Five Him
Chapter Six Her`
Chapter Seven Him
Chapter Eight Her
Chapter Nine Him
Chapter Ten Her
Chapter Eleven Him
Chapter Twelve Her
Chapter Thirteen Him
Chapter Fourteen Her
Chapter Fifteen Him
Chapter Sixteen Her
Chapter Seventeen Him
Chapter Eighteen Her
Chapter Nineteen Her
Chapter Twenty Him
Chapter Twenty-one Her
Chapter Twenty-Two Him
Chapter Twenty-Three Her
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue I Him
Epilogue II Her
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© Alice May Ball 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.
All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.
Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
This steamy, fast and sizzling hot, insta-love romance has pent-up passion and fulfillment of raw, surging need, enough to burn a vault of secrets.
There’s no cheating and a Happy Ever After Ending guaranteed to leave you breathless, hot, and drenched.
Especially written for you, if you need a hard, fast and determined hero who knows how to take what he wants.
Prologue
Him
THE BEAUTIFUL EXECUTIVE EXTENDS her impeccably manicured hand, approaching me from behind the turnstiles. Her corporate suit is expensive and perfectly cut for her confident, statuesque figure. The billowing silk blouse is open to her ample and fragrant cleavage. She tells me her name, although I’m not really listening. She leans forward to give me a more exciting view and purses her lips as she says that she has a pass for me, and she is ready to give me ‘whatever I need.’
Tall, willowy and bursting with that bright, modern, can-do smile that comes with an undercurrent charged with promise, she moves closer to show me through the turnstiles and into the elevator lobby.
I’ve learned two things from all the beautiful women and girls who offer themselves to me. First, there is no nice way to say that I’m not interested. Not as far as they’re concerned. Second, if I simply tell them what I do want, they’ll always give it to me.
If I do that, this one will do whatever I tell her. All the time she will be hoping that, eventually, I’ll tell her to lift her skirt or peel off her panties. Or to kneel and open wide, to take my cock into the back of her throat. Or between her big and pliant tits.
While I look idly around the shiny, colorless foyer that this extravagant building spreads out to puff the vanity of its corporate tenants, my eye is drawn to the entrance doors sliding open. My breath halts. I’m transfixed.
On flat navy pumps and wearing the most functional business suit, but carrying herself with the indifference of a top runway model in the premiere show in Paris or Milan, she steps into my life. When she first enters that high, glass foyer, a spark strikes, then burns, right in the front of my gut. It smolders and it spreads. Glows. It is strange, but yet it is completely familiar. A part of me.
Something in me that is older than I am recognizes it. Knows it. Needs it. Nurtures it.
The easy sway of her womanly curves awakens and ignites all of my senses. The simplest jewelry, a fine, plain silver chain with a tiny pendant, and faint silver glitter at each earlobe are all that she needs to adorn her innocent beauty. Her cascade of golden blonde spills to her shoulders and I see her bathed from behind in a fiery morning glow. She transforms the gloss of the mundane office building.
She is a goddess. The tall, glass entrance hall becomes a temple, a high crystal chamber as she sweeps in. The earthy fire of her magic kindles and stirs parts of me, feelings and sensations that I long ago forgot. My pulses spark into life with a charge that I have not felt in many years. My eyes blaze and my nostrils flare to catch a scent of her. I draw breath and expand myself, pull my body up to my full height. I feel like I am doubled in size. My cock is pumped and straightening, thick and heavy as it uncoils and hardens.
Instinctively I feel that she is pure and fresh, that she is lovely, inside and out. From that moment I know.
Whatever it takes, I shall have her. Possess her. Open her up and make her mine. Forever.
She is the one.
Chapter One
Her
AS THE PLANE LURCHES to a stop at the gate, before I’ve got out of my seat belt, my phone buzzes. It’s a text message.
Welcome to Moscow.
RussiaCall network service is available to you at special price today!
Reply ‘Da’ to this message to download our app
This isn’t a good start to a six-week stay, my first trip to a foreign country. My US provider’s website assured me that I would have coverage in Russia. Tired and cranky, I’m still not dumb enough to download an app onto my phone from some Russian company that I never heard of.
How will I be able to do my work without a phone, though? That will have to wait for now. There should be Wi-Fi in the apartment, so I’ll try to figure it out there. Suddenly I’m feeling very cut off and alone.
I know the route already to the Moscow metro and on to the AppStay apartment. I’m trusting my Russian to be good enough to get me there and to get me some food. I’ve read books in Russian, and I’ve had dozens of hours of Russian conversation, but almost all of it was with other Americans. There were only two actual Russians in my college, at least in our language groups, and both of them were born in the States.
I speak to the immigration guard in Russian, but he replies in perfect English. I’m disappointed. I don’t know whether he’s showing off his English or putting me down for my bad Russian pronunciation. I can’t get a response or a smile out of him.
I get my shiny new suitcase from the baggage conveyor, proud of myself having bought a ticket for the AeroExpress online before I left Seattle. The lines for tickets can be long and slow. The red AeroExpress train is clean and comfortable.
Feeling like a fish out of water, I have the urge for contact. For reassurance, I guess. Absently, I finger the pendant. I’ve had it as long as I can remember, but I’m always careful about where I wear it. I’m surprised to realize that I have it on it now.
It’s a tiny thing, and my feelings about it have always been tangled and complicated, but I thought it was too important to risk bringing it. As I roll the small metal heart between my fingers, I think there are no accidents. I must have brought it for comfort.
I could hardly stand to think of Momma now. After the last who-knows-how-many times she called and begged me to come and rescue her, only to see her plunge headfirst, back into the same well a few weeks later. I love her and I don’t want to lose her, but I don’t think I can take i
t, watching her do that all over.
The smart, red train takes about half an hour to get me to the metro.
I bought rubles in Seattle so I could get a rechargeable Troika travel card for the metro from a ticket machine, but there’s no line at the ticket office, so I take the chance to test out my Russian some more. The clerk is a babushka, heavy set, brisk and businesslike. I can’t tease any conversation from her but I do get to use a card and keep my little store of cash. Again, I’m left wondering about my spoken Russian.
After I find the metro line and the direction, I’m seriously flagging on the journey across town to the apartment. The metro is as beautiful and efficient as its reputation, but I’m too tired to really take it in.
On the way from the metro I spot a grocery store, proud that I scoped it on a map in my preparation for the trip. I get eggs, bread, and coffee for breakfast, and some bananas, chips, and nuts. I’m pleased when the friendly cashier tells me I can pay with a card. My Russian seems to work okay with her so I’m a little reassured.
Finally, I reach the apartment. It’s neat and, unusually, it’s as big as it looked in the pics on the internet. The bed looks comfortable. And the fridge has plenty of food already. I think about the preparations I need to make for the morning. Too tired to eat, I’m asleep before I can even haul out my laptop.
My first morning in Russia, still weary from the ten-hour flight, I’m tired and on the verge of feeling overwhelmed. Early mornings aren’t my favorite thing. Just finding my way around is a challenge. I have a taxi app but getting my phone to work here defeated me last night.
I’m anxious about how I’m going to cope with being the only American in a Russian firm. I don’t even know if anyone there will speak English.
I don’t even have much experience in the US company, I know next to nothing about the Russian partner firm. I interned at Olympus Logica for six weeks, and I’ve only recently completed a three-month probation. I’m barely a full employee. I have less than no seniority.
The assignment that I’ve been sent for doesn’t require any. I’m only here to give training, but I’m working at a partner company and representing Olympus Logica. Mr. Hudsicker put me up for the job. He said I was the only fluent Russian speaker in the firm, and I’m sure that’s the only reason I’m here. He’s been a kind of mentor and father-figure to me since I was an intern. I’m excited to be here and thrilled that he gave me the opportunity. I’m determined not to blow it.
My destination, MoscowSecuriTek, occupies the top third of a high, glass building, shaped like a huge twisted knife. The Russian firm and Olympus Logica are making joint ventures and I’m here to smooth the ‘harmonization.’ It sounds grand but it only means making sure that people are able to work together. Mainly that means getting the Russians trained to use our data and IT systems.
At the security desk inside the massive glass atrium, I take a deep breath and introduce myself. In Russian, I announce, “I’m Irina Bachunin, here from Olympus Logica, Seattle. MoscowSecuriTek should have sent a pass for me?”
The smart security guard reaches below her desk. She looks at me for several seconds, then back down at the card she fished out. Then back up at me as she triple checks the photo on the card. She doesn’t smile as she reaches out with her leather-gloved hand to pass me the card.
Pointing, she directs me to use the card to pass through the turnstiles to the glass elevators, and she tells me that I need the twenty-second floor. Through the turnstiles, I’m headed for the elevator lobby when I hear my name.
A dark voice, like black coffee and thick honey, makes me freeze in my tracks. In perfect English, I hear, “We’re going to the same place. MoscowSecuriTek.”
Unsettled, I turn. Then I’m shaken. An older man, tall and very distinguished, looks at me in a way that seems to reach inside me. Deep inside.
Awkward, I say, “I guess my accent gave me away.”
“Not at all. Your accent is beautiful.” His teeth gleam as his eyes seem ready to devour me. “Your style is unmistakably American.” I can’t tell if I’m being complemented, or if he’s teasing me. His musky scent is alarmingly attractive. Am I just hypersensitive because it’s my first day in a strange environment? Because everything is so unfamiliar?
When the elevator doors slide shut, I’m tense. I have to steady my breathing consciously. The air in the car crackles. A threat of claustrophobia prickles on my back. I feel like I’m in an enclosed space with a dangerous beast. The tone of his voice is completely reassuring, and I’m completely not reassured.
“You are new to Russia? Or have you visited here before?”
“No. Never.” The rush of the elevator only magnifies my feeling of breathlessness.
“But your Russian is exquisite.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
I’m probably over-reacting but when the hint of a smile tugs at his cheek and his eyes sparkle, quivers trickle down the insides of my thighs. That voice, though, “How could it be otherwise?”
When the elevator bell dings and the doors slide open, a breath slips out of me like a long sigh.
I can’t get out of the car fast enough. He remains perfectly still but, as I pass him, his open hand catches my wrist. The touch of his fingertips on the inside of my arm sends a shock through me like a bolt of lightning. “We’ll meet again.”
His eyes hold on to me. “I am Mischa. Mischa Bronski.” He terrifies me. Worse than that, I like it.
I dash to the wide, shiny reception desk. I feel more foolish than ever, remembering that he was coming to the same company. I know he’s just a couple of steps behind me. I can feel him.
When I tell the receptionist that I’m here to meet Genardy Vasilyevich, she gives me a professional smile and gestures over her shoulder. A round man in a brown suit is already on his way to greet me. He bustles up behind the desk and around it to come out and greet me. Shiny, thinning black hair is stretched over his blotchy scalp. A wet smile spreads between his cheeks.
“Miss Bachunin. Irina.” He takes my hand and holds it tight in both of his. His eyes gleam as he looks me up and down. He shakes my hand vigorously and seems unwilling to let go. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Story of my life.
I look around. The amusement gleaming in Mischa’s gray eyes makes me want to slap him. The thought brings a surge of sensation that’s part fear and part thrill.
Chapter Two
Him
SURELY, SHE’S TOO YOUNG. How can it be her?
One thing I know for sure. She won’t wait for me. I know that much. She’s terrified. I should have taken her with me. Picked her up and carried her. But then she would have overheard my meeting. That would be bad.
No matter. I’ll find her. I’m impatient. But I will have to cope.
I gave up long ago on the idea that I would find the woman for me. The old legend in my family is that the first son is gifted and blessed with the most perfect woman, but he is cursed with having to find her. And there is only one.
I don’t believe those ancient legends. They’re just stories. Camp-fire ghosts. Superstitions. They are important to a clan, a tribe. A dynasty. They matter, not because anyone believes them, but because everyone shares the same traditions.
The line of my dynasty has been long, distinguished in blood and fire. I am the end of the line.
Because I grew up with the tradition, that the perfect woman was waiting somewhere for me, I quickly rejected every woman who put herself in my path. Many, many great beauties threw themselves at me. Models, actresses, aristocratic beauties, and winsome dancers unwrapped themselves in corners, ran their stockinged feet up my legs under dinner tables, sneaked into my rooms in the moonlight.
I saw nothing but their flaws. This one was mean with waiters and staff, that one cared more about her appearance than she did about the people around her. As I entered my thirties, I realized I had never even been seriously tempted to give in. Not once.
Then I de
cided that I had become too discriminating, too aloof to settle for any woman. But, by then, I was satisfied with my life. The urge to produce a son and heir was still deep, but I decided I would have to live with it being unfulfilled.
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