And neither can she.
“Please,” Her skirt is up to her hips. The wet fabric of her panties has slid aside. Her hands stroke and squeeze me, all over my body. She tries to stretch down to my cock, but she can’t reach. She would have to get down.
I should ask if she wants to lie down.
But I can’t wait.
Roughly, I pull her panties further to one side. Her thighs squeeze tighter around me,
Her teeth push down into the side of her lip as I reach down. I’ve wrestled my pants open. I have to tug to get my cock free of the silky boxers and the tangle of my pants around the fat, stiffened pole. I lower her hips until I have the head engaged.
Her eyebrows steeple upward. Fear and apprehension make her eyelids flutter as I press up into her hot softness. There’s going to be pain for her, I believe. Maybe a little for me, too, but I don’t care about that.
I want it to be quick for her. But I want her to feel it.
So I crouch, lean her back with her cheeks pressed on my thighs.
She shouts and gasps at the same time as I spear her. She’s impossibly tight, but then her soft, slick wetness wraps and grips around me.
“Mischa,” her eyes burn into me, questioning, pleading, searching. So many expressions as I drive my long shaft way up inside her. The quiver of her walls, parted by my hard flesh, trembles and trills on my rod. I have to pull back. Give her a moment to relax.
Then her eyes widen and roll. I drive farther in. Her mouth descends on my neck. She sucks and bites. My throat, my ear, the side of my neck. My mouth. Her hands claw at me. Grip and scrape inside my suit coat. Drag the shirt out of my pants, pull on the buttons of my white shirt, yanking angrily to get them open.
I’m almost all the way in now. Pulling and pumping. Her little wet opening sucks on me so hard, it’s tough for me to take, but I have discipline. I may need to use some on her, too.
When she finally burrows through to get her hands on my chest, she sighs and groans. Squeezing and scratching on my pecs, the ridges of my abs. The lines of my ink, ancient symbols and tribal codes.
Each stroke takes me deeper into her, getting my hips closer to her lips, nearer to the hot buzz of her clit.
Chapter Sixteen
Her
BOUNCING ME HARDER ON his cock, he pulls me apart, stretches me wide. I feel more connected to him than I ever felt with anyone, even though I’m certain he’ll drop me like a wilted carnation after a wedding. I don’t care. I want him to fill me. I want all of him. I need everything he’s got.
I push down, loving the rip, the raw soreness.
I bounce into his hand as his palm is coming up. He strikes me on the flesh of my ass. I yell, “Mischa!” I’m crackling inside like a zillion fireworks are going off, each one bigger than the last, and each with a harder, deeper boom when it bursts into a blossoming shower of a thousand sparkling lights.
He drags my ass onto him, pulling himself deeper inside me, shoving the impossible thickness of his cock farther up into me. He crouches lower, hammering me harder. I clutch at his shoulders, his ribs. He tugs on my hair.
Every sensation keeps me, draws me deeper into the feelings. Wraps me harder around him. Makes me need him more. Every sting, every slap pulls me closer. Catapults me higher and makes me feel him more.
I slam my screaming sore pussy along the ridges of his thick cock, and I yell. I call his name and I shout. I swear and I even cry. Everything that I do, everything makes him fuck me harder. Stronger. Better, even. Each time he fills me more perfectly.
He drops me down onto a black velvet couch. The nap burrs and buzzes, and it shocks me as I realize how ridiculously heightened all of my senses are.
He leans me back into the seat, still in his gorgeous, open white shirt with the tie hanging undone, his suit coat and pants with the pants wide open. I can’t see his cock, because it’s still buried a foot inside me.
“Irina,” He snarls my name. His fist bunches my hair, and he leans down to kiss me. Hard, almost brutal. He pulls my ankles onto his shoulders, and I’m going over again, just looking into the depths of his eyes as he plows into me.
The slap of his thighs on the backs of mine and the searing rasp in my pussy as he pounds into my wet, weak flesh make me gush and implode. I feel his massive cock swell and pulse. He stiffens and his pace quickens. I grab his head and I come again, with him this time, as he beats what feel like buckets of his thick, hot seed into me.
I pull his head to me, holding onto his hair as my fingers and toes curl and claw. My neck stretches and my back arcs, my ass clenches and my knees come back to my ears. He fills me up and I bite and kiss his ears and his face and his neck.
He strokes and soothes me as I tremble and shake in the aftershocks. I curl up on the couch, unable to speak, looking at him in wonder.
“Irina,” his voice is soft, like a warm breeze in my ear. I feel it on my neck as much as I hear him. “My Irina. I’ve found you at last. Now you’re mine, forever.”
I don’t believe him. Of course I don’t. It’s a wonderful thought to curl up with while I’m drowsy, though.
I’ve never been happier than those few moments, lying, curled up with him, dozy and spent.
When I hear the buzz on his phone, I know it is over.
is he really going to keep me locked away, a prisoner down here? At this point, I don’t think I really care. I am complete and content.
“I won’t be long,” he is telling me. “A couple of hours at most.”
Disconnnected, I am thinking, Whatever.
“Let me send you the door code. You won’t need it, but just in case.” He shows me the keypad, concealed near the door. The text hasn’t come to my phone.
“Fucking networks.” He scowls, “Mine’s probably the only one that gets signal down here. Can you type the code into your phone, so you’ve got a note?”
“I won’t need it,” I murmur drowsily.
“No. Still, take it down. You can get WiFi, here.”
“What’s the WiFi password?”
“podzemel’ye01”
“Oh, of course. Dungeon01. I should have known.”
“The door code.”
“I won’t need it. Have a nice day gangstering.”
“Okay. Don’t worry. You are in the middle of the Arbat district, probably the safest district in Moscow.”
That didn’t seem completely reassuring as I watched the massive vault door swing shut behind him. I wasn’t worried before he told me. It left me wishing I had taken a note of the door code on my phone after all.
Chapter Seventeen
Him
SLIDING INTO THE SOFT black leather seat of my BMW 5 series, 530i M Sport, I’m still hot, glistening in a slick sheen of sweat, and reeking of sex. Our scents and hormones mingle into a heady cocktail that fills the passenger compartment of the car. My muscles still buzz from the passionate exertion and release.
It tears me up to leave my Irina now, even for an hour, but there are things that I must do, and it has to be now. She was worth the wait. I hope my business will be simple and quick so that I can get back to her. I’m happy knowing that at least she is safe.
The message from Illya said that the shipping containers are arriving at Oleg’s freight depot to be unloaded. When a plan is in motion, it is like a machine. Parts move in perfect choreography. Everything drops into place, piece by piece, at the perfect time. No one part can ever stop. Everything would break. Like a ballet. One dancer cannot rest, or all the others will run into her and then fall over each other.
I drive as fast as I can through the Moscow night traffic. All too soon I’m stuck in an endless and almost-static stream of shimmering red brake lights. Six lanes, traffic in front of me and either side of me, all sliding like lava. Slow lanes of glacial white glare on the other side, blocked solid.
Inching along the wide Solfiyskaya Embankment, I can see the traffic on the far side of the river, passing the spires of the Kremlin. It’
s moving even more slowly. And I have about a mile of that to get through, too.
Like always these days, I start the fucking meeting on a tablet in the fucking car.
Illya and Petrov are in what Petrov calls his ‘control center.’ Petrov’s long black curly hair hangs over one eye, and he cocks his head to one side to peer out. Illya sits perched on the side of the big desk, bored and impatient as always. The wall of screens flickers behind the two of them.
“Nothing much happening yet, Boss.” Illya tells me. “Nothing to worry about. The containers were both collected on time. I tracked them to Oleg’s freight yard, and they both arrived an hour ago.”
“Any activity from Vasilyevich?”
“No, Boss. As far as we can see, he doesn’t even know there’s anything going on.”
“He hasn’t tried to access the dockets on his system?”
Petrov says, “Not that I can tell. He still does all his tracking by phone. He calls Andropov at the port and they talk. It’s quaint. Like two antiques, reminiscing.”
I’m thinking.
Illya says, “I wish we had drones or cams on the freight yard. I would pay to see Oleg’s face when he opens the boxes, expecting crystal meth.” Itching for action, as always. He sniggers, “And when he finds containers full of stuffed toys.”
Petrov is serious. “The loss of two shipments is going to hurt him bad, Boss.” Petrov’s one of those boys, can’t ever imagine or anticipate what anything will feel like until it happens. Every new situation comes as a complete surprise. Like an adolescent, but more so.
“That and knowing that somebody has hacked into his supply chain.” Illya is laughing.
I keep my voice flat. I don’t want them thinking this is any kind of a party. “Will he be able to work out where we hacked into the chain?”
Petrov says, “Oleg?” like it’s ridiculous.
As patiently as I can, I tell him, “He has clever kids on his team, too, you know.”
Illya slaps Petrov’s shoulder. “Not clever like Petrov, Boss. Not even kidding.”
They so much want to be Western nerds. While all their friends are bringing the Marvel Universe, these kids watch documentaries about Silicon Valley. I don’t see the appeal.
Oleg’s freight depot is on the edge of Tagansky district, on the East of Moscow.
“What if he won’t negotiate, Boss?” Illya. Looking for trouble, “Or if he won’t come to terms?”
Petrov puts on a deep voice and says, “Then it may be the Sicilian Defense.”
I hold up a hand. They make tight grins, looking at each other as their heads shake. I love them like they were my own children, but there are times I could bang their heads together.
‘The Sicilian Defense’ comes from the story of a Medieval Sicilian prince, who invited his enemies to a feast in a grand banqueting hall, high on a hill, in the spirit of a truce. When the heads of all the tribes and families were all seated, the prince slipped out, had all the doors barred. The great hall lit up the forests and the valleys like a beacon as the fierce blaze raged, and it burned, slowly, to the ground.
My car crawls up onto the bridge. It takes me nearly ten minutes just to change lanes. Frustrated and impatient, I tell the boys, “Don’t look like that. Remember, I grew up in this business. I know there are times that can be the only language a brute like Oleg will understand. But we don’t joke about it. Don’t think of going against me.”
“Boss, I’ve got a watch on Oleg’s men in his bar West of Moscow.” Illya’s looking at a screen. “They all just piled into SUVs and four-wheel drives.”
“Coincidence?”
“They left in a pretty big hurry.”
“Are they headed to the depot?”
“No. No, it looks like they’re taking the road North.”
“Where would they be going?”
“The museums or an art gallery? Who knows,” Illya frowns, puzzled. “Looks like they’re headed into the Arbat district.”
My heart drops.
“What?” Nobody knows about the house there. Nobody. Not even Illya or Petrov. How can this have happened?
I call Irina immediately. Voicemail. Of course. No cell coverage.
“Illya, do we have anyone out anywhere near Arbat?”
He looks puzzled. “No, Boss. Everybody’s out East, waiting for the word to go on Oleg’s depot.”
Shaking with rage, I send her a text.
Get out of the house. Use the door code and leave. Immediately.
Take the metro to Park Kultury.
Wait inside the metro station. I will come and find you.
Then I remember she doesn’t have the door code and send it in another text.
But if the phone coverage won’t get through, neither will the text. I email her the same messages and I add in some directions.
If I had the helicopter here right now, fired up and ready to go, I still wouldn’t get to Arbat in time. Park Kultury is in a line between there and here, so at least I can be heading back up toward her. It takes me nearly ten minutes just to turn and change direction.
Chapter Eighteen
Her
I’M SORRY NOW THAT I lost count of the number of times he rocked and rammed me up to the edge, buffeted me along the precipice and then held me close as he hammered, pitching me off, tumbling into another cascade of exploding bursts. I wish I could replay every moment of it now. Relive each fantastic agony, every shocking thrill.
Of all the thousands of orgasms I’d given myself, or taken from shower heads or with electric toys, none of them was like the least of these. I thought an orgasm was an orgasm. Some are great like a fabulous ice-cream, some are fantastic, like ice-cream cakes on a theme-park ride, and some are, well, just nice.
These were nothing like any of those. Being fucked inside out by that frighteningly beautiful man, knowing he would not stop until he had wrung me out and taken everything he needed, the world looked like a completely different place. Colors are like new. Smells are exciting. Suddenly eager to know what food tastes like, I get up to run to the fridge. As soon as I stand, I feel the weight of loss, from him not being here with me. Between that, the raw ache in the joints of my thighs, and how sore my pussy is when I move, it’s almost too much to bear.
Eventually, reluctantly, I reach the fridge. All I can find in there are blinis, sour cream, caviar, and vodka, and several bottles of Russian champagne. I’m not going near the Russian champagne. I’ve heard bad things. I think the blinis should be eaten hot. But they probably ought to be fresh, too. I put some onto a plate with a scoop of caviar and a few dollops of the sour cream.
I haul out my laptop and try for the WiFi. I remember the password is Dungeon 01. First, I put it in English. That doesn’t work, obviously. Then I try in Russian. Temnitsa 01. Nope. I try it with a space. And without. With a cap.
Cream and caviar fall onto the keyboard as I’m trying to eat, so I have to go look for paper towels.
While I’m hunting, I remember there’s an entirely other word for dungeon, Podzemel’ye01, although right now I can’t think why.
By the time I’m into the WiFi, I can’t remember what I was planning to do. I could check my email. Deep underground in Moscow, locked in a dungeon, there doesn’t seem much point.
Bad Russian 05 Page 7
