Contents
Cristof
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The woman of all my filthiest dreams
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Chapter 1 Him
Chapter 2 Her
Chapter 3 Him
Chapter 4 Her
Chapter 5 Her
Chapter 6 Him
Chapter 7 Her
Chapter 8 Him
Chapter 9 Her
Chapter 10 him
Chapter 11 Him
Chapter 12 Her
Chapter 13 him
Chapter 14 Her
Chapter 15 Him
Chapter 16 Her
Chapter 17 Him
Chapter 18 Her
Chapter 19 Him
Chapter 20 Her
Epilogue Him
Epilogue 2 Her
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CHRISTOF
BRUTAL
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ALICE MAY BALL’S
BAD RUSSIANS
Alexandr Obsessed
Arkady Possessive
Yevgeni Protector
Nikita Demands
Mischa Dominant
Nikolai Powerful
Dimitri Driven
Leonid Unstoppable
Konstantin Urgent
Valentin Jealous
Anatoly Ruthless
Christof Brutal
I found the woman of all my filthiest dreams. The only woman I want, and the one woman I must not touch
CHRISTOF
As soon as my eyes first catch that curvy little minx, I sense her desires and I feel her yearning need.
She has no idea how her bouncy curves and the sway of her hips make a man’s need stiffen and grow. She deserves a better man than me, and a much younger man, too.
I want so badly to protect her and care for her. I’m aching to claim that beauty and make her mine. Forever. But I must resist the pull of her charms.
MAX
I shouldn’t feel the way I do. Not about a man who’s so much older, or any man with a past like his. Certainly not this tremor-inducing Russian man, who’s forbidden to me on every level.
But, when soft, inexperienced Max and hard, smoldering Christof are trapped, confined together in darkness, will they be able to hold out?
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© Alice May Ball 2020
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
Chapter 1
Him
Fate always has a wicked sense of humor.
Any other time, she could be the woman I’ve waited for, the whole of my life. She’s perfect. Glowing and radiant on a bright, Pacific Northwest morning.
She’s a real work of art. About five foot two, and every part of her is big, soft, and round. I’m not ready to have the breath knocked out of me by a dazzling pair of eyes like hers. And you can see she’s unaware of the effect she has. She has no idea what the shake of her thin skirt will make a man want to do.
Look at her. I’m not out here hunting for love, not in any flavor or style, but any man with a heart pumping hot blood would feel it bang harder at the sight of her.
That bright, innocent face, the light, unselfconscious bounce in her walk. At first sight she makes me want to wrap her up in something strong. Something safe and secure. Me, for instance. I want her.
But I’m here on business. Even though my blood pumps hard and hot, and an iron taste burns the back of my throat. My mouth is dry. And I’m swelling, thick and long.
It’s breezy up here. Even on a hot day up in the hills, needles of icy precipitation give the air a bite.
High in the Pacific Cliffs district, south of Tillamook, the house sits almost a quarter mile off the road, overlooking the Pacific slope. Must be a great place for whale watching. As well as for dark deeds to be unseen.
After you’ve seen enough of these rich people’s houses, they all begin to look the same. Each one is different and unique, but there’s something about new money in America. The houses are statements about the owners, more than they are places to live in.
I Googled it, naturally, and I found pictures. It sits in huge grounds, with a wide view, but itself hidden by the long, steep slope. Lose your footing around here, you could bounce all the way to the jagged black granite rocks, a couple of hundred feet below.
The house appears bigger than the photographs show it to be. The sleek, low profile is designed to make the building appear larger as you get close up. The wide portico has columns that look out of place, pointless stone steps leading up to the heavy mahogany double door.
It’s the house of a man who needs everything he owns to announce how important he is. How powerful. I haven’t met Mr. Bosman, but I’m already looking forward to robbing him. He deserves it.
I park my Mercedes GLE coupé across the circular drive from the entrance to the house. Mr. Bosman told me to bring the artwork. I know what the customer wants. And I know what I’m going to give him.
I’m halfway out of the car when I first see her, stepping out of her Prius.
Life plays cruel games.
Her full, womanly figure would set any male pulse on fire. A divine ass, swinging in that slow, easy-rolling rhythm.
What makes her so perfect is the spark in her eye. I can’t even put a name on it. I just know, as soon as her eyes flash into mine, I feel a chemical, electric connection. The swish of her stupendous ass in that silky-thin skirt would stop me in my tracks, but a flash of her eyes sets me on fire.
Like a huge switch pulled deep underground. Bringing a beast to life. Out of a long hibernation. She’s as ripe as a round, juicy peach and I want to lick her juices till she spills out of my mouth and her honey rolls all over my chin.
She’s too young for me. Obviously. She must be half my age. Technically, she could be my daughter. Technically. And she deserves better than me. She deserves a man nearer her own age. Maybe a little older. She’s too much woman. Men mature too slowly to be strong enough, sure enough for a woman like her. Men develop later.
It’s impossible to look at her without imagining it, though. Thinking how her plump, perfect lips would peel back and her eyes would spark as she wrapped my thickening length in her soft cleavage. How her hot breath would patter on my hips as she opened her mouth to taste me.
I can’t afford distraction. The man I’m here to see is volatile and explosive. He’s extremely dangerous, although he has tried to keep me from knowing who he really is.
That’s okay. He thinks I’m just an art dealer. If he doesn’t realize that I know all about his underworld connections, that’s fine with me.
I assume she’s come here to meet with him, too. I’m swelling and rising to anger, thinking of that thug having anything to do with her.
I’m pumped w
ith an urge to protect her. She’s intelligent, and she’s nobody’s fool, I can see that in her eyes. That’s a direct appeal to my ancient Russian soul. All of the men in my ancestry were known for demanding the most powerful and intelligent women as their partners.
Her soft innocence needs to be shielded. She could be in great danger. I shouldn’t be the man to give her the love she needs, but I sure as hell can keep her safe from that crook. I wish I could simply take her away. Seize her. Pull her into my Mercedes and drive off into the hills with her. Then keep her safe. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Could I make her understand?
She strides toward the house. When she flicks an innocent look over her shoulder, back at me, I’m stiff as a gun barrel so fast it hurts.
Why couldn’t I have met her 15 years ago? Too late now. But I can look. I can dream. And what a dream. I’m recording every soft curve and every movement in my mind. I know I’ll be dreaming about those eyes for the rest of my life. The swing of her waist, the bounce of her creamy tits.
I could take her. Of course I could. Claim her and make her mine. But it would be wrong. She deserves better. A man her own age, at least. Well, maybe a couple of years older.
It never troubled me before that I didn’t find a woman to match up to my needs. Not until now. I was always relaxed about it. I had no interest in settling for anything less. But now I see her, it makes me ache. On sight, from the flash of her eyes, I know she is the woman I need. Now I know I need her. Even though I know it would be wrong.
It’s out of the question.
In the roll of her walk, the way she carries her weight, she projects a woman who knows who she is and doesn’t care to hide it. Her confidence says, ‘this is who I am. Look all you like. But don’t you dare touch. Not unless I want you to.’
My breath thickens. I step forward to approach the house. When I move, I’m almost silent—old habits die hard—she turns and greets me with a smile. A perfect invitation. When she hears me behind her, her breath catches.
“I’m Christof,” and I put my hand forward for her. She turns to face me and for the first time I see her properly. Full and flushed. Unselfconscious and glowing with promise. My veins thrum. The light in her eyes sets a fire deep down in my core. “Christof Petrovich.”
She looks at my hand. I feel her eyes considering me. Weighing up—friend or foe? Trick or treat? She’s holding back a smile as she takes her time. Watching my reaction before she lights up and takes my hand.
A charge of electricity flashes through me as her soft fingers take hold of mine and her cool palm presses into mine.
She gasps as she says, “Max,” and her smile makes me light up inside. Sunlight floods into an old, dark, and empty space.
“Carter. Max Carter.”
“I’m very glad to meet you, Max Carter.”
The door to the house opens. A man steps out. In dark shades, he’s a bald, musclebound bruiser, bulging in a dark suit. He sets his feet apart at the top of the shallow steps and jams his fists on his hips. I guess he’s ‘security.’ He glowers down at Max.
He says to her, “You’re from Pacific Surety. Right?”
He says it too loud. Like he’s trying to pummel her with his voice. Probably gets his manners from his boss.
She looks up mildly at him as I stride up to the steps. The thug turns to me.
“You the art guy?”
I look back in his face. What I can see of his expression is dry and empty. The matted shades show only my own reflection. I keep walking toward him. He holds up a hand at me from the top of the steps. I take no notice.
“Look, you’re the art guy, right? Christopher something, yeah?”
“Christof,” I tell him.
“Mr. Bosman’s expecting you. Go on through. Straight down the hallway.”
He looms over Max, still blocking her path.
Chapter 2
Her
A cold shudder dripped down the back of my neck. I’m not sure what it was about the bright, wide house perched high on the cliffs, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts. As soon as I see the house, before I’ve even parked in the driveway, I get the chill.
The meeting should be routine. Arrive at the client’s house, greetings and some polite exchanges. Maybe he offers me coffee as I look over his certificates and make my notes. Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.
My work is simple, some would say dull, but it is exacting. I have strict rules to follow and, as my boss, Mr. Clarke says, ‘no wiggle room.’ We always laugh whenever anyone says that. Personal relationships with anyone we meet through work are strictly forbidden.
Ours is a tight-knit, down-the-line, by the book and straight laced team, and all of us abide by the clear, simple rules.
The tall, elegant man who steps out of the new black Mercedes GLE coupe isn’t on the schedule. He shouldn’t be in the span of my attention. I have a job to do here. It’s not complicated, but it’s important. A lot of money can ride on this, and I have to do it right.
The buzz in my gut tells me there’s not going to be anything normal about this morning’s appointment.
I mustn’t let my mind wander around the dark eyes and over the immaculate suit of a stranger who’s obviously out of my league, as well as my age range. Not that it would deter most older men, as I know all too well. But he doesn’t look the type to play around with baby dolls. He would have a more serious woman. A more mature woman. And he could easily command a much more beautiful woman. I would be so out of my depth. So why am I even thinking about him?
And I know it’s because he’s untouchable. At least, he is to me. I have no illusions, I’m a work in progress. I’ll be something, I don’t doubt it. But I’m not there yet. A man like him wouldn’t think twice about an immature girl like me.
The echoing feeling, deep in my core, the tingling in my thighs, that’s instant infatuation. Pure lust. I should enjoy the slight giddiness for what it is. Then forget it and move on.
I need to concentrate. There’s work to be done and I’m already apprehensive enough.
Christof. He sounds like a Russian, and he looks like an aristocrat.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach when I tell him my name.
Is he going to ask? Everybody does. But he just holds onto my hand, and my eyes. Smiling with his own eyes. They don’t move, but I know he’s scanning me. I can feel it.
Usually if a man does that, it makes me squirm. Not this time. I want him to. I want to show myself to him. I’m prickling with something else. Excitement. But so intense, it’s balanced on the edge of anger.
My life is the opposite of exciting. I’ve got a steady job that runs like clockwork. I do X, Y follows, then we have the result, Z. Rinse and repeat. The salary is OK, the hours are OK. I’m plodding along a path that’s as predictable as sunset. Promotions will be slow, because I’m a woman, but they’ll come. And the OK salary will rise in OK increments.
I didn’t know it was what I wanted until I’d set it all in place. Then I could see how it would all run like clockwork. Simple and safe. Reliable. Forever.
Now I’m wondering if it really is what I want. I’m not sure why my life has to be so predictable.
I’m risk averse to an extreme, if there can be extremes of staying in your own comfort zone. Now I’m feeling thrills. Buzzing edges. Deep down, my soul howls for more. Now, perhaps I need some risk. Some danger, even.
The touch of the older Russian man’s hand, the squeeze of his strong fingers, stretches my comfort zone, inflates it into a big bubble. I’m afraid it could burst. But I’m excited, too.
The goon in the suit frowns.
Christof leaves me with a smile as he bounds up the steps. Even though the goon tells him to go in, he stops behind the big man’s shoulder. It’s only then I realize how big Christof is and it takes my breath away.
Christof Brutal (Bad Russian Book 12) Page 1
