by Henry, Jane
“You like that,” I state, drawing her near to me. I finally understand why she’s so eager to please me, why her calling me sir sounds forced. Why she’s served me without question as my paid staff.
Does Taara have a little bit of a babygirl in her?
I aim to find out. I find a vacant bench and tug her over to it. I sit, and without preamble, tug her onto my lap. “Sit on Daddy’s lap, little girl.”
Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, and she bites her lip between her teeth. “Yes, sir.”
I shake my head. “No, Taara. The correct response is yes, daddy.”
“Stefan,” she whispers, burying her head on my chest to avoid looking in my eyes. But I won’t have that.
I take her chin and draw her gaze to mine.
“You’ll do what I say, little girl, unless you want to find yourself over daddy’s lap?”
Christ, I’m fucking hard, my cock a steel rod against her ass just saying this. Everything about our relationship is wrong, so it’s an easy matter exploring this with her as well.
Fuck taboo.
“Yes, daddy.”
And then she drops her head to my chest again and buries her face, unable to look at me. She’s trembling. Through everything we’ve done, this is the most vulnerable I’ve seen her yet, and I instinctively know I’ve stumbled on something she didn’t anticipate.
“Good girl,” I whisper to her, and hell if this doesn’t feel right. “Such a very good girl for daddy.”
“Stop saying that,” she says, but it’s a weak plea, as if she has to say it but doesn’t really mean it.
“Who makes the decisions here, Taara?”
“You, sir.”
I clear my throat. “Try that again.”
“Oh, God. You, daddy.”
If Taara is a babygirl, I’ll have to treat her very differently than I have, but it excites me to know this about her. Seeing her naked made me hard. Having her between my legs, when I was on the cusp of punishing her with my cock between her lips, that was hot as hell. But this?
Fucking hell.
“Daddy” is an American word, and maybe that’s why it is easier for me to accept this as ours, a taboo power play that turns both of us on. To reach that level of trust with another, for her to be able to give this to me and for me to honor it, could strengthen our relationship.
But hell, is that what I want? Where will that lead us? Taara and I aren’t a couple. We’ve been forced together and now need to make the most of our situation. But if during our time together we find something that makes it easier, we could explore that avenue.
Nothing about this is right or normal, so why shouldn’t we do what we want?
We don’t speak for a few minutes. I hold her on my lap, her head on my shoulder. I use this time to observe the room, to listen in on the conversations around us, but it’s difficult from where we are.
“Stefan?” Taara lifts her head up and whispers. “D-daddy?” she flushes madly.
I nod.
She pushes herself up on my lap and weaves her hands around the back of my head, pulling my ear to her mouth. “Did you hear that?”
I shake my head. “Hear what?” I whisper back.
“The man at the bar.” Her voice is so low I can only make out her words with concentration. “He just said Moscow.”
I sit up straighter. Though it isn’t a dead giveaway that he could lead us to something we need, I can’t dismiss this clue without further examination. I keep my look casual, as if I’m just glancing about the room. He has no woman with him that I can see but stands with three other men that look as if they could be his brothers. And one of them is staring straight at Taara.
“Put your head on my chest,” I whisper, and like a good girl, she immediately obeys. Who is this motherfucker that’s looking at my woman? I know it’s my own damn fault for even coming in here, but it’s the quickest and most expedient way to find the information I need. Tomas said to look for Adam Numeros, the man who runs the auction. A friend to Tomas, his allegiance is to Boston above any other brotherhood, and he knows the inner workings of the slave trade better than any of them. In recent years, he’s stepped back from direct involvement, but Tomas promised me he would be aboard this ship.
I look about the room, but I’m aware of every set of eyes that looks toward us. I hate that Taara is dressed so scantily. Though anything more than what she wears would make her stand out, I underestimated the amount of attention this beautiful woman would draw. Christ, I want to cover her so only my eyes can see her. I want to take her back to the room and hide her. Why the fuck did I decide to do this? For one brief moment, I imagine her dressed in the burka of the most traditional Afghani people, and it’s the first time I’ve understood the purpose of such conservative garments. Hiding everything but her eyes sounds pretty damn good right about now.
I’m looking for Numeros, the contact Tomas told me to look for. I try to see the man who’s standing at the bar with his back toward us, as it looks like he fits Numeros’ profile. “Let’s get a drink,” I say, gently drawing Taara off my lap. She keeps her head bowed and leaves as little space between us as possible. I need to get her alone. Something happened in here tonight that’s affecting her. I’m going to find Numeros, listen to what I can about Moscow, then get the hell out of here.
When we approach the bar, I see a man who’s small and lithe, with swarthy skin, when he looks to me, his piercing blue eyes confirm this is indeed the man I’m looking for. I don’t go to him at first, the men standing next to him are speaking in low, rapid Russian.
“Vodka,” I order for me, “And a glass of Pinot Grigio for my girl.”
She grips my hand tighter.
We drink in silence, and I keep our backs to the men, but I’m catching bits and pieces of their conversation. One mentions the prichal—a wharf, and another the otgruzka, or shipment. We need a place and time, or at the very least names we can pursue, if we’re to find the men behind the potential overtake of the American Bratva. I gather little bits and drabs of conversation, but nothing really concrete.
“Come,” I say to Taara, tugging her toward Numeros. When I reach him, he lifts his glass in greeting and clicks mine.
“Stefan.”
“Numeros.” We shake hands. Though we can’t speak as freely here as I’d like, he may have information we need.
“And you are…” his voice trails off as he looks at Taara. She looks to me for permission to speak.
Good girl.
She’ll be rewarded for that.
“This is Taara,” I tell him, but offer no further information.
Numeros sips his drink. “Nice to meet you,” he says, then to me, “She looks Afghani, but I have no recollection of her being in any of the auctions.” He smiles. “I’d remember.”
“You’ve spoken to Tomas?” I say tightly. I’m not answering the question.
He nods, takes another sip of his drink, and fixes his gaze somewhere over my shoulder when he speaks in a low whisper. “The men behind you. Brigadiers to the Thieves.” He clears his throat. “That’s all I can tell you. Watch them.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Be careful. And if you follow them?” His eyes go to Taara. “Leave her behind.”
Then he waves a hand to someone who greets him from across the room, and leaves that quickly, likely so as not to draw any more attention from those around us.
Leave her behind? Like fuck I will.
“Greetings,” says a voice behind us. "Pervyy raz na bortu?”
Your first time aboard?
I grip my glass tighter and hold Taara by my side, while I turn to greet the three men Numeros gestured to, the ones he says work for the Thieves. These are the very men who plan to overtake our American Bratva. They know who I am. We’ve spread word that their comrade, the very man whose body lies in a grave Nicolai and Rafael dug this morning, is still alive, so they don’t suspect my motives.
; “Hello,” I greet. “And yes, it is.”
Two of the three men are blond, one with a shaved head, and I’d bet under their suit jackets all three bear the ink of the Thieves.
“Your son’s no cruise virgin, though, eh?” The man with the shaved head holds a shot to his lips and downs it, holding my gaze in bold challenge. It’s widely known my son obtained his wife from one of the auctions, but that she was sold into slavery by her father. There are varying opinions on how and why Nicolai did what he did, and I will not allow it to come into this conversation.
“And your name?” I ask the man with the shaved head.
He places his drink on the bar before turning back to us and gives me a calculating smile. “Master.” He won’t tell me his name. It isn’t until then that I realize he has a woman on a chain behind him. He snaps his finger and two more women, all dressed in skimpy clothing with bowed heads, approach them.
“Join us?” he asks. “We’re going to a private room for the remainder of the evening, and your woman is beautiful.” He scoffs at the room around us. “And there are far too few pure-bred Russians in attendance.”
I take a second shot, hold up the vodka to toast his drink, and play my part. “Ya soglasen, brat.”
I agree, brother.
If I’m to get in with these men and find out what I need to know, I can at least acquiesce to solidarity with fellow Russians. In recent years, various brotherhoods have inducted men into their groups without demanding pure Russian ancestry. Throughout history, from Hitler to Genghis Khan, men sought to overthrow political regimes under the auspice of purifying the population. I wonder if the reasoning behind the plotted overthrowing of the American Bratva is related.
Taara looks to me with wide, fearful eyes, but she gives me a slight nod. Being alone with these men is dangerous, but it could also grant us access to information we need.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my temper in check with forced control. “I’m happy to join you, but I don’t share her with anyone.” There’s a limit to how far I’ll go to find what I need.
One of the blond men laughs out loud. “We’ll keep that in mind. I think we likely have plenty of women to go around, so you can keep your little Afghani whore.” He winks as if to soften the blow of what he just said, then turns from me. He walks away which is a damn good thing. I was seconds away from breaking his fucking nose and slicing his throat, and that could get a little messy.
Taara turns to me and tugs on my arm, pulling me to her so she could whisper in my ear. “Sharing me with them might grant you more access to information we need.”
My body goes rigid, my pulse racing. “No fucking way,” I whisper back, and I fully intend on playing the cards I have to ensure her obedience. She responds unpredictably to sir, but perhaps she’ll respond better to her daddy.
My mouth at her ear, I whisper, “And if you suggest such a thing again, you’ll find yourself over daddy’s lap for a good, hard spanking. Understand?”
She pales and nods, then swallows hard, without a trace of disobedience. “Yes, sir. I mean, y- yes, daddy.” It’s unlike Taara to stammer. I can’t fucking wait to get her alone and delve deeper into what fuels her.
The men are leading us past the bar, and several women follow their lead. “Do exactly what I say, young lady,” I instruct her. I hate that we’re doing this, that I’ve brought her here, but I know that if we can make it past this situation, I will find what I need. We go past the bar filled with people and noise to a smaller, secluded area, down a short flight of stairs, deep into the belly of the ship. The room is luxuriously outfitted in black leather furniture, with dim purple lighting, and thick, plush carpet. Fortunately, if my sense of direction is right, we aren’t far from our private room here. When I’ve obtained the information I need, I will bring her back to privacy. But first, we have a job to do.
The men have more women waiting for them, but within a minute, three more follows, until the small room is filled to capacity. At first, those that invited us only speak amongst themselves, until one produces a large bottle of vodka. It seems order is a mere formality, as this group shares freely from the large bottle. They slosh some in my cup, and I down it. I watch as the men strip out of their jackets down to their t-shirts, some revealing the star-tattoo that’s widely known as the mark of a Thief.
But they don’t speak to us. Rather, the men pair off with groups of women. Taara and I watch in fascination as one man sits beside us and places a woman between his legs. I catch a few phrases that make me stiffen.
“Minet,” and “Naveshat’ pizdyley.” He’s threatening to beat her if she doesn’t suck him off. Taara doesn’t hear what he says but watches the way the man yanks her head and forces the woman’s mouth on his cock. The woman kneels, her hands in her lap, and dutifully does what he says.
And Christ, it makes me hard. Why an act of lewd violence like this, devoid of any romance or tenderness at all, gets me off makes me furious. When one man comes our way, his eyes on Taara, I almost lose the last threads of hold I have on my temper.
“Look away,” I order Taara, yanking her toward me. “And get on your fucking knees.”
She falls to the floor, her eyes wide and curious, but she isn’t afraid. She swallows hard and licks her lips, her hands folded in her lap like a good little girl. Then in the most submissive, demure voice I’ve ever heard her use, her gaze holding mine, she whispers, “May I, daddy?”
And right then, right there, I’d give that woman fucking anything. She’s in this with me. She knows what’s at stake and how dangerous our position is. And instead of fighting me, or running away, she’s falling into her role as my slave. When I draw out my cock and line it up at her lips, she actually looks eager and excited.
And hell, if that doesn’t unravel my resolve.
“That’s it, babygirl,” I say when she leans forward and captures my cock between her lips. “Just like that, baby.”
And when my cock glides between her lips, her eyelids flutter shut and she moans, the vibration making me hard as fuck.
“Milaya devushka,” I groan. Sweet girl.
It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman, and fucking decades since I’ve been with one that I’ve had true feelings for. I’ve shoved the memory of Amaliya and any woman I ever cared about out of my mind. It’s too painful, and it’s easier to be who I am if I get off with women that I have no attachment to. But this woman… Fuck, this girl…
“Just like that,” I groan, when she rolls and sucks with ease. Her head bobs between my legs, she’s eager to please me. I reach down and grasp her nipples over her little dress, rolling them between my fingers as she works my cock.
“Touch yourself,” I whisper. “Work yourself to climax while sucking daddy’s cock.”
Her hand trembles while she glides it between her legs, and she moans again, the vibration on my shaft hot as fucking hell. My cock throbs in her mouth but she doesn’t relent, sucking me hard as she works her clit. The room fades while I draw closer to climax, and she’s working herself harder, faster. I tweak her nipples one last time before I chase my release. Hot come lashes in her mouth and she groans, her body shuddering as she brings herself to orgasm on her fingers while sucking down every drop, and it’s gloriously fucking beautiful. She groans and sucks, swallowing and writhing until she releases me. We’re panting and sweating when we look in each other’s eyes.
“Christ, Taara,” I groan when I finally settle.
I should feel regret. This isn’t right. I’ve just fucked her mouth in a roomful of predators, and we’re not here for pleasure. Not to mention, she’s way too young for me. Her mother practically left her to my care for fucks sake.
But I don’t. I fucking don’t. I draw her to me and hug her. With a sigh, she places her head on my knee. I run my hand over the top of her head.
“You please daddy very much, little one,” I whisper in her ear, and for the first time since I was forced to take her… this feels rig
ht.
Christ, I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter 10
Taara
I look up at his eyes, those beautiful eyes of his, and wonder if what I discern in those depths is real or my imagination because right then? I swear this isn’t just sex. This isn’t just my captor, the man who’s embraced cruelty in the name of justice and his brotherhood. There’s so much more I see right then, so much I can’t quite accept it, because if I let myself believe that what I hope is true, it will hurt too much if I find out it isn’t.
That he actually cares about me. That I mean something to him. That somehow, his feelings toward me have changed, like Caroline promised. I haven’t really done anything to merit that change. Not yet. But what if he felt that way before…
No. I have to stay focused.
My heart’s still drumming a rapid beat, a staccato rhythm that thunders through my entire being, after what we just did. And there’s more than that, other couples mingling all around us in this close, intimate setting thick with sex and domination.
He slips his cock back in his pants and zips them up, and the sound of the zipper makes me bite my lip and my cheeks heat. Oh lawdy, I just blew Stefan Morozov where anyone could see.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and is it my imagination or is the sex-sated blissful look shifting?
“You’ve done that before,” he says, almost accusatory, his brows drawing together.
I’m still on my knees, still weak from coming, the salty taste of him lingering on my lips.
“Done what?” I ask. He reaches for my hand and brings me to my feet, then forcibly pushes me onto his lap. His only answer is a growl.
“Ohhhh.” It dawns on me, and I’m a little annoyed. “If you’re wondering if I’m a virgin, the answer is no. But yes, you’re the first man I’ve sucked off.”
God.
“Don’t say that. It’s vulgar.”
But his accusation annoys me. “Are you kidding me? We’re in a room full of people having outright orgies, and you want me to be all discreet?”
