by James Tate
That might sound a bit presumptuous of me, but there are two key factors driving my actions. One, I was raised to believe I could have anything I wanted in life. I’m the daughter of Konstantin Petrov, Russian mob boss. No one tells me no. And two, my days are numbered.
Anyone might be forgiven for thinking I'm a spoiled, stupid rich girl, but I'm far from stupid. These men are offering me their protection, like they can save me from my fate, but they're only delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later both my father, and my choices, will catch up with me. And when that happens, death will be the best I can hope for.
So yeah, I intend to make the most of my final days of breathing, and anyone who would judge me for that can go straight to hell.
"What's that look for?" Colt asks me, jolting me out of my thoughts. "You look sad."
"Hm?" I blink up at him, struck once again by how handsome he is. With his clear, bottle-green eyes and floppy blond hair, he looks like some sort of Australian surfer or actor.
"Nat," he smirks at me, pulling a chair around the table until he’s sitting within touching distance. He's dressed in faded jeans and a white t-shirt that strains across his muscular chest. Not one of these guys could have anything more than two percent body fat to share between them, but I guess that's to be expected from whatever they are. Mercenaries? Spies? Regardless, I doubt I’ll find any dad bods doing undercover missions that involve my father’s affairs.
"Yes, Colt?" I reply sweetly, pushing aside my thoughts of death—or worse—and focusing on the here and now. I haven't forgotten our interrupted fuck earlier, and his close proximity is making that desire resurface.
"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" He reaches out and strokes a lock of my chestnut hair behind my ear. Internally, I'm rolling my eyes. Phrases like that come across so condescending to any woman with half a brain.
Colt, I'm sure, doesn't mean it like that. I find it hard to believe he’s anything less than sincere.
"Just thinking about how we were so rudely interrupted this morning," I respond, flipping my mental flirt switch firmly into the on position. Like I said, if I only have days left to live, I want to fully enjoy them. Then maybe, before my father can exact a punishment worse than death, I can leave this world on my own terms.
A grin spreads over Colt's handsome face. "It's all I’ve been able to think about today, too. I hope Weston actually does punch Hawke. He fucking deserves it." His long fingers extract a hand-rolled cigarette from the squashed cardboard pouch he pulls from his pocket. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
"Go for it," I tell him, watching with thinly veiled interest as he flicks his zippo lighter open and touches the end of his cigarette to the flame. The second it's ignited, my suspicion is confirmed and I smile with amusement. "Colt, that's not tobacco."
"No?" He smirks back at me with a wink. "Better remind me to confess this next Sunday."
He takes a long drag on the joint and then offers it to me, which I gratefully accept. It's been more than twenty-four hours since my last glass of champagne and baggy of top quality coke at my father’s party. Over twenty-four hours since I saw my lover shot while his hard cock was still buried between my thighs.
"Fuck," I breathe when the heady smoke fills my lungs. "That's some good shit."
Colt grins and winks as I pass it back. "Only the best, Tzarina." He holds my heavy-lidded gaze for a long moment before we hear voices coming down the hall toward the kitchen. It sounds like Hawke and Mace, but Colt shoots out of his seat like it’s on fire.
"Quick," he hisses, holding a hand out to drag me from my own seat. Without pausing to explain further, he quickly flings the freezer open and grabs a bottle of liquor before dragging me through a different door and into a dark corridor.
"Colt?" I ask hesitantly, and he shushes me.
"Quiet," he whispers, placing the joint back between my lips in the darkness and tugging me by my hand. "Hawke and Mace get real pissy about me smoking on a job. Which is hypocritical as fuck seeing as they both have their own vices, but whatever. Not worth the argument, you know?"
"Say no more." I cough as I follow him out into the dark church. There’re some candles lit, which I imagine were lit all night. But what the hell do I know? I thought this place had a nunnery for fuck’s sake, which it very clearly does not.
"Here," Colt murmurs, pulling me into a pew in the middle of the huge structure, shadowed by an ornately carved pillar bearing a heavy wooden cross. We sit on the hard bench, close enough that our thighs press together, and Colt drapes an arm over my shoulders.
The entire church is still, and silent.
"This feels …" I whisper into the darkness, passing the joint back to him.
"Naughty?" he offers, quirking a brow at me and giving me the truest sense of his character thus far. Colt is the naughty one. "Let's make it naughtier." He hands me the bottle he grabbed on our dash out of the kitchen. "Russian, like you."
I snicker, inspecting the label to find it is indeed, Russian vodka. Delicious. Eagerly, I twist the cap off and take a long gulp, feeling the smooth liquid burn a path down my throat and warm my belly.
Fuck yeah. This is exactly how I want to spend my last days.
"How long until Hawke or Mace come looking for us?" I ask Colt quietly, already feeling the haze of pot making my body heavy and slow. It’s like being wrapped in cotton wool, which is only heightened by the vodka.
"Long enough," Colt replies, taking the bottle from me and tipping it back for a swallow while holding my gaze. "We can always hide out in the confessional if you're worried they'll find us before we're ready?"
My brows shoot up and excitement zaps through my body. "You actually have a confessional here?"
Colt scoffs. "Tzarina, all self-respecting churches have confessionals. Wanna see?"
I grin at his new nickname for me. Tzarina means Empress in Russian, and I kind of love it. "Hell yeah," I accept, taking his hand as he stands.
We walk slowly up the aisle to the front of the church, where Colt puts out the end of his joint in the pool of holy water. Something about that act turns me on exponentially and suddenly I'm dying to be enclosed in a small, tight space with Colt.
The confessional itself is set to the side of the church, away from the pews and enclosed with beautifully detailed sliding wooden doors, rather than the curtains I'd expected. Too many low-budget movies have colored my expectation of churches, I guess.
Colt approaches one side of the booth and slides the door open. "After you, Tzarina."
I see the invitation in his eyes, and eagerly accept it by stepping into the small booth and perching on the little bench seat. He follows me in, and I shuffle over as far as possible to make room while he slides the door shut again.
Once inside, Colt solves the problem of space by lifting me up and setting me on his lap. Giggling, I accept the bottle of vodka from him and take a couple more sips before handing it back.
"Now what?" I breathe, and even I can hear the lust in my voice. Even if Colt and I hadn't almost fucked this morning, pot and vodka make me horny as shit. I want him. Bad.
Colt takes another sip himself, then in a low voice commands me, "Get on your knees, Natalia."
I suck in a sharp breath, and don't hesitate even a second before doing as I'm told. My knees hit the hard floor with an audible thump, and I gasp at the sharp pain. I'm no stranger to the sensation—pain, that is—and I love it.
It reminds me I'm still alive … for now.
"Like this?" I check, peering up at Colt in the darkness. He's still seated on the little bench, his legs spread while I kneel between them, facing him.
"Perfect," he confirms, taking another swig of vodka and then passing the bottle to me.
As I bring the glass rim to my lips, I watch Colt unbuckle his jeans and withdraw his rigid erection. I'd only grabbed the briefest glimpse of his equipment earlier, before Hawke had interrupted us and thrown Colt out of the room, and I'm simply dying to get be
tter acquainted.
"You owe me a happy ending," Colt tells me sternly, but I can hear the edge of amusement in his voice. "I think you know what to do."
Grinning, I lick my lips and hand the vodka back. I reach out, trailing my fingers down the soft skin of Colt's dick, then grip the base firmly to bring him to my lips. Given I'm on my knees with his cock in my face, it isn't any great leap to work out he wants a blow job. I'm all too happy to give it to him, too.
My vast and varied sex life has given me a great number of nifty skills, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I can suck some seriously great cock. Being able to deep throat is always an advantage, too, which Colt is soon going to learn.
"That's it," he encourages, setting the vodka aside on the bench and bringing his hands to my hair. "Suck me, Tzarina."
I fight a smile as I roll my tongue over the silken head of his cock, tasting the salty pre-cum and relishing in his arousal. My head is spinning from the combination of vodka and pot, and I'm just high enough to feel like a normal girl. Not the daughter of a Russian mob boss, on the run from death and worse, captive at the hands of a gang of mercenaries in a church.
No, right now I'm just a girl, sucking her boyfriend’s cock in a confessional.
Colt groans low in his throat as I take him deeper, working my hand around his base as I suck him hard. I'm no amateur, I know what men like—whether they admit it or not—so I carefully but firmly scrape my teeth down his sensitive skin.
He sucks in a sharp breath, but I could swear there’s an echo. Like, there’s someone else breathing heavily nearby. But then again, maybe it's just weird acoustics inside the little confessional booth messing with my mind. Or the pot.
My other hand slides up, cupping his balls and rolling them gently as he moans his approval. It gives me such a sense of satisfaction, knowing I can have such an effect on someone as hot as Colt.
Again, I hear a noise that pulls me from the moment, like there’s someone else present and watching, but before I can pull away to look, Colt fists his hands in my hair and bucks his hips. His hard length slams into the back of my throat, and I have no option but to swallow him deep. It's either that or choke, and I’m not a fan of gagging around cock.
"Holy shit," he swears, using his grip on my hair to roughly dictate pace and depth. It's something a lot of girls hate. That feeling of helplessness, of vulnerability. For me, it's a goddamn turn-on, and I can already feel my panties growing wetter by the second as he fucks my throat.
My hands grip tight to the bench seat beside his thighs, holding on for dear life as he uses me, then grunts his release as he comes. His hot load hits the back of my throat, and I swallow, licking around the length of his dick as he finally releases me and withdraws from my mouth.
"That was exactly what I needed," Colt groans, collapsing back on the bench and tucking his dick away into his jeans. "I’ve been hard as a rock all damn day. Listening to you and Hawke almost killed me, even if it did tell me something interesting about you."
"Oh?" I arch a brow at him while wiping my mouth off on my sleeve. "What's that?"
Colt leans in close, close enough that his lips brush my ear and I shiver. I'm so turned-on that even that small touch sends shockwaves through me.
"I learned that you love it rough, Tzarina." He pats my cheek teasingly, just this side of a slap. "And you're a goddamn natural submissive. So I think I might leave you worked up like I know you are right now. Consider it punishment for torturing me this morning."
Indignation boils, and I open my mouth to protest, but he just lays a finger across my lips to silence me.
"You know you deserve it. Now run along before Hawke finds us and we both catch a spanking." He says this with a grin and a wink, and I find myself hesitating, hoping Hawke does catch us. Maybe then I'd get my own happy ending.
But I'm also pissed as hell that Colt is being a dick and not returning the favor, so I purse my lips and push up from the floor. Riding my rage, I snatch up the bottle of vodka and spin on my heel to storm out of the little booth, but as I do, something catches my eye.
There’s a wicker mesh screen dividing the two halves of the confessional booth, separating the side Colt and I are in, from the other side, the side where the priest would sit. When we'd entered I'd been fairly sure we were alone, but as I pause, a pair of ice-blue eyes meet mine through the mesh.
Arsen.
He slowly winks one eye, then lays a finger to his lips, indicating I stay quiet about his presence there. And I do.
Don't ask me why, because I can't be bothered trying to rationalize my insane actions of late, but I simply wink back, lick my lips, and leave the booth. The double breathing while I'd sucked Colt off makes sense now, and I almost come just picturing Arsen pleasuring himself while watching us.
He's fucking crazy, that much is well-established. But damn me to hell if I’m not picturing what that crazy might do to me if we were left alone. The thought sends a rush of adrenaline flooding through me, fear and desire warring for supremacy and coming out even.
My footsteps echo through the dark church as I wander back to the living quarters, and I take another sip of vodka. The alcohol warms my belly and a grin curves over my face.
If Colt isn't going to finish me off … I wonder if someone else might?
Chapter 8
NATALIA
To my disappointment, there’s no one in the kitchen when I return, and no sounds of the other guys anywhere nearby. Briefly, I consider escape. But the thought doesn't last long.
I laugh bitterly to myself, draining the last of the vodka and setting it unsteadily on the kitchen counter. Prisoner or not, I'm a hell of a lot safer here than I would be fending for myself. Like I've already said, I'm no idiot.
Wobbling my way up the stairs, I head toward the room that Mace said was mine. It’s identical to every other bedroom I've seen so far. Small and sparse with a lumpy single bed and a horror film looking crucifix on the wall.
"Oops," I slur, pausing in the doorway when I notice someone standing inside. The broad mountain-like shoulders are a dead giveaway. "Mace, I thought … this was my room?"
"It is, Talia," he replies, turning to face me with a small smile. "I just wanted to wish you goodnight." He steps close, towering over me and forcing me to crane my neck to see him.
"That's sweet of you, Macey," I murmur with alcohol numbed lips.
"Hmm," he hums. "We'll see. My bedroom is across the hall, in case you need me."
I squint up at him. "What does that mean?"
The smile he gives me is tight and regretful. "You'll see." He presses a gentle kiss to my lips then swipes a thumb over my cheek. "Good luck, Talia."
He's gone before I can formulate any further questions, leaving me confused and fuzzy. Nothing a bit of sleep can’t fix, but first I need to sort out the throbbing arousal between my thighs.
Eagerly, I push my oversized pants down, kicking them into the corner and then tugging my top over my head. Just as it obscures my face, I hear my bedroom door close with a firm click.
"Natalia." Hawke's sharp voice makes me jump, and I spin to face him in nothing but my ill-fitting bra and panties. "You've been drinking."
I nod, then open my mouth to give an excuse, but he beats me to it.
"And smoking pot. With Colt, I presume."
Again, I nod. "Yes, but—"
"Do not speak until I ask you a question." Hawke's words snap through the room like a whip, and I flinch. In a good way. I can already feel my nipples tightening and my breath growing short. I wonder if he’ll fuck me again? Maybe if I ask nicely … “If you’re going to be a part of this team, you will follow my orders.”
‘Who said I want to be a part of your team?” I slur, because this is all happening so fast and hell, an experienced party chick like me knows you shouldn’t smoke and then drink. It’s supposed to be the other way around. When you smoke first, the alcohol amps up the THC to levels that make you … well, couch-locked as fuck
.
I slump onto the edge of the bed. I’m in a good mood right now, the best I’ve been in in years. Like, I'm too relaxed to care about anything, including myself. I sit there, and it feels like hours before Hawke moves over to the edge of the bed. That's how it works when you're high though, time slows down to immeasurable levels.
"Clearly, you're intoxicated. We'll have this discussion in the morning." Hawke pushes me down onto the bed, and my heart begins to race. I want him on top of me, moving inside of me with his thick cock. Maybe it would be worth joining this team, just for all the easy lays? I giggle as I roll toward him and hook my fingers around the waistband of his jeans.
"Like you have any room to talk,” I purr, trying to get Hawke to come to me. Instead, he takes a step back, and I frown. Moonlight leaks into the room and stains his face with silver, highlighting the rugged shape of his jaw and the darkness of the stubble tracing his skin. "You've got vices, Colt says so. You and Mace."
Hawke laughs at me, but it's not a particularly pleasant sound. There's a darkness to it that I feel like he'd hide if he could. And I'm intrigued by that. Why am I so damn intrigued? Clearly, there's something broken and twisted inside of me.
"Me and Mace? Please. Weston and Colt are the addicts here. Hard to say if Arsen is or not, he's so damn crazy." Hawke leans down, putting a big palm on my pillow. I can feel the warmth of his body, and I stretch toward it, like a flower toward the sun. A flower that wants to get fucked in this bed right here, right now. "Rest up, Natalia Petrova."
"Stay with me," I beg, but Hawke presses a rough kiss to my forehead and steps back. There's something ominous about that kiss, nothing sweet. It's like he's promising dark deeds for later.
"In the morning, we'll really get started with your training," he says, retreating from the room and slamming the door behind him. I wonder if he's as aware of how fucked-up his own sexuality is, the way I am. Clearly, Hawke likes to be dominant. He craves it. Even more so than he craves being in control of his team.
