The truth dawns, dark and unyielding. He doesn’t want me to defend myself. The only way to win this game he’s playing with me is to submit.
The strong Black accountant rears back in horror at that realization.
Yet some other part of me, the same part that still demanded to be satisfied after my past lovers left rises to the surface. An odd thrill passes through me when I think of surrendering to this man. Completely and without reservation.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out, letting that previously hidden part of me take the wheels. “I’m sorry I snuck out and disobeyed your rules. I have a standing monthly call with my two girlfriends. And by the time I woke up, I only had five minutes to decide whether to cancel.”
I sigh and admit, “I was so confused when I woke up. By what happened between us this morning—and quite frankly, how I responded. I thought I was a good girl. I only just met you…”
I swallow. Embarrassed by myself. “Anyway, I guess I thought doing something normal would clear my head.”
His eyes stay cool as I tell him this. Then he says, “You said you were talking to one friend.”
“Yeah, I found out when I got downstairs that one of them had cancelled. So it was just the one friend and me.”
“If this is true, what is this girl’s name?”
I shake my head and tell him the truth again, “I don’t want to tell you. I’m afraid you’ll drag her into this if I do.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You think if I find out about your friend, I’ll make an arrangement with her, too?”
I suck my teeth. “To be clear, what you call ‘making an arrangement’ is blackmail and extortion.”
His eyes darken. “Blackmail and extortion? Is that what you call what we’ve been doing? What you were begging for just a few moments ago?”
“Yes,” I answer, even as my face heats with embarrassment. “Because blackmail and extortion is what it is. And my friend is a good person. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
His hands find my body again, but not to torture me this time. With a lift and a few body part arrangements, he sets me back down on his lap. This time facing him.
“Do you believe this is how I usually conduct my affairs?” he asks, his expression and voice cold. “That I arrange to fuck pageant princesses every month, the same as you calling your friends? That I would make similar negotiation with this friend of yours at just the mention of her name?”
“I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” I answer with a shake of my head. “That’s the God’s honest truth. So no, I’m not going to risk it.”
He raises a hand and strokes my face with the back of his knuckles. “You are very loyal. Even to those to who you are not related by blood.”
I can’t tell from his tone if he considers that a good or a bad quality. But it’s not a question. So I don’t answer.
“Okay, krasotka. You can keep your friend’s name. I accept your apology.”
Thank goodness. I reach for the hem of my tank, ready to strip. This is what he’s turned me into in just a short time.
But before the tank’s even halfway up my stomach, he says. “I did not give you permission to strip.”
“But you said…” I start.
“I accept your sorry. Forgiveness is not yet achieved.”
Oh…
I sit there, dejected. Not sure what to do with my hands. Or the throbbing ache in my core. Then it occurs to me to ask, “What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness?”
His answer comes immediately. One simple word. “Beg.”
“What was I doing before?”
“Submitting,” he answers.
“What’s the difference?”
A smile almost makes it to his lips. “Perhaps you should start with asking permission.”
Asking permission… I think. Then shove aside what little dignity I have left to ask him. “Can I take off my clothes?”
“No.” His answer is short and cruel.
But then he says, “There are other things you can ask for. Other things I might grant.”
I think some more. “Please, can I touch you?”
“What part of me?”
“Your…uh…thing?”
“My thing?” he repeats like it’s a super foreign word he’s never heard before. “You mean my cock, da?”
I nod. My cheeks aflame.
“Say the real word then,” he commands.
“Your cock. Can I touch your cock?”
He regards me for a cool moment. Then nods.
I’m deeply aware of his eyes on me as I unbuckle his trousers and unzip his pants.
That’s the hardest work I have to do, though. One tug, and he springs out. Completely ready to go and dripping pre-cum.
“I should make you suck,” he says. “But I won’t. Do you like that, pet? Do you like how hard you make me?”
A question. I wordlessly nod.
“Do you think your nameless friend would get me to this state?”
Another question. And I’m torn about my answer. But I have to admit, “Men love her, but she doesn’t do boyfriends, so she’d probably be way better at a five-day hookup than me. And she’s stunning. Like, way prettier than me.”
He scoffs. “Nobody is prettier than you, krasotka,” he tells me in a chiding tone. Like I’ve just tried to convince him the sky is purple. “And I am not what you think. I do not do this every weekend. No other woman makes me crazy hard like this without any effort. Only you.”
Before he said that, I wasn’t sure what my next request would be. But now it burns in my chest, obvious and clear. “Can I…can I kiss you?”
His eyes flare with surprise.
Then he nods, his gaze somber on mine.
I lean forward and press my mouth into his. The kiss is soft at first. Almost innocent. But then he cups the back of my head and thrusts his tongue into my mouth. I’ve French-kissed before, but this is different. His tongue tugs on mine like he’s trying to pull me into him.
I’m so out of control. My hips frantically grind into his as we kiss. And oh God…the shorts move. Allow me to feel a flash of his hard length against the side of my pussy.
That’s all the inspiration I need.
“Can I…can I put you inside of me?” I gasp against his mouth.
“Da,” he answers, his voice rough.
That’s all the invitation I need. I grip him tight and use his long length to push the soaking wet crotch of my shorts aside.
It’s crazy how easily I slide him in. And though he’s the one who insisted on playing these games with me, we both groan when I sink down all the way to the hilt.
He pumps into me a couple of times. But then curses in Russian. “Condom…”
I curse, too, unable to believe I forgot it. You’d think that would kill the mood. But I simply lift off and wait as he retrieves one from his wallet.
“Hurry,” I say.
He smiles and kisses me again while his hands move between us.
I reach down to put him back in when he’s done. But he gently pushes aside my hands. Then he not so gently at all, fists the band of my shorts and yanks.
The thin material falls away with a ripping sound. Leaving my pussy completely exposed.
Cheslav takes immediate advantage, gripping my hips and driving himself in. I groan. The pleasure is jarring and my pussy throbs at the harsh but delicious penetration.
I guess he’s done playing with me. He fists my shirt and tears that off too. Then both hands come up to my chest as he fucks me hard.
“Do you see how crazy you make me?” he growls as he takes me. “Like animal.”
Yes, I do. But I can’t feel sorry for him because he makes me crazy too. For reasons that have nothing to do with money, or saving Clem, I drive my hips up and down on his dick, meeting him stroke for stroke.
And sooner than I expected, I can feel the rising tide. “Please can I come? Please can I come?” I beg, my voice thin with need.
We both yell out in the next moment. Cheslav goes rigid while I quiver around him like jelly. Then we collapse into each other in a loose-armed sort of hug.
We breathe heavy, finally sated. But then I feel his hand in my thick hair, tugging my head back.
“What…?” I start to ask.
But I lose the question when he hits me with another hard kiss.
I don’t just receive his kiss. I return it. Not caring a fig how swollen my lips might feel tomorrow morning.
And as we kiss, I reverse something I thought about Cheslav earlier.
He doesn’t play to win, I realize.
No…
He plays to conquer.
Chapter Nine
The next couple of days pass in a strange mix of passionate sex and hockey games. Then it’s Monday and time to call off work.
As a junior accountant, a lot of my work was done earlier in the tax season. I sent out 1099s and did most of the prep work for the few clients who turned all their stuff in more than a month before the deadline.
Still. March is not the month that any accountant in her right mind would ask for days off. So I don’t. I lie about being too sick with the flu and not being able to come until Thursday.
“Yes, I think staying home is probably for the best,” Laurie, our office manager. says, “I’ll have the other associates email you with any questions. Get well soon!”
I’m shocked by her response. I’d been bracing to get grilled about my symptoms. Last March, accountants had to be at death’s door if they called in sick. There had been so many people coughing and sneezing in the office, I’d known my annual flu shot was probably working overtime just like me.
But as it turns out, Laurie was on the right side of history with accepting my excuse and not guilting me about staying home. Later that day, local media explodes with the news that two women in South Carolina are suspected of having COVID-19. And one of them is in Charleston County.
I scroll through the news that evening as Cheslav and I eat Indian takeout and watch two teams he calls, “not too strong contenders for the cup” play against each other.
But at some point after dinner, I must have dozed off while rabbit-holing local, national, and global coronavirus news. I wake up to the sight of my dark legs strewn over Cheslav’s shoulders and his head moving between my legs. There’s also the feeling of his tongue inside of me. Deep. Deeper than I’d ever thought a tongue could go.
This is crazy, I think, even as I open my legs even wider and bring my hands down to nest in his bristled hair.
There’s a prude part of me that says I shouldn’t be okay with waking up to a man eating out my pussy. But that part gets drowned out by the newly discovered nasty girl part of me saying, “Yes, yes. Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop. And the prude voice inside my head goes mute as I arch my back off the couch and orgasm beneath Cheslav’s relentless mouth.
After I come down, he crawls up my body and finds my lips. This time the ones on top. Then he deep kisses those too while putting on a condom.
He still hasn’t spoken, but he doesn’t have to. I’m in full agreement with every silent order as he pushes into me.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, he picks me up and carries me to the window. Then he starts fucking me again, this time while looking down at the stadium where he plays.
“You will come to my game on Thursday,” he commands, his voice harsh in my ear.
Thursday…
“But that morning is my last day with you.”
He suddenly stops fucking me and shifts his gaze from over my shoulder and directly to me.
“Da…” he answers. “Our designated time together ends on Thursday morning, and the game is Thursday night.”
I shift against the windows cool glass, suddenly feeling awkward and heavy. “But that’s outside the scope of our agreement.”
“I would like you to come to game.” Cheslav’s voice is as grim as mine is confused. “My brother will meet you. Afterward, we all go for dinner.”
I blink. “You want me to meet your family?”
“Da. It is how you American’s say? NBD. No big deal.”
I jut out my chin. “Meeting your brother kind of feels like a big deal, Cheslav.”
Cheslav shrugs. “My brother would have come to game anyway.”
I cut my eyes to the side, not sure how to answer. He’s saying it’s NBD, but this thing between us was only supposed to last five days. Also, what he’s proposing sounds like a date, and my no athlete dating policy still stands.
“Billie…”
I inwardly jolt. This is the first time he has called me by my name. And when I look back up at him, I find his expression softer. Almost tender. “I would like you to come. I’m asking you to please come to game and sit in stands and watch. Will you come?”
Will I? A curl of hunger for something more than sex with Cheslav suddenly erupts inside me. He’s so curious and mysterious. What would it be like to get to know him beyond this penthouse? To cheer for him and meet the brother he’s hoping to best?
This guy must have really done a number on me because I find myself pushing aside my no athletes policy to answer, “Sure.”
A smile spreads across his face. Then he presses his head into the glass beside my head as he starts moving inside of me again.
And it doesn’t take long.
No, it doesn’t take long at all until I’m falling apart. Again.
Chapter Ten
Cheslav wakes me up late on Wednesday morning, his lips pressing into my mouth and his heavy erection pressing into my thigh.
“Again?” I ask him, half groan, half laugh.
“I am hungry for both breakfast and you this morning,” he answers, before devouring my mouth.
Maybe this sexual hunger first thing in the morning is catching. Despite having done it like, four times yesterday, I kiss him back, just as hungrily.
At least for a little while. I draw in a sharp breath when he rolls me onto my back, still kissing me.
He immediately raises. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Sorry, I’m not in as good as shape as you,” I answer with a sheepish look. “I’m a little sore from using all sorts of muscles that haven’t ever been worked out this hard.”
I expect him to smirk, but his eyes widen with concern. “Do you want to stop?” he asks, his voice somber.
I blink up at him. “What? You’re giving me a choice?”
He shakes his head at me. “I have no want to hurt you, krasotka. You know this, da?”
Now I do….
My heart twinges with a soft emotion I don’t dare to name. And I find myself saying, “It’s okay. A little soreness is worth doing it again. With you.”
Not exactly my most poetic moment ever, but his whole face lights up.
Still, he handles me a lot more gently this morning than last night. He rubs at my most erotic zones, his touch soft and tender, until a gentle climax ripples through me.
Then, draping one of my legs over his muscular thigh, he pushes into my wetness while we both lie on our sides.
All thoughts of soreness disappear as we find our rhythm in this new position. And soon I come again, this time with him.
“Sleep a little more, krasotka. I will make us something to eat.”
“You know how to cook?” I murmur sleepily. I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t delivered since I stepped foot in this place.
“I know how to make cereal and Greek yogurt. I can have Vlad order something if that is not enough.”
“That’s totally enough,” I answer, already dozing off. “Thank you.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear him say, “No, thank you, krasotka. These days with you have been more than worth it.”
I fall back to sleep on a cloud but wake up to angry yelling.
<
br /> After climbing out of bed, I think about finding a t-shirt or something else of Cheslav’s to wear. But there’s still almost a day left on the challenge.
So completely naked, I follow the angry noise to the sleek black wood and stainless-steel kitchen where Cheslav’s pacing back and forth on his phone. Apparently, he does have reception up here.
“What do you mean, paused? For how long? No! No! I do not accept this.”
Seeing me, he points to two bowls of cereal and two packages of Greek yogurt waiting for me on the kitchen’s island counter. I awkwardly go over and begin to eat while he finishes his conversation.
“Who decided this?” Cheslav demands of the person on the other side of the line. “The owners? You know what, it doesn’t matter. I do not accept it.”
Cheslav listens to the person’s answer, but only for a little bit. “It does not matter if I was not answering phone. Next time you make decision like this, you come to me. I will help you unmake it—no, do not give me excuses. Do not call me again until it is time to play.”
This time Cheslav doesn’t even give whoever he’s talking to a few seconds to answer. He jams his thumb into what I can only presume is the Call End button. Then he walks over to the counter, muttering in Russian.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“You won’t have to come to my game tomorrow night after all,” he answers with an irritated look. “Or meet my brother. The season has been put on pause due to virus.”
My heart stops, then surges with empathy. “That’s not good news,” I answer. “It’s your last season. No wonder you’re so upset.”
Cheslav’s jaw tightens. “I am fine.”
I look to the side. Think about not saying anything, like a good little pet who’s on her last day of service. But he looks so angry.
“It’s okay not to be fine with this. I know you’ve got the whole macho Russian thing going on, but if I were you, I’d be crying into a tub of ice cream right now.”
It’s a joke, but his expression becomes even harder. “That is because you are weak. From weak family. Do not mistake me for this.”
Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2) Page 5
