Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7)

by Latrivia Welch

  “Will they feel that way about you should they find out?” Royal asked.

  “Neither man condoned human trafficking, prostitution, drugs… they were old school. We dealt in the real Vor principles. If they knew that I killed Alexei because he was holding my son’s sister hostage instead of simply ordering his underling to turn her over, then I think they would understand.” He shook his head and backtracked. Wishful thinking had no place in this conversation. “No, no. They would not. I made that mistake with Khalid. I thought he would have chosen our brotherhood over his son, but he didn’t. It almost cost me Anya.”

  “You mean like you chose your brotherhood over your father?” Royal sympathized. Once, long ago, Dmitry had been a purist, but no one can be an island forever. Eventually, he took a wife and made a life. When a man in his position did that, he would forever be vulnerable.

  “That was a long time ago, and in truth, I think I chose my brother over my father, not my brotherhood.” But Dmitry didn’t want to talk about Ivan now or ever in Royal’s presence. He had caused her enough pain. “People have tried to hurt my boys, and I’ve made them pay. You can’t expect treatment different from what you give in this life. I’m working on getting inside of Alexei’s brother’s camp. If I can get my person close to him, I’ll know more about his movements. For now, we wait.”

  “Then we wait.” Royal leaned her head into his chest. “No matter what, Dmitry, we’ll handle this together.”

  Dmitry smiled despite his current predicament. His wife was sweet, loving and understanding. He didn’t deserve her, but he loved her. “It’s my job to protect you from this world, little Czarina.”

  “True, but it’s my job to protect you from yourself.” Royal felt him kiss the top of her head with an innocent peck. Looking up at him, she raised a hand to his cheek and pulled him closer. “Kiss me like you mean it,” she whispered.

  Dmitry’s right eye twitched. He bent to her slowly, realizing the mood had gone from anxious to erotic. Pressing his mouth to hers, he speared his tongue into her velvety orifice. She was warm and sweet like walking into a cottage after fleeing a blizzard and being offered a cup of hot tea. Her kiss thawed his senses and dissolved the chill on his mind.

  “If you want me to show you what I mean, it will take a lot more than kissing,” he countered as he pulled her from her seated position on the bed to straddle him. Running a finger under the edge of her blouse, he traced his tips over her bare skin and marveled at her brown nipples.

  Royal leaned into him and kissed his lush mouth again, this time teasing him with her tongue, flicking it against his as she rotated her round hips on his growing manhood between them. She wanted this…right now. She needed it.

  Dmitry pulled her blouse off in one fluid motion, tossing it to the floor, and then cupped her ample bosom, pulling her into his erection as he planted his lips on the top of her breasts and started to slowly kiss them. His tongue traced over the top of her lace bra. His teeth raked over her skin. His hands gripped her and held her in place while he toyed with her.

  Royal arched her back, pushing her breasts further into his face, hoping his tongue would find its way below the lace where her aching nipples begged to be sucked. Grabbing the back of her head, she jutted herself forward and felt him latch on to her brown pebbles. Her body constricted and a current of electricity shot straight between her thighs making her clitoris swell with anticipation.

  “Yes,” she whimpered, hearing him suckle her hungrily. His large hand reached behind her and popped the snap on her bra. Freeing her from her lingerie, he cupped one breast while still attached to the other.

  Picking her up as he stood from the bed, he felt her legs wrap around him as he turned and laid her down. “You’re badly in need of a proper fucking, Mrs. Medlov.” The glimmer in his eyes was unnerving as he unbuckled his pants. Dropping them to the floor, he stepped out of his slacks to reveal long, carved legs as wide as tree trunks, covered in a sheet of blonde hair. His penis, a foot-long veiny creature that rose from the depths of his leg out toward her awaited entry.

  Royal lifted her butt to pull off her pants, but he grabbed them when she reached her thighs and took them off himself. A simple pair of black thongs stood between him and his prize. He ran his hand from her calf up to her knee, then pushed her legs open wide enough to see the slick wetness forming at her center, pooling out around the delicate edges of her underwear.

  “Are you wet for me, baby?” he asked, voice so sensual it made her sex clench.

  “Pouring,” Royal answered, watching his every move.

  Dmitry moved his hand slowly down the inside of her thigh, stopping when his palm was planted on the top of her mound. He rubbed his thumb in the crease of her panties, separating her lips as he applied just enough pressure to make her moan. She was so horny right now, he was sure he could bring her climax with just one digit, but what would be the fun in that? Deciding against teasing her too long, he yanked her underwear down her legs, relishing in her thick thighs and the way the fabric stressed against them.

  Crawling over the top of Royal, back muscles flexing as he advanced, he grabbed the top of their headboard and angled his rock-hard penis directly toward her throbbing center. Eyes closing, she felt the tip of him. The smooth round head pressed through her delicate flesh gently, inching inside of her with the greatest care. Grabbing his back to hold on, she shuttered in ecstasy as the all-too-familiar exhilaration of being taken by Dmitry returned. He filled her to the brim, stretching her sensitive skin as he worked his hips. The sound of her wetness harmonized with the smack of his sex hitting her own. Like a drum, he played their instruments creating music of a very particular kind.

  Dmitry could feel himself hardening more as soon as he glanced down at Royal. Her breasts bobbed in the air as she lay pressed to the bed by his larger-than-life form. Something about her submission was driving him insane. Her pheromones gripped him into a madness that had him thrusting into her with so much power until it caused the lamp on the night stand to flicker.

  Breathless, she opened her legs wider, shifting her butt upward so that he could enjoy all of her. She took the blows from his hips, took the weight of his body, took the thrusts of his steel-like penis all while holding a climax at bay.

  Just a little while longer, she begged herself. Don’t climax too quickly.

  Gripping the headboard to the point of his knuckles going white, Dmitry grunted loudly – relieving himself of all his former easy charm and allowing the animal to emerge. His deep voice echoed in the room against her feminine moans. Every cell in his body was attuned to his wife’s pleasure. His broad, hard chest, corded with muscle, now dripped with sweat and strained with veins that stretched across his tanned skin and under his tattoos up to his neck. Dark, hungry eyes glared at her. Biting down on his lip, he slammed into her body fully, making her take all of him. All seven feet, 307 pounds of Russian hardware.

  “That’s it,” she chided, clenching her pearly white teeth. “Give it to me.” Sweat dripped from his body onto hers.

  Face reddening, he felt himself slipping into that place of joy where he zoned out and allowed their bodies to shed all civility. Letting go of the headboard, he pulled her legs up and placed them on his chest while he sat on his knees and pinned her in place.

  “No, Royal Stone, you give it to me,” he growled, filling her again, this time much rougher.

  She might have been demure outside of the bedroom but in here she was something far more dangerous.

  Grabbing a hand full of her hair, he pulled her head up where she had no choice but watch him pump in and out of her body over and over again.

  “Is this what you want?” he asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Is this?” he thrusted harder.

  “God! Yes!” she screamed. The excitement in her brown eyes began to build.

  He drew ragged breath, panting as he grabbed her by her calves and nearly had her dangling upside down in the air.


  Pushing her palms against the headboard, Royal could no longer hold on to her orgasm. Her mouth flew open, first unable to form sound as an intense wave that started deep in her belly and drew itself down to her clitoris. Trembling violently against Dmitry’s bucking hips, she heard her voice carry as she climaxed.

  Dropping her to the bed, Dmitry flipped her over to the side and pulled her back to him. Her sex was soaking wet now, slick with her own released pleasure. Slapping her sweaty, silky brown buttocks, he guided his penis back inside of her and grabbed her by her hips.

  Throwing her head back, her hair spilling over on the gray comforter, she looked back at him and bit her lip. She could tell by the intensity in his eyes and the laser focus of his movements that he was close. Pushing against him, she pressed her hands into the comforter. It could have been the four glasses of wine she had with dinner or the emotional roller-coaster she had just been on with him about Popov, but whatever it was, she allowed herself to ask for what she really wanted. “Give me a baby,” she said, just as his eyes closed and his hips started to move faster.

  Dmitry could feel the surge of semen getting ready to leap forth. His eyes flashed open, growing impossibly wide when he heard her words. Already shuttering, locked to the hilt inside of his wife, it registered what his wife wanted almost too late.

  Pulling out right before hot seed exited his body, he slapped his snake-like member on her hip and pushed down against her. Thick, white orgasmic residue ran down her side like a river, pooling on the comforter and dripping over her belly.

  Royal looked on with disbelief and fury. He had never done that! She pushed him off of her and grabbed his $500 shirt to wipe his mess from her body. “What the hell was that?”

  Dmitry tried to catch his breath. Rolling over on his stomach, he looked up at her in confusion. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  Naked, Royal stood beside the bed. “I want a baby.”

  Dmitry wiped a hand over his face. “After everything we just talked about, you want a baby now?” He swallowed hard and grabbed a pillow. Pushing it under his head, he dismissed the idea. “Now is not a good time.”

  “Did you just ask me when was a good time when I had your last three?” Royal argued.

  “Baby, we might be in the middle of a war. I can’t…” He huffed. “I do not want a child right now.” His voice was colder and sterner than he meant for it to be and instantly he wished he had not said it.

  Royal felt like he had just spit in her face. Throwing his shirt in his face, she wiped a tear that threatened to fall to her cheek. “Get out!” she screamed.

  Dmitry got out of bed without another word. “Can I get something to wear first?”

  Bending down, Royal snatched his slacks and threw them across the bed to him. “Get out NOW!”

  “I’m sorry,” Dmitry said, slipping his pants on. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” The jingle of his belt buckle interrupted him. “Please, be reasonable, Royal.”

  With her arms now across her chest, Royal stood in silence, refusing to even look at him. “I will not say it again.”

  “I won’t force you to,” Dmitry said, ducking his head. Great. He was in the dog house again. Grabbing his phone from the floor, he walked barefoot to the door. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  Royal kept her back to him until the door was closed shut. Hearing his heavy footfalls moving down the hallway, she fell on the bed and cried.

  Women! Dmitry thought to himself. One minute they were ready to die for you, the next they were ready to kill you. In a walk of shame, he headed down the back stairs of their wing of the house to the first floor. As he came around the corner, he ran into Marat while he was making his rounds.

  “Don’t say a fucking word,” Dmitry growled, whizzing past him.

  Marat dropped his head and kept moving. It didn’t take a genius to know his boss had just gotten tossed out on his ass by Royal at 2:00 in the morning. And while he was the head of security, certain things just were not his business.

  Looking through his phone, Dmitry had come to one conclusion. At least one thing about today needed to be under his control. He would start with the Popov situation. Instead of hoping that Alexander Popov didn’t find out that he had killed his son, it seemed the best course of action was simply to tell him and let him decide how he wanted to proceed. Fuck it. He was looking for a fight after being mind-raped by Royal.

  Hitting a contact number, he waited for Alexander’s overseer to answer as he stalked down the limestone hallway past the guards, who ducked their heads to keep from making eye contact.

  “Yes, Mr. Medlov,” Kuznetsov answered as he sipped on a cup of coffee and read the newspaper in his office. It was 10:00 a.m. in Moscow and already the day was off to a hectic start.

  “I need to arrange a word with Alexander Popov,” Dmitry said, arriving at the doors of his office where his guards stood. He pressed his thumb against the reader and then grabbed the brass handle to open the doors as soon as he heard the lock open.

  “I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” Kuznetsov said rather smugly. He put down his paper and pressed his pointy elbows against the wooden desk.

  Dmitry really wasn’t in the mood for games right now. “Why is that not fucking possible?” he asked, slamming the door behind him.

  “Because Mr. Popov died a week ago. I would have thought someone would have told you.”

  “Did someone kill him?” Dmitry asked, stopping in the middle of the floor.

  “No,” Kuznetsov answered. “He succumbed to his illness.” There was no way in hell the man would tell Dmitry Medlov the truth. He had been paid handsomely to keep the secret that the man’s dying words were used to place a hit on Dmitry’s life.

  “Fuck!” Dmitry screamed, hurling the phone across the room. It shattered as it hit the wall, splattering into pieces across the floor. Wiping a hand over his face, he walked over to the sofa in front of the fireplace and plopped down. All he wanted to do was get some damn rest. After that, he’d figured the rest of this out.

  Chapter Eight

  Collierville, TN

  Crown Suites

  Room 235

  D r. Owen Lewis. It had taken eight years to gain that title. Thousands of hours of study and research. It took working at night, doing odd jobs, saving and even living out of his car. It took student loans and ass kissing and praying when he was certain his own will wasn’t strong enough. As he gazed across the small hotel room at his white smock, the black letters of his name embroidered below the company logo, he assessed all that he had sacrificed to get to this point and felt strangely hollow.

  “Are you still with me, baby?” a woman asked, propped between his legs on her knees as she tried to summon a full erection. She had been down there so long that her legs were starting to numb, and her mouth ached at the sides.

  Owen trailed his gaze from the smock down to the face of the young woman he had paid to give him service before work. Her brown eyes had a hint of irritation in them.

  “I’m trying,” he apologized.

  “Well, let me keep trying too,” she said sympathetically.

  Watching her lips run down his shaft again, he let go of a frustrated sigh and gently pushed her away from him. Fuck! “What’s the use? I’m just not up for it today. Pardon the pun.”

  The red head raised from her position and grabbed a hand towel to wipe her mouth. In her profession, it had not been the first time that she’d had a client who couldn’t perform, but it was the first time that Owen had not been able to. No skin off her back. He was still being charged for the full hour. “Don’t worry, hun. There’s always tomorrow.”

  Owen dragged a hand over his clean-shaven cheek. What the hell was wrong with him? He hadn’t been able to get a hard-on since his unfortunate encounter with those Russians. He had tried everything – porn, prostitutes, even his wife. But nothing worked. In a last-ditch effort after abusing himself in the shower for thirty minutes
this morning, he had texted a pro and told her to meet him at their normal meet-up place to see if a little assistance might change his condition.

  Rochelle was one of his favorite girls, hand-picked because of her close resemblance to the girl in undergrad who had dumped him for the quarterback of their college football team. They could have been twins – his ex and Rochelle. When he felt inadequate or inferior, he always used this one to take out his frustration on. She could always get him going, no matter the mood, no matter the time. But this morning, he just couldn’t make himself and neither could she.

  Resting his head back on the king-sized chair situated in the corner of the hotel room, he looked up at the ceiling. “Your money’s in the envelope by the bed. I put a little extra in there for the short notice.” He didn’t even want to look at Rochelle right now. She might have been the paid help, but it was still embarrassing.

  Rochelle stood up, knees reddened and dimpled by the carpet, then shamelessly shimmied her heavy breasts back into her low-cut top. “You want me to go?” she asked, picking up her cell phone from the end table beside the chair to check the time. He still had 15 minutes, what he chose to do with it was up to him.

  “It’s up to you, if you’re ready to leave or not. The room’s paid for. I have to go though.” Standing up, he dressed quickly, snatching angrily at his clothes as Rochelle went to retrieve her money.

  “Call me if you want to hook up later. I have some time. We can pick this back up,” she said, walking out of the door.

  Left alone, Owen sat on the edge of the bed and slipped on his loafers. The sun shined into the room from the open windows, scantily covered by a sheer white curtain. It was nearly nine now, time for him to be walking in the door of the hospice center to make his rounds, but for the first time in his life, he was dreading stepping foot into his job.

  A text had already come last night. Today was the day he was supposed to finish off Sanaa Baptiste, a terminal patient of his who up until a week ago was showing signs of improvement. He had been working hard on her case, trying medicines and trials that had started the reversal process of her cancer. The treatment was working, and he planned to use that research to advance his own career, become a leading oncologist like he’d always hoped. But then, a fatal error on his part occurred.