by I. T. Lucas
Russian songs would have been the best, but unfortunately, although she spoke it with decent fluency, Amanda never bothered to learn to read the Cyrillic script—and mastering it in a span of a couple of hours was a feat that even she couldn’t pull off.
CHAPTER 2: ANDREW
As Andrew knocked on the clinic’s door, it crossed his mind that it was late and chances were that Dr. Bridget had already gone home.
Disappointed, he gave it one last go and knocked again, then waited. After all, he was already there, and it wasn’t as if there was somewhere else he needed to be.
Calling it a night and heading back to his empty house was no more appealing than standing in this deserted corridor and waiting for a woman that might not even be there to let him in.
Kind of pathetic.
The life of a bachelor was not everything the married guys believed it to be.
True, he was free to shag whomever he was able to seduce—and there was no shortage of those—but most nights it just meant that he ended up going home alone.
That’s why Syssi’s news about the wedding hadn’t been such a big surprise—not for him anyway—he’d been expecting it. Though maybe not so soon. He could empathize with Kian’s desire to end his lonely bachelor life the moment he’d found the right woman to spend eternity with.
Andrew couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like for the guy, spending endless years without someone to share his life with.
He was happy for them, he really was, but he couldn’t help feeling a little jealous—even though his single status wasn’t anybody’s fault but his. And the excuse of his chosen occupation precluding meaningful relationships was just that—an excuse. Somehow it hadn’t stopped his comrades from tying the knot.
Problem was, he’d never dated a woman he could imagine spending his life with, and not because none was good enough. Andrew suspected that the flaw was within him—he was either emotionally stunted or just too picky.
Another minute passed, and he was about to turn on his heel and head back when the door finally opened to reveal a surprised Dr. Bridget—the red handbag clutched under her arm betokening that she was on her way out.
Wow! Can you say sexy?
Gone was the conservative doctor, and the woman that had taken her place was hot. Bridget looked ready for action—with her wavy red hair loose around her shoulders and her curvy figure encased in a pair of skin-tight jeans and a clingy red T-shirt. But what had really done it for him were the red, fuck-me heels.
Evidently, Bridget loved to flaunt her red.
Trying hard to look into her pretty eyes and not glance down to peer at her ample cleavage, Andrew ran his hand over his mouth. Who could’ve guessed the petite physician had been hiding all of this under her doctor’s coat?
“I’m sorry, I should have realized it was late. I’ll stop by some other time, earlier in the day.”
Her eyes widened and she grabbed his hand, giving a strong tug. “Nonsense, you are coming with me.” She pulled him behind her as she went inside and flipped the lights back on. There was a sly little smile on her lovely face as she turned around and looked up. “I’m not going to waste the opportunity of you coming to see me of your own volition. I thought I’d have to drag you here by force.”
Andrew was about to snort at the ridiculous idea of her forcing him to do anything, when it occurred to him that although tiny, she might be stronger than him. He hadn’t resisted when she’d pulled, but still, it had been one hell of a tug.
Did it make her any less appealing? Hell, no, quite the opposite. “You underestimate your charms, Dr. Bridget. There is nowhere I’d rather be than here, with you.”
A lovely blush blossomed over her pale porcelain cheeks, and she glanced away. But that sly smile was still there when she returned her eyes to his face. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you? I bet you make all the ladies swoon.”
Andrew chuckled. “Hardly.” He let her lead him to an examination table and sat down.
“Take off your jacket and your shirt,” she said and reached for her stethoscope.
“What? Already? I was hoping for a nice dinner and a pleasant conversation before you get me to undress for you,” he teased as he shrugged off his jacket, folded it, and put it beside him on the table, then tackled the buttons on his shirt.
Bridget smiled, the pink blush refusing to abandon her face. “I’ll take you up on the offer of dinner and flirtatious chitchat, but first, I’m going to check you out.” She winked, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I’m all yours, Doctor.” Andrew shrugged his shirt off, making sure to suck in his gut and flex as he exposed his torso to her gaze. He was in good shape and carried no excess fat. Nevertheless, he didn’t have the body of a twenty-year-old either. Not to mention the many scars—some small, some large—scattered over his chest and abdomen as well as his back. And the sparse hair on his chest wasn’t enough to hide even the smaller ones.
Bridget let go of the stethoscope and let it hang around her neck. Getting closer, she reached with gentle fingers to touch an old bullet scar. “You lived dangerously, didn’t you?” she whispered, trailing her fingers over some of the others.
Thank God, it hadn’t been pity that he’d heard in her voice, more like admiration. Or at least he hoped it was the latter. “You could say so.”
“You know, once you turn, your body would probably heal these, even the older ones.” She let her hand drop, but her eyes trailed over his front, making a tally, and she glanced behind him to look at the scars on his back.
“Would you like me better without them?” he teased, her scrutiny making him uncomfortable.
“I like you either way, with or without, how about that?” She plugged her ears and palmed the chest piece of the stethoscope. “Okay, breathe in… breathe out…”
He did as instructed, using the opportunity to sniff her hair as she leaned over him. Nice, some mild flowery scent, sweet and feminine, like Bridget herself. There was something very attractive about a soft, small woman that at the same time was a capable physician with a no-nonsense attitude and a strong personality.
“Perfect.” She took the earpieces out and put the stethoscope away. “Okay, now shuck the pants.”
“What? Why?” If Bridget was thinking about administering a prostate exam, she had another think coming.
“Got you!” She giggled. “You should have seen your face… the sheer horror… Though, come on, it’s not like you have something I haven’t seen before.”
Devilish woman. “First of all, how do you know I don’t?” He cocked a brow.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re hung like a horse…” Bridget pushed at his chest to have him lie down. “And what’s the second thing?”
“If I’m to let you poke me where the sun doesn’t shine, it would only be after I’ve been naked in your bed first and have done some poking of my own.”
Her cheeks pinked again. “My, oh my, what a naughty boy you are…” she murmured as she palpated his abdomen.
“You have no idea…” He caught her hand and gave a tug, pulling her down on top of him. “Permission to kiss the doctor,” he breathed a fraction of an inch away from her mouth.
“Permission granted…” she said against his lips, then kissed him.
Tentative at first, it was no more than a brush of her lush lips against his, but as he closed his palm around her nape and drew her closer, she let out a moan and licked into his mouth.
His hands gentle as he caressed her back, Andrew wrestled with the urge to grab hold of Bridget and flip her under him. But she was so tiny compared to him, and he was afraid that letting out his hunger might overwhelm her.
Better let her set the pace.
Except, he wasn’t sure how long his restraint would hold under Bridget’s onslaught. She was kissing him and writhing on top of him with the abandon and urgency of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and was starved of it. Her fingers seeking purchase on his sho
rt hair, she held him as she kissed him, her hips rocking over his hard shaft, setting him on fire.
“God, Bridget, I need you naked,” he heard himself murmur against her lips as his arms tightened around her.
Fuck, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and he hadn’t meant to squash her to him either. But damn, it felt good— feeling her sweet little nipples getting so hard that they rubbed at his bare chest through her clothes. With a herculean effort, he eased his hold.
“Your wish is my command,” she purred and reared up to her knees. Straddling his hips—her seductive smirk promised anything but demure obedience. She grabbed the hem of her red T-shirt and tugged it over her head, revealing creamy breasts covered by a sheer red bra that left nothing to the imagination. A moment later, it joined the shirt on the floor.
As if possessing a mind of their own, his hands reached and palmed the perky beauties.
“You’re gorgeous…”
She leaned into his touch, her eyes hooded. “Hold nothing back, Andrew, I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
Okay…
She was under him in a flash.
“Better?” He smiled down at her before dipping his head to nuzzle her neck.
“Yes…” She arched into him, rubbing her breasts against his chest. “Oh, yes…just like that,” she groaned as he slid down and licked around one nipple, then gasped as he sucked it in. “But it would be even better without the pants.”
“Under one condition.” He blew on her swollen, wet peak.
She arched a brow.
“The fuck-me red shoes stay on.”
CHAPTER 3: AMANDA
“Salute!” Geneva raised her glass with an annoyingly steady hand.
Not quite drunk yet, Amanda might’ve been in better shape than her drinking buddies, but she was on her way to seriously tipsy. It was all good, though. Her plan was working—the atmosphere in the grand salon was becoming decidedly cheerful.
Situated on the main deck, the place was truly grand—in size as well as luxury. The sleek sofa in winter-white colored leather was a custom-built beauty that could easily seat six, and it faced a glass coffee table of enormous proportions. Two brown overstuffed leather chairs completed the sitting area.
An oblong milky glass top and a wooden pedestal shaped like a tree trunk with sinewy branches comprised the dining table. Fourteen chairs, done in the same winter-white leather as the sofa, surrounded it.
The party had started with dinner, and the crew’s mood had been steadily improving thanks to the bottle and a half of vodka she and her new friends had gone through—each.
Amanda could’ve enjoyed herself for real, if not for the stink coming off the grilled fish. The requisite butter-smothered potatoes didn’t smell good, but not as bad.
As for her own culinary preferences, she’d been served a dish of string beans along with Renata’s disgusted sneer. Apparently, green wasn’t a color the crew appreciated anywhere near their plates. Renata’s grilled tilapia, however, had been a big success with the girls.
A vegetarian hanging out with a bunch of Russians was like a nun in a bikers’ bar—a page out of a find-the-one-thing-that-doesn’t-belong game.
After dinner, they moved to the sitting area for the entertainment portion of the evening, and the girls humored her by giving a couple of the songs she’d prepared a halfhearted try. But then Sonia dropped the printed page on the glass table and began bellowing an old Russian Red Army song. Kristina and Lana joined her, and the three tried to harmonize.
They were either drunker than they looked or tone deaf. Except, it seemed that the painful cacophony didn’t bother anyone but Amanda—the girls were having fun.
The only one who remained somber was Marta, a stocky woman with thick arms and wide shoulders and a scowl that was impressive even for a Russian. Her bushy brows, which looked like they’d never been touched by a pair of tweezers, were drawn tight despite the amount of alcohol she’d poured into her belly.
“Salute!” Amanda tossed back another shot, schooling her face not to show a grimace. The fact that she could handle a lot of vodka didn’t mean she liked it—not unless it was mixed with something sweet and fruity. But to gain the Russians’ respect, she had to drink it the way they did—straight up.
Pushing up to her feet, Amanda held onto the table as she refilled her glass—more for show than any real need. Her balance was still fine, thank you very much.
“To Alex! A great boss!” Let’s see what they think of their employer.
“To Alexander!” The women all stood up for this one and tapped each other’s glasses with loud clinks.
Interesting, they seem to like him.
Amanda plopped down on her chair, exaggerating her movements only a little—after all, good acting required subtlety. “So, tell me, Geneva, how did the bunch of you end up working for my cousin?”
“You are Alexander’s cousin? He didn’t tell me.” Geneva eyed her with suspicion.
“What did he tell you then? That I’m his girlfriend?” Amanda snorted.
“No, just that you are an important guest and to be nice to you.”
“Don’t tell me you treat his other guests even worse. Because if that’s the best you can do, well…”
Lana harrumphed which earned her a scowl from Geneva.
Amanda pretended not to notice. But c’mon, were they supposed to be nasty to Alex’s guests?
Geneva waved a dismissive hand. “Alexander doesn’t have guests.”
“What, not even girlfriends?” That was weird. What was the point of having a luxury yacht if not to impress others? Especially women?
Kristina giggled, Sonia snorted, and even Geneva was trying to hide a smile.
“What? I know he isn’t gay. I’ve seen him with enough females to fill a stadium, so there is no way.”
That statement seemed to sour their good mood. “No, Alexander is definitely not gay,” Geneva bit out, then reached for her bottle, refilled her glass, and tossed it back without a ‘salute’.
Holy fates, Alex must’ve really meant it when he’d said they were his girls. He was really screwing his crew, and not out of wages.
Amanda narrowed her eyes and looked from one face to another, but none would meet her gaze. “So, which one of you is he shagging, or is it all of you?”
“Why? What do you care? You’re supposed to be his cousin, not his girlfriend.” Geneva crossed her muscular arms over her chest, leveling a pair of intense gray eyes on Amanda.
Tough cookie, and quite pretty if one looked past the scowl, the very short hair, and the lack of makeup. Like those of a lot of Russians, her lips were full and fleshy. High, defined cheekbones hinted at some Asian genes in the mix, as did the almost pure black of her hair and the lack of a defined separation between the lower and upper lid. The rest was typical Slavic though—the very pale skin and big gray eyes, as well as the large breasts and the narrow hips.
“I don’t, as far as I’m concerned, you can all be having big, multi-limb orgies. It’s just that I thought you girls were into other girls, not guys, or a particular guy as it seems to be the case here.”
Geneva snorted, then her wide shoulders began shaking and she burst out laughing. Soon, the whole table was shaking as the other women joined in, laughing and banging their hands on the table.
“You think we lesbians?” Lana managed between giggles. “Why?”
“Duh, the buzz cuts, the big muscles…”
“Ah…” Lana exchanged smug looks with her shipmates. “Is because we are wrestlers.” She banged her fist on her chest. “Strong muscles for fighting, and no long hair to grab…Dah?”
“Like in the Olympics? I didn’t know they had women wrestling?”
“Not in the Olympics…” Geneva chuckled. “In the mud.”
“Mud-wrestling? Get out of here!”
“Mud-wrestling good money in Russia,” Marta said with a heavy accent—her first words ever to Amanda.
“How did a te
am of Russian mud-wrestlers end up as crew on an American yacht?”
“Russian yacht. Alexander bought her in St. Petersburg.”
“And?”
“We were working in a club and Alexander came to watch,” Kristina said with a quick glance at Geneva.
The captain lifted her palm to reassure her no harm was done. “It’s okay. I’ll tell the story.”
“We were working nights in the club. A lot of men come to watch—Russians and foreigners. It is a very popular thing, more popular than strip clubs, better money too. The men think it’s hot—strong women, practically naked in the mud, fighting each other, not just for show, but for real. They place bets, and some pay for private services later on.”
“Just say it,” Lana interfered. “They pay for sex. It’s really good money, and working as a prostitutka is not a big deal in Russia. No shame.”
Geneva shrugged. “Alexander came to watch one evening and paid for all of us to come to his hotel suite after we were done. We laughed on our way there. Crazy American, what was he going to do with the six of us? Sonia thought that he might want to watch us with each other. Some men do, you know…” She glanced at Amanda.
“Sure.” Amanda nodded, stifling a smile. She could just imagine their surprise when Alex had shagged each and every one of them and then had gone for seconds.
“But Alexander is not an ordinary man—” Geneva shook her head.
You have no idea…
Renata harrumphed, “A sex machine…”
“Yes, so after he pleasured us, one at a time, two at a time, then again and again, he let us sleep over at his luxurious suite. It was the largest one in the hotel, top floor, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, dining room, everything. In the morning, when he had breakfast delivered to us, we were ready to worship him as God.” Geneva smirked.
“And sing ballads to his glorious manhood.” Lana saluted with another drink.
“Over breakfast, he said he would like us to come work for him on his yacht. I asked as what? Prostitutes for his guests? I thought he planned to have a floating brothel. Not a bad idea, by the way. But he said he wasn’t going to offer us to any other men, we were to operate his new yacht and serve only him. I asked how much he would pay. His offer was good, especially since he promised to take care of our legal status in the United States.” Geneva ended her tale with another shrug. “And here we are.”
