by Maren Smith
She hollers and tries to get loose, but I have her now, perfectly bundled up beneath me, and I’m going nowhere. Everything about her screams of loneliness, and of the need for a firm hand. Everything about her invites me in. She is chaos. I am order. She is fiery embers. I am permafrost.
“Please! What do you want?”
“Who am I?”
“I don’t know!” she yells.
“What do you need?”
She squirms, but only manages to trap herself tighter between my thighs. My cock is unapologetically hard, twitching, weeping to be freed of its restraints. It would be so easy to put my hand between her legs, coax her ready for me, make her shake with reluctant need before I pull down her pristine white cotton panties and bury myself to the hilt in her pussy.
Her face is flushed, she’s still fighting. “I need you to get off me.”
“No. That’s not what you need. You need some order back into your life.”
“What are you talking about? Get off me! You’re heavy!”
“Look at this place, Miss Ellerbrock. Look at the state you’re in. Look at the mess in the kitchen.” I lean in and catch her gaze, then I turn my head to look at the floor under a chair that stands before us. “And look at the size of… what do you call it? Dust bunnies? And you haven’t taken care of your business for three days.”
“You’re not my daddy!”
I tut. The sound makes her flinch slightly. “But you are in desperate need of one.” I slide a hand past her hip, down along the delicious curvature of her bottom, where warm skin meets my fingers. The girl trembles, holds her breath, and waits. She knows what’s coming. I feel it in my bones. She waits, wants, needs, just as much as I do. I raise my arm and then bear down on her ass. She squeals.
“Aren’t you?”
“No!”
I slap her again, just hard enough to sting and leave a quickly fading blush. “Tell me you need a Daddy.”
“Never.”
She jerks and screeches, trying to get me off her. I smack her again.
“Tell me you want me to take care of you.”
“No!”
My palm connects with the naked skin on her ass, a tad harder than before.
“You have no control over your business. You’re on the edge of ruin. You live in a pigsty. Your father’s house is owned by another man. Tell me again you don’t need me.”
“I—I don’t need you, you—pervert!”
I remind her with a firm smack of the consequences of being mouthy with me. She gasps and then grits her teeth.
“I am going to take care of you, Carrie Ellerbrock. I’m going to free you. But there will be a price.”
A teardrop glitters in her lower eyelashes. I abandon her blushing behind and catch the tear on the last knuckle of my index finger.
“Who am I?”
“Get out of here!” she screams, her face turning even redder than before.
I spank her again. Harder this time. Her annoying persistence is getting to me. My nose pounds with pain, my mouth tastes of iron, and I’ve hated every minute of my life for the past few days. I’ve hated it since the moment I set foot on American soil. I hate that I have taken on a child’s job and have had to threaten this young lady. I hate that she disappeared and made my days even darker. I feared she had gone and done something stupid.
I sit down even heavier on her, squeezing her between my thighs while I tighten my hold on her wrists. Caressing her cheek, I grab her hair and force her to meet my gaze.
“I am going nowhere, and you are going to calm down. Get up.” I stand and pull her with me in one move, then I march her before me back to the kitchen, where I maneuver her to sit on a chair while I go to pour her a cup of coffee and refill my own kitty-cat cup.
I push the cup into her shaking hands. It irks me to see her so afraid of me. I’ll make it up to her. Somehow. Maybe I should have knocked? It just doesn’t have the same impact on people to follow the rules of courtesy. I make my own rules.
“Drink.”
She looks between me, the cup and to something behind me. I grab my own cup and take a sip, mixing the sweet taste of blood with the weak flavor of American coffee. I grimace. One of the many things I need to teach this young lady: to make real coffee – the kind that makes a man’s palate bounce from the shock and that can wake the dead.
“Can I have the creamer?”
I narrow my eyes. Whatever that is, I’m sure it’s not something that belongs in coffee. She holds my gaze a few seconds longer, then she sighs and puts the cup to her mouth, drinking, an adorable frown forming between her eyebrows.
I grab a chair and flip it around, straddling it. Leaning my arms on the backrest, I tentatively touch my swollen nose. Govno! I hope it isn’t broken.
The girl clutches the cup in her hands, her eyes following my every move. “Who are you?”
“My name is Misha Dimitri Mikhailov, son of Mikhail Sokolov. I’m one of five brothers. Together, we run an empire.”
“In Russia?”
“Correct.”
“Huh, so I was right.” She worries her plump bottom lip with her teeth, making me want to reach out and caress away her concern. But I don’t. I recognize that she needs to work through this. “Then what are you doing here? Why do you run around threatening small business owners in LA?”
I sigh. Why indeed? “My brother Piotr is hopelessly stupid. We made a deal to get him out of the mess he made.”
“You’re not happy about it.”
“I was unhappy. Now I’m very happy.”
“With the USA?”
“No, I’m very unhappy with the US. But I’m happy with my little printsessa.”
“Me?” Her face turns several shades darker. “I’m not… yours, Misha.”
I tut and shake my head. “See, this is where you are mistaken, dorogaya. I’m here to take care of you. I’m not asking.” I give the backrest a light slap and stand. “Go get yourself dressed. I will prepare breakfast.”
“I don’t need—”
I stand and stare her down, putting the full force of my willpower behind my glare.
She snaps her mouth shut, then throws up her hands. “Fuck! Whatever.”
“Language,” I say.
She looks as if she’s about to object, but then thinks better of it.
I smile. “That’s my good girl.”
Chapter Three
Carrie
I lurch to my feet, unsure if he’ll pounce on me again. I don’t want him to make me breakfast. I’d rather he keeps threatening me. I don’t want to allow someone to care for me. If I do, I’m afraid it will open the lid I’ve closed so carefully over my vulnerable core, over the little girl who is so hopelessly lost.
His gaze burns holes in my back as I, with lead-filled legs, drag myself up the stairs to put on more clothes. I clutch the hem of the T-shirt and try to make it cover my ass, embarrassed to hell by how my skin tingles with the memory of his hand.
I should make a run for it. I could jump out a window from the second floor, run to my neighbor and call the cops. So why do I already know I won’t? He’s pushing all the right buttons. I wonder if he knows it. I have my regular customers to chat with, and a few friends scattered across the continent from my high school years. I don’t have any other relatives. I’m painfully lonely, but as long as I bury myself in work, read, eat, and sleep, I don’t have the time to think about the years that rush by, about the life I’m losing. I’m twenty-eight years old with no children, and no man. I’ve begun to accept that I’ll end up an old cat lady who will one day be found half eaten, dead for weeks because no one missed me. Of course, I don’t have any cats. Yet. It’s a work in progress.
The knowledge that he, Misha, is moving around in my house makes me antsy. I’m not thinking straight, and I can’t focus on what to wear, knowing he’s downstairs. Desperate to rectify the semi-naked situation, I quickly pull on a pair of light pink sweatpants that I find tossed on the floor
next to my bed. Ripping off the T-shirt with the embarrassing message, I wrestle on a bra and a fresh T-shirt out of the pile of unfolded clothes I haven’t moved into the closet yet.
He’s right. My life is a mess. How the hell does he know that? I dash down the stairs, two steps at a time, and skid to a halt before him. He has removed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. A towel doubles as an apron, tucked inside the waist of his pants. The muscles in his thick forearms coil as he stirs a yellow, quickly coagulating serving of scrambled eggs in my frying pan. He glances at me as I warily approach him, stops his stirring motion, and turns to me, shaking his head as he purses his lips.
“This is what you wear for work?”
I pull at the hem of the T-shirt. “What?”
He raises his eyebrows.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Mm-no.” My cheeks heat up.
“So why are you dressed like that? Go put on something nice. Take your time. Give me a few minutes, and I will have prepared breakfast for you. And coffee, dorogaya, will be served black from now on.”
I put my hands on my hips. “For you, maybe. My taste buds are still alive and well and will be cared for with cream and sugar, thank you very much.”
He curls his lip in distaste and sighs. “I will teach you, little printsessa.”
There’s something so incredibly sexy about this man making me breakfast. I drink him in, look at those large hands, and then drop my gaze to his flawlessly polished shoes. What do they say about men with large hands and feet?
I choke down a groan and flee back upstairs to put on what I usually wear. Polka dots – a wide skirt and a tight blouse. Today I go for baby blue. I only slob around at home when no one sees me. Except today he has. The scary, oddly intriguing stranger who forced himself into my house, into my life.
The scents of fresh coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs make my mouth water as I run back down again.
“Good, here you are. Now eat. Little girls need a good breakfast to start a busy day right.” He sits with nothing but a cup of coffee in front of him. The other side of the table has a plate with toast and a slice of cheese, a second plate with the eggs, a cup of coffee, and an apple next to it.
My stomach makes a loud noise as I sit in front of him, and I push a hand to my midsection, avoiding his gaze as I begin to stuff my face. I don’t know how I can have an appetite in his overbearing presence, but I’m starved, and it tastes so good. I haven’t had anyone cook for me since… I can’t remember when. I always looked after Dad. I took care of Ethan.
I eat and fight the tears that want to escape.
“What do you want?” I finally ask, still chewing.
“I want you to eat your breakfast.”
“And then? I need to go get Cookie and then get to the shop. I need to bake.”
He shrugs. “Then that’s what I want you to do.”
“You’re confusing me.”
He shrugs again. “Change of plans.”
“I thought you wanted protection money?” I push in the last bite of toast and swallow it down with a too-large sip of the strong, bitter coffee he’s made.
“I already told you I don’t care about money. But I will protect you.”
“From whom?” I narrow my eyes. “At what cost?”
“Clever girl. There is a cost, but I think you are more than willing to pay the price.”
I stand so abruptly the chair topples. “Get out of here! I’m not doing anything with you.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Sit.”
“I have to go. I’m in a hurry.”
He stands. “Then I’ll drive you.”
“No! I… need to walk Cookie.”
“What is Cookie?”
“My neighbor’s dog.”
He processes this. “Very well, then I’ll walk with you.”
I groan. Man, he’s persistent. “Let me brush my teeth. I’ll be back in a sec,” I mutter, and make a beeline to the little bathroom behind the kitchen.
Sara, my neighbor, keeps throwing funny glances at Misha, who stands like a statue on the sidewalk, observing us with his intense gaze.
“Who is that?”
Who indeed? I accept the leash and give Cookie a good rub behind her ear. “Hey, girl! He’s… a friend.”
Sara raises her eyebrows and appreciation glints in her eyes. “Really? That’s about time. That you got yourself some… friends, I mean.”
His presence burns holes in my back during the whole exchange. I slap her lightly on her shoulder. “Shh! That’s not how it is.”
She studies him, and then looks at me again, her lips pursed. “Then that’s how it should be.”
“I’ll be back with Cookie tonight,” I mutter. “See you.”
I walk down the steps with an overjoyed Cookie bouncing next to me. I’m hoping she’ll growl at the stranger, but instead they become immediate friends. Misha rubs Cookie’s sweet spot, and Cookie all but rolls over for him. I groan inwardly. What is that? Some animal connection? No one is on my side, it seems.
“Let’s walk, then,” I mutter. I want to stomp my foot. I’m annoyed, and I’m enticed, and I want this weird man to explain himself. “You have thirty minutes. When we get there, I really need to get to work.”
We walk side by side in the early morning. Cookie is all over the place, dragging me nearly off my feet, the way she always does. After a few minutes, Misha takes the leash out of my hands, reels it in and has Cookie trot obediently next to him as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“It’s very simple. I will take care of you for the rest of my stay here.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” I snap.
But I’m lying. I don’t know this man. All I know is that he’s probably dangerous. Still, he evokes a longing in me, and every time he says the magic words ‘take care of,’ my stomach flips with the need to fall to my knees and beg him to do it.
“We both know that is a lie, Miss Ellerbrock. Do yourself a favor and don’t ever try to lie to me again. Lies carry consequences.” His deep voice with that harsh accent, delivering the admonishing words, makes my insides hot and squirmy.
“How… How long is your stay here?”
“Six months. Six months that I thought were going to be hell on earth, but I just found a way to make them much more… pleasurable.”
Ohhh, that heat inside me – it just exploded into a volcanic eruption of epic proportions.
“Me?” Why does my voice come out as a puny squeak?
“Yes, Miss Ellerbrock,” he says, with the slightly impatient tone of a teacher whose favorite student has yet again failed an assignment. “You.”
“But… what do you want from me?”
“You will do what I tell you, when I tell you. You will call me Daddy. I will reward you when you’re being a good girl, and I will punish you when you disobey me.”
“Daddy?” I sputter.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Aaahhh! “I didn’t mean—”
He tuts and holds up a hand. “You’re on the plus side right now. Make sure to stay there. You might not like my punishments.”
My butt vividly remembers his large palm connecting with it. Over and over. The memory makes my pussy burn. I don’t know if the spankings count as reward or as punishment, and I’m loath to ask, so I press my lips together and keep walking.
“So… six months? Then you’ll leave?”
“I’ll leave the city, the country, the whole western hemisphere. You will never see me again.”
Why doesn’t that feel as good as it should? Damn.
“And you want to ‘take care’ of me until then? That sounds pretty fucking ominous.”
“No cursing, Miss Ellerbrock. I dislike those words from your pretty lips.”
“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.”
He stops so abruptly, grabbing my arm and pushing me up against the brick wall of the house we’re passing, that my mind spins from dis
orientation. “No. You will not. You will say and do what I tell you from now on,” he growls.
“I’m not selling my body to you!” I snap.
“Good,” he says, “I wasn’t looking for a whore.”
“I’m not a fucking whore!”
“You have a foul mouth, dorogaya. We will work on that.”
I try to dodge him and get out from between his heavy body and the brick wall, but it’s as if I’m trapped between two rocks. Cookie paces nervously, looking between the two crazy humans, clearly in conflict with herself and needing to defend someone, but she can’t figure out who. Cookie, me! Chew on his leg! But she settles for a whiny noise and then a bark aimed at us both. I read it loud and clear: Behave, you silly humans. I want to munch on my favorite bone. I want my bowl of water and to try to get inside your bakery. Stop fighting.
I force myself to relax. The heat is rising steadily as the sun climbs the sky. The Russian gangster has little beads of sweat curling the hair at his temples. His cheeks are flushed, but the corners of his mouth are turned up in amusement. He looks annoyingly composed while I fight the scream that wants out.
“Are you gonna be in my hair all day?”
He raises his gaze to my hair, then looks back at me, his eyes twinkling. “No, printsessa. I will put your tiara in place, then I’ll be on my way. I have plenty of things to do with my days.”
“Threatening other shop owners?” I spit.
He cocks his head and gives a half-shrug. “Among other things.”
“I should call the cops.”
“Then why haven’t you? What has stopped you?”
“You… slamming me against a wall.”
“And after that?”
I clench my jaw and look away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. What indeed?
He smiles and squares his shoulders while tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “I know why you haven’t called the cops on Daddy.”
Daddy. That word again. He can’t know of the rush that shoots through me when he says it, about the depths of my need for someone to see me, to want me, to care for me for once.
I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah? And why is that?”
