by Renee Rose
And even now while I want to refuse this, I want to tell him to get the hell out, but my raging hormones overrule all reason and just scream yes, please.
More.
He climbs over me, a tube of something in his hand. He pushes my top knee open and rubs a couple drops of whatever is in the tube over my clit. I blink at him, wanting him to go on, to massage that place until I go off, but he doesn’t. He looks down at me, studying my face. “Do you need a blindfold, kitten?”
My first instinct is to snap no. Like he issued a threat not a true question. But it occurs to me that he’s not against me when we’re in bed. This is the man who seems to know my body better than I do. He played me like a fine instrument at Black Light.
So I answer truthfully. “I-I don’t know.”
He nods. “I think you might.” He leaves the bed and returns with one of his ties, which he wraps around my head and secures in the back. I sink my head down on the pillow.
“Comfortable, kitten?”
I nod.
“Good. Because I intend to take my time with you this afternoon.”
“I-I have work to do,” I say. It’s true, I always have work to do. It’s also true that there’s nothing pressing.
“It will wait,” Ravil says.
Whatever he rubbed on my clit starts to send hot and cold sensations through all the sensitive nerve-endings. A tingling spreads through my entire genital area.
Yeah, I’m definitely not going to work right now. Or any time soon.
Ravil slaps my ass.
I jump, surprised at the sensation. Damn. He was right. The blindfold heightens everything. Helps me settle in. I sink into the scene, knowing there’s nothing I can or need to do. Ravil is in charge and—in this scenario—I trust him.
His fingers wrap around my knee, and he lightly trails his lips up my inner thigh again. I shiver at the sensation, pleasure blooming everywhere. He opens my labia and trails his tongue around my inner bits. I moan softly. It feels so good. Every time he touches me, my body comes alive.
It’s like I never even had sex before Ravil. Sure, I did the deed, but it was mechanical. Vaguely satisfying. Nothing at all like this.
This is hedonism—something I’ve never allowed myself. I don’t drink too much. I don’t overeat. I don’t take vacations, even though I know I should.
My parents instilled in me the belief I had to work hard and prove myself at all times. That’s what they did. That’s what my older brother, the NASA engineer did.
And I was told I’d have to work even harder because I’m a pretty woman. I’d have to prove myself over and over again. In college, through law school, at my father’s firm. Especially there—so no one would think I was handed the position through nepotism.
But Ravil doesn’t make me prove my worth. Not when I’m tied up, blindfolded and at his mercy.
Here, I am his to punish. His to pleasure. All I need to do is surrender. Receive. Enjoy.
“Ravil,” I find myself croaking, rolling my hips and needing more than just his tongue.
“Tell me about your orgasms, kitten.” Ravil says, removing his glorious tongue from between my legs. “Are they mostly vaginal?” He tucks a couple digits inside me and strokes my inner wall.
Another moan falls from my lips. It feels so good.
“A-as opposed to what?” I manage to pant.
“Clitoral or cervical. They say there are three kinds of orgasms.” Suddenly he’s up by my head, trailing butterfly kisses along the column of my neck. “Four if you count this region.” He arrives at my jaw and kisses me harder there, then nibbles my ear.
Shivers run through me in all directions—up and down my spine, along the insides of my legs, in the arches of my feet, down my arms.
“Ravil,” I croak again.
He strokes down my cheek—I think with the backs of his fingers. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his accent thicker than usual. “I love it when you say my name like you’re dying to be fucked.”
I lick my lips. “Please.”
It didn’t take me long to get from slapping him to begging.
“Surrender, kitten. You’ll get your pleasure when I decide.”
“I know,” I say faintly.
He chuckles and kisses the bobbing of my throat, then the notch between my clavicles, then the center of my breastbone.
He strums my right nipple lightly with the pad of a finger. There’s a patience with which he approaches my body that intensifies everything. He doesn’t just pinch or lick right away. Just lightly touches until it stiffens and lengthens under his touch.
“Soon these beautiful breasts will provide sustenance to our son. Benjamin.”
My body shivers in response. I plan on breastfeeding. At least a little. Pumping for certain, to leave milk with the nanny when I’m at work. But Ravil speaking of it now while I’m in this receptive state, in touch with my body, makes me almost crave the act. Like my body knows and believes the beauty of it. As perfect and pleasurable as sex. As natural and easy.
And for me, nothing’s ever been natural or easy.
Until Ravil showed up yesterday, I’d been out of sync with my body for the pregnancy. Between the morning sickness in the early months and then the unquenchable horniness, not to mention growing out of all my clothes and my feet swelling, I wanted to step out of my body. Divorce it.
But now I’m fully in it—more than I’ve ever been—and it feels wonderful.
Ravil lightly tickles his fingertips on my inner thigh as he swirls his tongue around my nipple, then comes off and blows it dry.
“Ravil,” I moan. “Please.”
“I know, kitten.” He sucks my nipple into his mouth, taking a long hard pull on it, like he’s a suckling baby, and I feel the answering tug in my core. “I know what you need.”
“How?” I warble. My brain, as ever, refuses to shut off.
He scrapes his teeth over my nipple. “How do I know? I pay attention, kotyonok.”
I shiver. “S-so, what kind of orgasms do I have?”
“Vaginal,” he answers immediately. “But you like stimulation everywhere.”
My body surrenders to him even more. I register it like a wash of relief, a deepening relaxation. Giving up control has never felt so incredible.
“Ravil?” Somehow it’s easier to talk to him with the blindfold on. With my body under his control.
He kisses around the swell of my belly. “Yes, kitten?”
“What will you do with me?”
I mean after the birth. At least, I think that’s what I mean. I want to know his intentions. Why he’s kissing every inch of my body while holding me captive.
I want to know if he’ll keep me.
And I honestly don’t know how I want him to answer.
“This, kitten.” He holds my knee open and rims my anus. I shriek, squeezing and tightening with the pleasure and taboo of the act.
This. I can’t bring myself to ask again. To clarify. Because I’ve realized I don’t want to know the answer.
And then I lose track of my thoughts because the pleasure he wrings is so blissfully intense I don’t even care anymore.
Ravil
I keep Lucy on the edge of an orgasm for the better part of an hour. I fuck her with a butt plug, suck her clit, use a vibrator with the G-spot curve. I spank her a little. Suck her toes. I go on until she’s practically weeping with need, and then I end my own torture by freeing my cock and pushing into her.
It feels so good not to have to use a condom. To know she’s already carrying my baby. That she’s my only partner, and I hers.
I have to close my eyes and breathe deeply to keep from coming as soon as I’m inside her. “You feel so good, kitten,” I rasp, my accent sounding as thick as when I first moved here.
“Yes, Ravil, please,” she babbles. She lost her mind long ago, reduced to a wanton puddle of beautiful need.
I pride myself on drawing this response out of her, especially knowing how tight
ly laced she keeps herself. I doubt she ever allows herself this pleasure. Which is why I’m going to make sure she receives it every damn day.
I loosen the tie that holds her wrists to the headboard, so I can put her on her knees, her arms outstretched long above her head like she’s in some kind of yoga bondage pose. I smack her ass because she looks so gorgeous.
“Ravil, Ravil….”
“Lucy. Beautiful Lucy.” I slap her again and slide in once more. The shudder of pleasure is no less in this position. “I love fucking you, kitten. I could do it all night long.”
“No,” she protests, already desperate to get off. “Ravil, please. I need…”
“You need my cock?” I slam in firmly, pressing my loins against the soft curves of her ass.
“Yes!” She sounds impatient.
I grip her hips and take several short thrusts, bumping her ass each time.
She whines. The silky strands of her long blonde hair fan out across her bare back and onto the bed. She looks like a fallen angel.
Debauched by me.
“You need it hard, Lucy?”
She pants. “Um…”
I give her a demonstration, slamming in hard half a dozen times. The moment I stop, she cries, “Yes! Don’t stop! Oh God, please, Ravil.”
I want to torture her more. To make it last longer for my own pleasure. But the combination of her surrender and pleading along with the sensation of being inside her and claiming her fully pushes me to the edge.
“Blyat,” I curse in Russian, my movements becoming rough and wild. I fuck her harder, losing focus on her pleasure, careening into my own. “Lucy.”
“Yes! Oh God…”
I grow dizzy. The room tilts and spins. My balls tighten, thighs quake. I drill into her like I have something to prove. Like this is the moment she will learn to accept me as the rightful father of her child, make room in her life for us to be a family.
Even if that’s not really what I want.
Or is it?
Fuck.
Fuck.
Yes!
I slam hard into Lucy and stay deep, tumbling over the edge into orgasm.
She comes around my cock, her inner walls squeezing my dick, massaging out every last drop of my seed.
I don’t know how long I stand there on my knees, buried deep in Lucy with the room spinning. After a moment, I become aware of her whimpers. I catch her around her waist and tug us both to our sides, staying inside her. I reach around and rub her clit, and she comes some more, wringing another mini orgasm out of me.
I groan, my arm tightening around her. I rock my hips, pumping slowly in and out as I float in the ecstasy produced by the release. The sense of well-being. Of gratitude. Some might mistake this moment for love.
I’m not so foolish.
I rub her clit again, and she squeezes around my cock again.
Still, this must be the closest I’ve ever come to feeling love. The connection and affection I feel with her is real.
I nuzzle her neck and kiss a patch of skin I find under her soft hair.
What will you do with me? She wanted to know.
Keep you.
I wouldn’t. I won’t. She doesn’t deserve it. But if I were selfish. If I were truly the bastard she believes me to be… I’d keep her forever.
Tied up on my bed.
Filled with my cock.
Moaning my name in that hoarse, desperate way of hers.
Lucy. My brilliant, well-defended attorney-lover. The woman who doesn’t trust me to father her child.
The woman I want to turn inside out. Master.
Love.
Yes, love.
I do want to love in this lifetime. Too bad I’m even more defended than she is.
Chapter 9
Lucy
After a snack and a brief nap, I wake to find Ravil standing at the window. He turns when I sit up.
“How do you feel, beautiful?”
I stretch, feeling the relaxation in my limbs. A slight soreness between my legs. The lingering sensation from having something plugged in my ass.
Amazing. I feel incredible.
Not that I’m going to tell him that.
I climb out of bed.
“Are you going to let me out of this room now?”
I shouldn’t sound so testy. Not after he just devoted himself to giving me the most incredible orgasm of my life.
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m going to take you to the rooftop pool.”
Pool is a magic word to any pregnant woman, I guarantee it. I perk right up. “Do I have a swim suit?”
“I packed one for you. But you could swim nude if you like, too. The pool is private.”
Skinny dipping isn’t my thing although after our afternoon session, I am feeling far more comfortable in my skin than normal. I find my bikini and put it on. The bottoms still fit, but my breasts spill out of the top.
Ravil’s gaze falls on them, hungry. He grabs and holds out a terry cloth robe that’s too large—probably his—and I slip into it. Then he changes into a pair of turquoise and navy swim trunks.
Like always, I stare at his chiseled, tattooed chest. The light dusting of golden hair across his chest. He tosses my flip flops out of the closet and comes out in a pair of his own, two beach towels tucked under one arm.
It’s a different look for him, and if it weren’t for the prison tattoos, he’d look like a California lifeguard. Blond, built and manly. Not wholesome. But it’s almost like I can see how, under different circumstances, he could’ve turned out wholesome. At his core, he’s not an evil man.
He can’t be—not with the care he takes with me.
Can he?
I ignore his hand when he holds it out but let him lead me out of the penthouse and up a short flight of stairs to the roof.
There, I nearly gasp at the scenery. There are large potted trees. Flower boxes. Colorful umbrellas. Fake grass gives it more color. We round past the roof fixtures, the concrete walls cleverly concealed with bamboo fencing, and emerge at the pool.
Where a pair of teenagers are fooling around.
“Oh my God,” the girl squeaks. Her bikini top is off, floating in the water, and she dives under to hide her bare breasts from us.
Her boyfriend turns around to face us. “Mr. Baranov!” He places his body in front of hers as he grabs the bikini top and surreptitiously holds it behind his back.
“I thought you said it was a private pool,” I murmur.
“I’m really sorry. I know these aren’t the open swim hours,” the boy stammers. His face is red although not as red as the neck of his girlfriend, who has her back to us, ducked down as she puts her top back on.
Ravil says something to him in Russian.
“No, sir,” he answers in English. The teen shakes his head emphatically. Seeing his girlfriend is dressed, he grabs her hand and tugs her toward the steps. “No, I swear we didn’t. I’m sorry we were here when we weren’t supposed to be. It’s just… no one’s usually here during private hours.”
Ravil looks at him coolly. “Come by my apartment tonight around eight, Leo,” he says.
Leo’s eyes widen. Out of the pool, he stands taller than I initially thought, but he’s still lanky. Probably no more than fifteen or sixteen. He holds his free hand up. “I’m really sorry. Being here when I wasn’t supposed to was really disrespectful. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Ravil nods, setting our towels down on a chaise lounge. “Apology accepted. I still need to see you tonight. Eight o’clock. Understand?”
Leo grabs a towel and opens it for his girlfriend in a decidedly gentlemanly move. “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t bother drying off himself, just shoves his feet in his flip flops, grabs his towel and girlfriend’s hand and starts toward the doors.
He turns back. “Mr. Baranov?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to tell my mom about this?” His voice cracks a little on the word mom.
“No,�
�� Ravil says. “We’ll leave her out of it. Unless you no-show on me tonight.”
“I won’t,” the young man swears.
“See that you don’t.” Ravil’s already given him his back, kicking off his flip flops and heading for the pool steps.
I watch the couple leave before I join him. The pool is beautiful. The kind that’s made to look like a natural water feature, with a gentle hourglass shape and a spa that cascades down soft rocks into the pool.
“It’s salt water,” Ravil says. “Perfect for your waterbirth.”
My waterbirth.
This man must be insane.
I am not giving birth on a roof in a pool.
I slip off the robe and step in. The water is perfect— refreshing on a warm summer afternoon.
“What did you say to Leo when you spoke in Russian?”
Ravil’s lips twitch. “I asked him if he had sex in my pool.”
I laugh despite myself.
Ravil’s eyes trace my face as if he finds my laugh fascinating.
I quickly tuck my smile away. “What’s going to happen at eight?”
Again, Ravil’s lips curve at the edges. We stand in the shallow end, the water rising to our ribs. “I’m going to have the sex talk with him. Give him condoms and make sure he knows how to treat a girl.”
My lips part. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that.
“You are?” I say, inanely.
Ravil nods. “He lives with his single mother. I have a responsibility to step in for these man-to-man talks. Especially when I catch him stripping his girlfriend in my pool.”
I can’t help it. I laugh again. It’s so damn sweet. Here I was thinking Ravil was going to make some wicked threat to the kid. Instead, he’s… well, fathering the boy.
“Is he a relative?” I ask.
“No,” Ravil says. “But the Kremlin is my village. And I’m their leader. I have a duty to look after all of them... if I can.”
Something uncomfortable twists under my ribs. An unease.
Maybe I misjudged Ravil.
Maybe horribly.
But no. He’s a criminal. His tattoos prove it.
You claim to have complete knowledge of my profession—exactly what I do and how I manage my business? You researched this thoroughly?
