You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1)

by Le Carre, Georgia

  A light sheen of sweat starts on my body. I wipe my brow with the back of my forearm. I flex my fingers and move forward.

  I pick up the oil that has been warming in the hot water. Jesus, suddenly the smell of oil feels too musky and erotic. I gaze at his sinewy neck and feel the hair at the back of my own rise. He is like an animal, a big cat. Sleek and dangerous. I put the musky oil back down and pick up a random bottle.

  I pour the warm, lemon scented golden oil on the plateau at the base of his spine. I watch it pool. Then I take a deep breath and open the massage with a long, slow stroke. He doesn’t react. I shift my hands down to the two mounds of the gluteal muscles. They are firm, strong and tight … and bulging insolently.

  Make it hard. He likes it hard.

  I dig down and get to work, careful not to make the mistakes that amateurs make – work too fast. My breathing rate increases, but the man does nothing. Just lies there silently. I move to the front of him, grab his shoulders and push down his back with my thumbs and finger pads.

  Smooth and sensuous.

  My hands roll back. It is almost hypnotic to feel my palms sliding down the tatted skin, and feel the strong muscles underneath move. By now sweat is running down my back. I am so caught up in the job I do not see his hands move, but they are, without warning, cupping my buttocks. I freeze, more in shock than anything else.

  The inert body moved!

  I jump back in horror. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  He lifts his head and looks at me with those wicked eyes. The light shines directly on his face. Vaguely, I register a white scar that starts at the edge of one eye and runs down the side of his face.

  ‘I figured since you are not a real masseuse you were a hooker.’

  ‘What gave you that crazy impression?’ I demand, outraged. How dare he?

  His eyes slide down to my breasts. I look down. The scarf is dislodged and my breasts are practically spilling out of my uniform. My ears burn as I pull the scarf upwards and clutch it against my chest.

  ‘Well, I’m not a prostitute,’ I deny hotly.

  His reaction is swift and smooth. He rolls to his side and lands lightly on his feet like a cat, with grace and lightness unexpected for someone his size. Do Mafia kingpins receive some kind of stealth training? He straightens. His cock is massive and fully erect. Naked and utterly unashamed of his body, he takes a step towards me. Shocked and a little frightened I take a step back, but the wall pulls me up short. He stops a foot away from me, and leaning forward, his palms land on either side of me.

  I gaze at him with wide eyes.

  ‘Then why did you massage me like that?’ he asks hoarsely.

  The breath escapes me in a rush. ‘Like what?’ I whisper.

  ‘Like you want to taste my cock.’

  ‘I didn’t. I don’t,’ I stutter.

  ‘Then why are you fucking wet?’ he asks softly. His eyes drop to my mouth.

  ‘I’m not,’ I say clearly.

  His hands leave the wall and grab my hips. ‘Do you want me to make a liar out of you?’ he asks.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I spit.

  He pulls me towards his naked body until his rock hard cock twitches against my belly.

  A strange languor overtakes me, and I am suddenly struck by the desire to submit. To let him have his way. To let him fuck me hard. Because I know it will be a hard fuck. Yes, I’d be just a nameless fuck, and yes, there will be the walk of shame afterwards, but I can live with all of that. The thing that stops me is the thought of facing Stella.

  ‘How dare you?’ I gasp.

  He laughs, a humorless, cold laugh. ‘Is that a challenge or a fucking invitation?’

  ‘It’s a fucking warning,’ I say furiously.

  Ignoring my fury, he runs his fingers along my inner thigh.

  I draw in a sharp breath. ‘Let go of me or I’ll scream.’

  His eyes light up. They are like the underside of certain fish, silvery blue. He lets go of my hips. One of his hands comes up to my face. He drags his thumb along my lower lip while I stare up at him, mesmerized by the naked lust in his eyes. The fingers of his other hand arrive at the apex of my thighs.

  ‘Don’t,’ I whisper.

  He brushes his fingers along the crotch of my panties. There is no expression at all in his face when he finds them soaking wet. Without a word he pushes the material aside and inserts a long finger into me.

  Holy fuck. My body starts trembling.

  ‘Don’t. I don’t want you to,’ I order, but even I can hear how weak my voice sounds. My brain is already thinking of his thick girth pounding mercilessly into me.

  He withdraws the finger and jams it back in. ‘Don’t?’ he taunts.

  Blood rushes to my head and pounds so hard I can’t even think.

  ‘I … we … oh … ah … shouldn’t.’

  He doesn’t even bother to answer me. Just keeps up the steady finger fucking. I am so excited I feel as if I’m already at the point of no return. To my utter shame and humiliation, my body shudders and I climax really hard all over his finger.

  He smiles, a condescending, triumphant smile.

  Suddenly I feel sick at what I’ve just allowed him to do to me. Jesus, I’ve behaved like a cheap slut. I swallow hard. I can’t even look him in the eye. How could this have happened to me? He made me come with one finger! And that digit is still inside me and my muscles are contracting helplessly around it.

  ‘Take your finger out of me now,’ I say in a cold, hard voice.

  ‘Why? Are you ready for me to replace it with my cock?’ he mocks insolently.

  I am so inflamed that it seems natural that he should bear the brunt of my fury. My right hand flies up towards his cheek. It never connects. Instead, a band of steel curls around my forearm.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again. I don’t like it,’ he says very softly.

  I try to wrench my hand out of his grasp, but it’s like someone has poured concrete around it. His impassive eyes watch my puny struggles almost curiously. Like a child watching an insect it has caught before it pulls its wings off.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Let me go,’ I cry.

  He curls his finger and starts stroking my inside walls, and I feel my body begin to respond to his manipulation. Oh no. I can’t allow him to take total control of my body again. I stare into his eyes.

  ‘Please,’ I beg. My voice sounds strange and strangled.

  One corner of his mouth lifts. It makes him look at once beautiful and cruel. He pulls his finger out of me and releases my hand. ‘Fly away little bird,’ he says dismissively.

  I feel so ashamed tears start to burn my eyes. No man has ever reduced me to a feeling of such utter lack of worth. To him I am nothing but a sexual object. A thing. He thought I was offering myself, and he just helped himself even after I objected. Now he is just getting rid of me. My knees feel like jelly.

  I press my lips together and take a sideways step. Some part of my brain tries to make sense of what has just happened. It’s OK, you’ll never see him again. No one will ever know what happened here today. It’s just one of those inexplicable moments you have never experienced before. A powerful man totally floors an inexperienced idiot!

  I straighten my spine. You know what, I can do the walk of shame. So what? I take one step in the direction of the door and another step and then another step. I put my hand on the handle and his voice, like warm honey, pours into my ears.

  ‘Hey, if you ever need help or anything, anything at all, call me.’

  I shouldn’t have responded. It would have been better, more dignified, to walk out the door without even an acknowledgement that he has spoken. Instead, I whirl around.

  ‘If you think I need more of what you just dished out you are very much mistaken. You can take your arrogant offer and stuff it up your ass.’

  ‘The world is a dangerous place, rybka. You don’t know when you need a helping hand. It is better to have a friend than an enemy.
’

  I look at him scornfully. A man like him could never be a friend of mine. He’s the exact opposite of me. This man has ice water flowing in his veins. I nearly fainted once at a pearl farm when I found exactly how pearls are harvested. They cut through the flesh of the poor oyster and dig around in its flesh until they locate the pearl. Ugh! He is as unfeeling as those workmen.

  ‘I wouldn’t come to you if you were the last fucking man on earth.’

  He shrugs. ‘One day you will come to me again and you will be eager for what I dish out.’

  ‘You’ll die believing that.’

  ‘I made you come harder than you’ve ever come using just one finger. You’ll be back for more,’ he says confidently.

  I feel heat start climbing up my neck. ‘You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  I shake my head with disgust. There is no way to win an argument with someone who cannot be made to feel ashamed of their rude and arrogant ways. I open the door and walk out.

  Three

  Zane

  I watch her leave the room and hear the muffled sound of her footsteps go down the best of Italy’s pink marble. I hit the button on the intercom. Noah replies almost instantly.

  ‘Get Corrine to come up,’ I tell him, and remove my finger from the button.

  I open a drawer and take out a condom. I tear it open and fit it onto my dick. The door opens and Corrine slinks in with a seductive smile. She is blonde with long legs and a great pair of tits. She is wearing a semi transparent white blouse, no bra, an extremely short black skirt, and as I have stipulated, no panties.

  I don’t like wasting time.

  I grab her by the wrist and throw her against the wall. She gasps as I rip her top open. Her pink-tipped breasts strain forward. I look at them without any feeling. I am dead inside.

  ‘Suck my nipples, Zane, please,’ she begs.

  I’m not in the mood for that. If my mouth gets anywhere near those breasts, I’ll bite hard enough to leave marks. I feel that vicious.

  I hold my hand out and she immediately hooks her leg over it, giving me an uninterrupted view of her shaved, beautifully swollen and creaming sex. I never got to see the other one’s pussy. It is her pussy I want to see open and dripping for me. I won’t rest until I have her in this position of utter submission. Until the day I train her to hook her leg onto my hand and beg me to suck her nipples and slam hard into her, I won’t be satisfied.

  I ram my cock directly into Corrine’s little hole and she makes a grunting sound. Today the sound irritates me. I place my palm over her mouth and twist her face to the side so that I don’t have to look into her eyes, and carry on thrusting hard.

  The room fills with the wet sound of my flesh slapping hers. I come in record time, so quickly, in fact, that Corrine moans and desperately rubs her unsatisfied sex against me in a submissive, almost animal like begging gesture. I stay still with my palm covering her mouth and her leg hooked over my hand, until she finds her own release.

  Immediately I pull out of her clinging body and turn away, but not before I glimpse into her half-hooded eyes. At the desire and need still shining in them.

  ‘Zane, I—’ she whispers.

  ‘Get out,’ I say coldly.

  I hear the sound of her clothes rustling, a small sulky sniff. It’s nearly time to get rid of her. She leaves and I feel like punching the wall.

  ‘Damn you,’ I grate. ‘Damn you to hell.’

  Three months later…

  Four

  Dahlia Fury

  www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxRQNO8vg2Y

  ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ Mark says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur sweetly.

  Mark Sterling is gorgeous, and in the candlelight he seems even brooding and mysterious like a romantic figure from one of Byron’s poems. So why, dammit, is there not even a tiny sliver of the seething desire and excitement I felt when I stood in front of the Russian? Maybe because the Russian was hotter than the devil’s dick.

  Shit! I’m at it again. I pull the handbrake on my runaway thoughts.

  Zane, I remind myself firmly, is a cold-blooded criminal, a total jerk, and almost certainly, a dyed in the wool misogynist. He treated me shamefully. To be precise: like a piece of meat. Any smart person would have just chalked the experience up as the shittiest day of their lives and promptly put it behind them, but what do I do?

  During the first week—and if I am honest for the two weeks that followed—I jumped like a demented frog every time the phone rang, and paced the living room carpet like a caged animal from the moment Stella left to go to her appointments with him until she came back. As soon as I heard her key in the door I would hop onto the couch and pretend I was watching TV. Then I would pathetically try to engage her in conversations designed to make her mention him. The end result of all my efforts was: no phone calls, no text messages, and apparently no change in his attitude towards Stella either.

  There was no other conclusion to be had. He was an asshole and I was a moron. To my everlasting disgust I even used to dream of him. Some of my dreams should be classified as nightmares.

  The worst one was when I dreamt I was lying in my bed and he entered my bedroom. He stood over my bed and calmly started peeling off that big-assed cobra tattoo, the one that started at his shoulder and curled itself all the way down his arm right down to his wrist. The skin-cobra suddenly became a real cobra in his hand, and the asshole threw it at me.

  In order to be faster than the snake, I kicked at the wall like a Ninja boss and launched myself out of bed. The plan was essentially to land precisely and lightly the way a cat would on the floor, but I woke up on my back, shooting pains in my shoulders and hips. While I was still groaning in pain and trying to get off the floor, Stella opened the door and switched on the light.

  ‘Fucking hell, what was that bloody noise?’ she asked, blinking in the bright light.

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Well, you must be a darn sight heavier than you look, then,’ she grumbled before switching off the light and stumbling back to her room.

  Inexplicably, months later, I still can’t seem to stop myself from drooling over the Mafia don. He is like an ache … an itch that hasn’t been taken care of. I just don’t know what to do about it.

  ‘More wine?’ Mark asks.

  I am about to shake my head when the obvious occurs to me. Why the hell not? What am I waiting for? For my unhealthy obsession with the Russian to magically disappear? Why not be proactive? Why not get totally wasted and sleep with Mark tonight? It’s only a freaking itch. Let him scratch it. It’s high time I move on, and Mark is actually the kind of guy any mother would kill, oh well, maybe not kill, but she’d maybe walk a few miles barefoot on hot coals, to have as her son-in-law. He is kind, well educated, good-looking (he might even be prettier than me), polite, strong, stable, to all intents and purposes, fairly loaded; and he treats me like a Princess.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and watch him top up my glass. He does it, as he does everything, deftly with inborn elegance.

  I pick up my glass, hold it out to him, and with a slow, sexy smile, say, ‘To tonight.’

  My meaning is not lost on him. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. One month I have kept him hanging on. Poor man can hardly believe that tonight he’s getting lucky.

  He puts his hand out and grasps mine. I feel his eyes on my body, admiring, caressing. I look down at our entwined fingers, then back up to his face. We share a look, and I am suddenly struck by the rightness of my decision. Mark’s a good man. I should consider myself very fortunate. I smile again and he smiles back super slowly. His eyes are shining. Oh fuck! He’s in love with me. My smile falters.

  His grip on my hand tightens. His expression changes, and steely determination glimmers in his eyes. Apparently there’s a lot more to solicitous Mark than meets the eye.

  ‘I’m a patient man, Dahlia. I know what I want and I’m prepared to w
ait forever if I need to, so you just take it at your own pace, all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  I stare at him. Half of me pities him, and the other half admires his quiet resolve. I’d love to be that unshakeable. He focuses his gaze on me and I find my eyes sliding away. I reach out for my glass and hurriedly take a large gulp of wine. It goes down the wrong way and I end up in a coughing fit. Mark leaves his chair and comes over to me. He gets on his haunches by my side. My eyes are watering. Thank god for waterproof mascara.

  ‘Are you all right,’ he asks gently.

  I take the napkin away from my mouth and dab under my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ I choke.

  ‘Good,’ he says softly. ‘Because I’m really looking forward to the rest of the night.’

  I smile shakily at him and realize that I don’t even need to get drunk to sleep with him. It’s the right thing to do. He’ll help me forget the Russian prick.

  ‘You can call for the check if you want to. I’m ready to go,’ I tell him.

  He grins. He cannot help the victorious look in his eyes. ‘I love the way you Americans call the bill a check,’ he teases.

  ‘I love the way you English call the check a bill,’ I tell him.

  He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a rich sound and I think, yes, maybe I can grow to love this man. He stands up, goes to his side of the table, settles the bill, and we leave.

  It is a lovely autumn evening. The sky is filled with splashes of orange and red as we walk to his dark green BMW. He opens the passenger door for me and I thank him and slide in. Inside the car he switches on the music. G.R.L’s Ugly Heart comes on. It is such a sassy, kick ass song about breaking free from a pretty boy with an ugly heart that I know what my sister would say. Take it as a sign from the universe that you’ve made the right decision. I turn to look at Mark’s profile and smile to myself.