by Jane Henry
But when I gently place my head on his shoulder, he lets me, holding me so close, my body fits snugly against him. As if I belong here. As if I were created for this, this very moment. I trace my index finger along the stark white collar of his t-shirt and gently draw it down, revealing the mark of the Bratva.
“Tell me what your tattoos mean?” I ask. “All of them, not just this.”
He nods. “The rose with a dagger means I served time when I was still underage.” I blink. How old is he? How long has he been in the brotherhood?
“The skull defies authority and combined with the rose, spider, and manacles, declare me Bratva. Each means a different notch on my belt. Conviction. Prison. Theft. Murder.”
My heartbeat quickens. So many questions to ask him, but I don’t want to break this spell. For just this moment, his eyes have softened, his voice quieted, and his pulse beneath my hand has slowed. I soothe him, somehow. I’m the lion tamer and just for this moment, he purrs beneath my touch.
After another moment of silence, he speaks to me. “You have things you want to ask me, Calina. I can feel you’re barely restraining yourself. Ask, then.”
“I don’t want you to get angry with me,” I tell him. “I like it when you’re calm like this, and I don’t want to ruin anything. You’re…” I tread a fine line before I choose to speak the truth. “You’re scary when you’re angry.”
A shadow crosses his features. “I’m always angry.”
“I know.”
We don’t speak again for long minutes while he plays with my fingers, stroking one thumb along the top of my hand. I figure it couldn’t hurt to ask the tamest question of all.
“I wondered how old you are.”
“Thirty-four years old,” he says without hesitation. He doesn’t even stop the brush of his thumb along my hand.
“So if you’ve been in the Bratva and served time before you were of age…” my voice trails off as I calculate the years.
He nods. “On my next birthday, I will have spent more time in the brotherhood than not.”
“How many times have you been in jail?”
“Twice.” No hesitation this time, but I know each one of those times marked him, impacted him, and somehow formed the man he is today.
“Is it awful? Russian jail?”
The very corner of his lips quirks up but no humor meets his eyes. “You ought to know. Is it awful being a Russian prisoner?”
It’s not an answer at all but an evasion. He doesn’t wish to speak of this, and it’s a harsh reminder that I am his prisoner, and he my warden.
But after a moment it seems he’s thought better of his curt answer, and he begins to speak. “It isn’t a joy,” he says with a rueful smile. “There are many types of Russian prisons, depending on why one is there. It is, in many ways, brutal. Cold. But my first time in jail I met Maksym and recruited him to the Bratva.”
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Dimitri, our former pakhan, descended from a long line of Bratva, their origins hailing back to the second World War. He began with fresh blood. He adopted each of us before we were of age. After his passing, we discovered the records he kept for us in the library. His process was intentional and nearly militaristic. He was a harsh, exacting leader, but we each loved him in our own way.”
“What happened to him?”
A shadow passes over him before he responds. “He took his own life.”
I shouldn’t want to know this. I shouldn’t give myself a reason to feel sympathy for Demyan, to fear the pressures of leadership will cause him to face the same demise. If he served time in jail, he deserved that punishment. He was no innocent put behind bars.
My next question for him chills me before I even ask him. Do I really want to know?
“How many people have you killed?”
This time I maybe went too far. He tightens his grip, his jaw firming, before he answers, “Too many to count, Calina. No more questions now.”
The first time he went to jail, I was seven years old. I hadn’t even learned how to ride a bike yet, and my biggest worry was what costume I would wear on Halloween. I mull this over as we cruise to a stop outside the compound. When we exit the vehicle, his men are there, but he dismisses them all, telling them he’s tired and wishes to address everything that happened this evening in the morning. They obey and soon, we’re alone in his suite. When moonlight hits his features, I see the edged lines of his face, weary from battle, and in that moment he looks older than his thirty-four years.
Drained and travel-worn. Still dressed in his slacks and dress shirt, he pours himself a drink, then folds himself into a chair by the window. I stand awkwardly to the side, not sure what he wants me to do. I want to sit on his lap again. I want to talk to him until the sun rises, here in this magical time between dusk and dawn, when who we are and why we’re here fades into the night. But he doesn’t even glance my way when he orders wearily, “Go to bed, Calina.”
I shouldn’t let his dismissal disappoint me, but somehow it does. He doesn’t want me here with him tonight, and I should be happy that he doesn’t. I get to steal a moment away from his utter control and mastery over me. From his anger and passion and wicked punishments. I have some time to myself.
Then why does it make me feel a little sad?
Pausing in the doorway between his living room and the bedrooms, I ask tentatively, “Which bed tonight, sir?”
“Yours,” he says without looking my way.
I turn from him, my head bowed. I’ve somehow let him down. I’ve failed, and I don’t know why. I hate myself for even caring, but I do. Tonight was supposed to be different, but I’m not exactly sure how. When I undress, I remember the stupid pink vibrator thing he’s stuck in me. How could I forget when its heavy weight presses up against my private parts? But he hasn’t activated it in hours. With a grimace, I contemplate tugging it out, sex the furthest thing from my mind. I look around the room, wondering where the hell to put this thing, when his voice sounds behind me.
“Leave it.”
His voice behind me makes my heart flutter in my chest. He’s not ignoring me anymore. Maybe he isn’t rejecting me like I thought. Why do I care?
But I do. God, I do.
I turn to him, stark naked, my fingers still on the little device, and my cheeks flame. The scent of my arousal fills the room. I can’t look at him. I couldn’t cross the room to go to him if he asked. He draws me to his chest and lifts me up in his arms, cupping my butt and swinging my legs around him.
“No more asking questions, kisa,” he says. “In fact, no more talking at all. I wish to forget tonight and much of what we talked about.” His whiskered lips come to my ear. “I told you double payment and pleasure were yours if you behaved, and you’ve been a perfect angel, fitting for one of those art displays at the museum.”
“Ew, no,” I say with a small laugh. “Those creep me out.”
And when he chuckles, my heart does a crazy little skip in my chest. I like my passionate master so much more than the brooding one.
“I said no more words now, kisa. Unless you wish to be punished.”
I shake my head and clamp my lips shut, but seconds later he captures my mouth with his. I moan, closing my eyes when heat and pressure build at my core. He’s worked me toward orgasm all night long, and when he grips my ass in his hands and squeezes, I press my pelvis against him, needing friction and pressure.
“Filthy little slut,” he whispers approvingly in my ear. “She needs her master’s cock to tame her.”
I nod in silence, boldly skimming my hand along his shoulder. He leads us to the bed, stands me in front of him, and orders, “Strip me.”
With trembling hands, I do as he says, unfastening every button on his shirt before I slide it off. The crisp fabric gives way to strong, sturdy arms and shoulders. Without a word, I bend down and kiss the rose tattoo, in memory of his farewell to childhood. When my lips meet his skin, he closes his eyes and releases
a deep, shuddering sigh. I slide myself on his lap and he holds me with his arms around my lower back. I bunch up his t-shirt and lift it over his head, bracing myself as he raises his arms so I can bare him, then settling back on his lap when he holds me to him again. I take a moment to appreciate the strength and breadth of his chest, tracing a finger along every tattoo on his skin.
I drag my mouth along his neck and lower still to kiss his bicep. Tentatively, I glide my mouth to his chest and let my tongue graze his nipple. I wonder if he’ll stop me but he only chuckles, his cock twitching against my ass.
“Naughty malyshka.”
I brace myself on his lap, holding onto both muscled shoulders, as I hump my pelvis against him. My clit throbs, my core tight and needy for him, but I haven’t finished stripping him yet. I glide off his lap, making him groan, and fall to my knees in front of him. My hands at his waist, I clumsily unfasten his belt, remembering how he took it off and spanked me in front of his men. How he looped it around my neck to make me behave the first time I sucked him off. When it’s free from its loops, he takes it from my hand, doubles it over, and snaps it. I flinch, but even as my heart skips a beat, a tingle of anticipation weaves its way through me.
I unclasp his slacks as he lays his belt on the bed, and when his cock springs free, I boldly grasp it in my hand. Groaning, he pumps his hips, reaching for my hair and yanking my head down to him. He shoves his cock between my lips, guiding my head with a fist in my hair. I moan and suckle, eager for his cock. Maybe I am the filthy little slut he says I am. And maybe I fucking like it.
I love the way he groans when I tease him with my tongue, lapping at his salty skin with the eagerness of a starving woman. My breasts feel heavy and tight, and the pressure between my thighs pulses with wanton, frenetic need. He holds the device control in his hand, and as I suck his cock hard, he pushes the button.
Vibration ricochets through me. I groan around his cock, while he pulls my hair and pumps my head. I’m so full and so ready, trembling and moaning with a whimper on the edge of a release as I work his cock. I hold on.
“You come when I do,” he whispers, pumping his cock in my mouth so hard my eyes water, and I choke. The device hums and vibrates, seemingly touching every inch of my sex at once like dozens of fingers and tongues worshipping. I suckle until his grip on my hair tightens to painful, he moans low, and he comes hard. I’m drowning in pleasure and pain, swallowing his release while he pulls my hair, the stimulator at full throttle. I suck and swallow and fall into blinding ecstasy.
I come harder than I ever have before, my muscles taut before pleasure floods my senses. Eager to please him, I finish him with perfection, sucking every drop while he commands my body to climax. One orgasm follows another, the second more powerful than the first. I’m whimpering and shaking, unable to stop the torrent of bliss that shudders through me. A third follows, and I can’t bear this anymore. Pleasure borders pain. I’m screaming and crying. I need him to stop and I want him to continue. I can’t think or speak anything but his name. He pulls out of my mouth and cradles my head in his lap.
I close my eyes, blackness pervading my senses. His blackness, his essence still on my tongue, his hand still in my hair, his control commanding my body. “Sir,” I pant. “Demyan.” Mindless pleasure’s pulling me under.
I’m in his arms. We’re walking to his bed. I’m boneless. I’m wrecked.
I can’t even lift my arm to fetch the blanket, but it doesn’t matter. He slides into bed next to me, pulls me onto his chest, and covers us both with a blanket. I sink into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I wake the next morning to his mouth between my legs. Still groggy, I let my knees fall open and weave my fingers through his dark blond hair. The color of milky tea, it’s the softest part about him, the rest of his body all angles and planes.
No. No, that’s not true. His tongue. His tongue is silk and steel, lapping at my folds like he’s starving and I’ll sate his hunger. And when I fall into orgasm seconds after waking, I know. He’s worked me to this. He controls my pleasure. I can’t stop my body from chasing ecstasy at the merest touch.
I’m putty in his hands.
“Oh my God,” I groan, my knees still parted when he mounts me, lines his cock at my slick entrance, and thrusts into me so hard I can’t speak. I lift my arms and encircle his neck while he holds me to him, rocking between my hips, cursing in broken Russian and English until he groans his release. We pant in silence in the semi-dark room. Rolling over onto his back, our legs tangled in sheets, messy but sated, I lie on his chest like I belong there.
He pushes my damp hair back from my forehead. “You’ll ride the Sybian while I order breakfast,” he tells me.
“The what?”
His response is to lift me out of bed and carry me to the closet. I cling to him as we near it. What will he do to me next?
“I can either whip you to tame you or wring pleasure from your body until you’re as limp as a rag doll in my arms, incapable of anything but obedience,” he says with a wicked smile. “I choose both.”
“I don’t want a whipping,” I protest, the thought of bearing his lash right now unbearable. I’m exhausted and sensitized, and I have it in my head that somehow, I’ll feel it more than I did before. He doesn’t respond, though, but swings me to the floor and guides me onto a saddle-type thing. I eye it with trepidation, my steps faltering, but he’s determined. Gently, he guides me on the saddle. I freeze, not sure what’s going on or what this thing is, but soon it becomes very clear when he presses his fingers to my pussy, stroking me, before he lifts and slides me on the device. I gasp when he positions me so that the dildo on the saddle fills me.
“No whipping this morning,” he says with a wicked glimmer of a smile.
“What is this?” I gasp.
“A Sybian,” he says, as if that explains anything to me. “It’s a device made to help you orgasm.”
“You’re just full of all sorts of filthy little tricks, aren’t you?” I manage to eke out when he pushes a button on a device in his hand, and vibrations shudder through me. I’m full and aroused, and I can’t control any of this. It seems this device is particularly designed to guide me to orgasm.
“Demyan,” I groan, helpless to stop the powerful orgasm that rips through me. I close my eyes and give way to the delicious torture. I’ve barely come down from one orgasm when another rides through me. I come so many times I lose track, until he comes back to me and pushes a button. Reaching down, he brushes my hair back from my forehead.
“How defiant do you feel now, little kisa?”
I couldn’t swat a fly. I mumble something incoherent. I can’t even lift my arms for him to carry me, but there’s no need. He lifts me and dresses me, speaking something in Russian I can’t quite grasp, but I like it. When I’m dressed, he lies me in bed while he gets dressed himself.
“And now, malyshka?” he asks. “Rate your level of defiance.”
“Negative zero,” I mumble. I don’t even understand why he laughs, but my lips curl up in a smile at the sound.
“I like your voice,” I say, my eyes closing.
“No sleeping,” he says, and I open my eyes. “Our breakfast is here. Perhaps a cup of coffee will perk you up.”
“Perhaps make it espresso,” I say with a yawn. I’m comfortable here.
Too comfortable.
Somewhere far back in the recesses my mind, I’m warning myself not to let myself go where my mind flirts. He isn’t hot. I don’t like his chuckle or his Russian endearments. I don’t like the feel of his arms on me or the way his eyes grow dark with lust when I climax. I don’t like any of this.
But I’ll obey him. Just for today. Because if his idea of training me means wrenching climax after climax out of my body, there are worse things to do with my time.
“Breakfast, Calina,” he says, and that quickly, snaps me to attention.
Calina.
My sister.
I am not Calina.
> Is she okay? How has she fared?
I sit up with considerable effort, and let him lift me up and sit me on his lap for breakfast. I’m exhausted but feign to be even more tired than I am.
Today I will use his phone to check on Calina. I know his password, and perhaps if he thinks he’s thoroughly mastered me, I can take advantage of the situation. I let him feed me and thank him in low tones, like a kitten purring on her master’s lap.
“That’s delicious, sir,” I tell him. “I hope I please you today.”
“You do, little kitten,” he says, kissing my cheek. “So much. Today you’ll be fitted for your wedding gown and we prepare for the ceremony.”
Oh God oh God oh God. Wedding. Gown. Ceremony. This is a big deal.
I came here prepared to lay down my life for my sister, and I’ve gone along with everything because I agreed to. To pay off this debt and clear both of us. But now that the reality of this is sinking in, I can’t help but freak out.
I’m going to be his wife.
His wife.
Like, married by law to a man who commands the Russian mafia. Vows and rings and legal documents.
I may be freaking out just a little.
I nod my head, trying to wrap my brain around this.
“But I will keep you apart from my men. After last night, I want you all to myself.”
“Will you only take conference calls then?” I ask. He nods, and my heart sinks. How am I to use his phone if he’s here all day?
I’ll find a way. I only need a few minutes. There has to be a way.
Chapter 13
She thinks somehow I don’t know that she’s plotting. Plotting what? I have no idea. But even though she’s momentarily sated and quiet, her mind is elsewhere. I’ve seen the way she glances at my phone, and I haven’t forgotten how she tried to make that call.
