Filthy: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “Here he is!” the man called Barinov grins. “Let the show commence.”

  I hate Barinov, with his always-sweating skin and his beady eyes. He’s the man whose men kidnapped me. I heard them mention his name several times when the black bag was over my head and I was being carted across France like a prize horse on the way to a show. Not for the first time in the past few days, I’m glad Roma won me. Otherwise, I would be in one of these men’s dungeons. I shiver at the thought.

  “Sit down, then!” Barinov grins, waving at Roma.

  Roma looks at me. His eyes are hard and yet soft. A contradiction that suits him perfectly. Soft eyes staring out of a hard, brooding blue, as if all his emotion is constrained behind a stormy wave. He tells me I don’t know him well and that may be true. But I’ve spent enough time with him to know he doesn’t want to do this; he doesn’t want the men to watch. Neither do I, but I’d rather them watch than grow suspicious and pull out guns and knives or worse.

  I skip over to him, plastering the fakest, sweetest smile onto my face. “Come on,” I sing, touching his arm. It’s an act—just an act—and yet when I feel his muscle, I can’t help but wonder at the strength of him. I lead him to the chair and shove him softly. He stares into my eyes. His message is clear: We don’t have to do this. Again, I’m sure he likes me, is just as intrigued by me as I am by him. He wouldn’t care how many people watched me otherwise, would he? I widen my eyes a fraction, hoping he gets my point: We do, and you know it.

  The man called Zherkov steps forward and waves the crowd quiet. “You have all been kind enough to let your ladies put on a show for us. Now let’s be quiet and let our good friend Alexander do the same.” He steps back into the crowd, which to me looks like a sea of watching eyes. “Proceed.”

  I take a step back and study Roma. His hands are gripping his knees and his jaws are clenched so hard they are well-defined in his face, two small bumps. Somebody presses a button in the wall and then the room is filled with music, soft, whimsical.

  Okay, I think. I’ve played the game thus far.

  I hone my sight, make it so I only see Roma. The rest of the room falls away and then it’s just me and Roma, standing alone in this room; the rest of them could’ve fallen into ocean for all I care.

  Slowly, I begin to sway my hips, lifting my hands above my head and swinging my hips from side to side. I feel the fabric of the red dress around me, hear perverted men breathing quickly. I ignore them, blot them out, and focus on Roma’s face. His eyes are tugged down to my legs, my swaying body. The music gets faster and I get faster with it, still a few feet from him, letting him watch me. I feel a tingle down between my legs, a shocking tingle. A tingle that gets stronger as Roma’s eyes get more intense, watch me more closely. He loves it, I think, and that pushes me on. He really loves it.

  I step forward so that I’m leaning over him. He looks up at me, his mouth twisted. I feel as though I am in the presence of a caged lion. If it were not for the cage, the lion would attack. Likewise, if it were not for the countless eyes and the heavy breathing, Roma would jump upon me. I shake my chest, my breasts wobbling, and when I look down at his crotch, I see that he’s hard for me. Hard, and huge. His cock presses urgently against his pants and his eyes are locked on me.

  I turn around, getting into it now despite myself, and bend over and move my ass in his face. I look back. His hands are gripping his knees so hard his forearms are shaking. I know he wants to reach out and touch my ass. I know he wants to spank me. And I wish he could. God help me, I really do wish he could.

  I do a one-eighty and then spread my legs and sit on his lap. I gasp. His cock presses firmly into my underwear, a stiff rod of pleasure, rubbing firmly against my clit. I move up and down, up and down, rubbing the flesh of my pussy against him, my lips, my clit. The lap dance is forgotten and I take pleasure from his cock; heat spreads up into my belly and my breasts. I reach forward and grab his shoulders, moving, twisting my hips.

  The music is forgotten. Everything is forgotten. I look down into his face and I can see it’s the same for him. All he knows, in this moment, is the pleasure of my body.

  His cock is fit to burst, on the verge of exploding. It jolts, so hard it’s trying to escape his pants.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I lean down to his face. I want to taste his lips. I don’t care. I just want to feel the heat and the—

  Suddenly, the song stops. Zherkov paces into the center of the room, clapping his hands. “Very good!” he laughs. “Excellent! Most excellent!”

  Roma and I hold each other’s gazes for a moment, the unspent pleasure hovering between us, and then the room erupts into applause and cheers. I stand up, aware all over again of the watching eyes, the perverted men.

  “Yes, most excellent,” a man says, his voice low, seedy.

  I’m not sure, but I think it’s Barinov.

  Roma glances across at me. Redness has spread up his neck onto his face, and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

  Chapter Six

  Felicity

  As soon as we get back to the cabin, Roma goes into the shower. He doesn’t look at me. I sense he can’t look at me. Something happened in that room which wasn’t meant to happen. He felt something. I saw it in him. It almost overpowered us. Hell, it would’ve overpowered us had the music not ended. I lie on the bed, legs crossed, anticlimactic warmth roiling through me.

  My hand moves down my body, almost to my pussy, but I stop it. It won’t be the same. It’s not my hand and my imagination I want. For better or worse, it’s Roma. His body. His hands. His cock. Most of all, his lips. During the dance, it was like a spell was cast on us. An atmosphere I’ve never experienced with a man enveloped us, an atmosphere I certainly never expected to experience here, of all places. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind, will the sensations from my body. But I can hear the blast of the shower in the next room, a constant tsssssssss, and with the noise comes thrusted images. Steam rising off muscles. Water trickling through hair, down his face, onto his chest. His cock, wet, hanging between his legs. Perhaps still hard . . .

  Remember where you are, remember what situation you’re in.

  Roma is here to rescue me, I remind myself. Falling for each other—even just giving in to animal urges—could jeopardize that. What if it distracts him from his job? What if he starts to care about me and then can’t bear to watch me play the role I have to play? What if he flies off the handle the next time Zherkov or Barinov make a crude comment? Then he’ll be thrown overboard and I’ll be stranded, alone, at the mercy of dozens of men who’ve just seen me give the lap dance of a lifetime. No, that wouldn’t be a good position to be in at all.

  I promise myself that I won’t give in to these urges. I say it clearly in my mind: I will stay away from him. I will fight them. But they’re strong and I don’t know how long I can resist them. I’ve never been truly excited by a man. I’ve had boyfriends, of course, at college and high school, and one brief fling at the gym. But there’s never been that heat you sometimes read about in magazines. The chest-trembling heat which makes everything else seem unimportant, the heat that moves through you like something alive, calling out, howling. The animal heat. The heat of true lovers. I’ve never felt that. Sex with the exes was satisfying enough, but never explosive, never transformative. It always left me unsated, like a drowning woman having only half a cup of water. I always wanted more. And Roma could be that more. I can see it in him, strong, ripped . . .

  “You’re doing it again,” I mutter.

  He’s been in the shower now for what feels like hours. I sense he’s in there so that he can avoid me. When he looks at me, it’s like he’s fighting a war within himself. I see it in his face, one moment pained, one moment cold. Warring factions fighting for control of his heart. Ha, who am I kidding? Maybe not his heart, but something else, definitely. And the lap dance didn’t help.

  I’m brought from my thoughts when the cabin door opens. I crane my neck up�
�I try to scream.

  Barinov moves quicker than I would’ve dreamed. The fat man shoots across the room as though he is not covered in a thick layer of fat, but a quick, young man. He flies to the side of the bed and, as the noise is about to erupt from my lips, clamps his hand down on my mouth. I like to think I’m strong (and not for a woman, but just strong) but when I strain against him, he just lays his huge forearm across my chest and pins me to the bed.

  I strain again, and with a grunting laugh he pushes me back down. His eyes are inches from my face, bloodshot and wide with . . . no, and it dawns on me. No, no, no. His eyes are wide with pleasure. He runs his tongue along his upper lip, grinning. I strain even harder; he pushes me down even harder.

  When he brings his lips to my ear, his breath tickles along my skin. I flinch away. Try to, at least. But he wrenches my jaws with his hand and pulls me closer.

  “I saw your man in there,” Barinov says, breathing so heavily I feel as though I am engulfed in the warm, reeking steam which comes from his lips. “He doesn’t look like much, no? Not much of a real man. He just sat there and he didn’t even touch you and he looked scared, poor silly little man. You see, shlyukha, I am not the man people think I am. I am not a weak and fat man. I am a strong proud Russian man and I have killed many men in my life. They call me the Bull and my father was an advisor to Stalin. Don’t make the mistake of fighting, shlyukha. Don’t even try.”

  I ignore his words and thrash with my arms. I can feel what he wants to do. Feel it. It emanates from him in potent waves of testosterone and sweat.

  Then his hand slides down my body. Thick sausage fingers paw at my skin and he groans as they toy with the hem of my dress.

  “Such a pretty girly I have, eh?” he says, placing his hand on my leg.

  Chapter Seven

  Roma

  What the hell happened in there? I ask myself, over and over, as the water drips down my naked body. I can’t help but wonder at it. I’m not a man to be captivated by a woman. I’ve seen men taken prisoner by women before. Bear was like that. He wore his heart on his sleeve and more than once his sleeve was grabbed and violently smashed against the wall. Bear, with his soft eyes and massive power and deadly efficiency, was a weakling when it came to women. Was, I think. He probably still is. That’s true. Just because he’s no longer part of the business doesn’t mean he’s gotten any better in that regard.

  But not me, never. I don’t let women take control of me like that. I don’t sing them songs and I don’t bring them gifts and, most of all, I never let their claws wrap around my heart. I turn myself to ice and I don’t let myself feel. I’m a hitman, a working killer, a man whose emotions will be the death of me if I let them get out of hand. I rub shower gel into my body, thinking: I just have to see her for what she is. A means to an end. Get her back home safe and then her father will lower security and I can get at him. Once I get at him, it’s game over. Big pay check for me. Hell, maybe I’ll take Bear’s advice and cash out.

  I wash the shower gel from my body and step from the shower, shaking my head. Water droplets fly onto the glass of the shower, onto the floor. Then—I stop.

  My senses are honed and I can’t believe I haven’t heard it up until now. I tilt my head for a fraction of a second to make sure. Dammit. Somebody is in the next room, a heavy-breathing man, messing with Felicity.

  In less than a moment, all my convictions about not letting this woman captivate me are thrown out of the porthole. My animal instincts kick in and I charge toward the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Felicity

  When Barinov grabs my thigh, it feels as though five overweight eels are slithering against my skin. His hand is clamped so firmly over my mouth I feel the moisture of his palm squeezing between my lips. I kick out, try to wriggle out from beneath him, but he’s stronger than a fat man ought to be. Please, please, please, I scream. But no, I don’t. Not out loud. I scream but no words emerge from my lips. I scream in my head, willing myself on. But no matter how much I scream, I can’t will myself stronger. I can’t make it so I have enough power to counter this hulking brute. I push harder, my tendons twisting, veins popping against my skin, but nothing happens.

  Barinov, giggling like a kid out of a horror movie, slides his hand up my leg, into my dress.

  Dimly, as if from a great distance, I hear the shower turn off in the next room. Then, less than second later, Roma charges into the bedroom. He’s completely naked and water flies from him. He looks down for a beat at Barinov and me squished beneath him, and then launches himself at Barinov.

  Barinov lets me go in a blink and rises to meet Roma. He throws a backhand and Roma ducks it, aims a punch at Barinov’s gut. Barinov takes it like nothing has happened. Roma hits him twice more and Barinov just grunts.

  “I have been beaten worse than that by little girls,” Barinov breathes.

  I lean up, running my hands over my body. I feel tight. I can’t breathe. I suck in gasping, hollow breaths. Barinov’s weight has crushed something in me. Winded me. I hunch over and suck in and out, in and out, trying to steady my breathing.

  Roma ignores Barinov’s words. He dances back as Barinov charges bull-like right at me. Roma steps aside, and Barinov stops short just before crashing into the wall. Roma’s muscles are huge and glistening, pressing against his naked body. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s naked, doesn’t even see me lying on the bed. His dark blue eyes stare at Barinov’s with killer’s instinct. He’s a man absorbed in his craft, oblivious of his surroundings.

  Barinov ducks, feints with one hand, and throws a hook with the other. Roma doesn’t flinch at the feint. He dodges the hook, jumps aside, and then jabs Barinov in the face. It looks oddly soft, but that’s an illusion; it’s only Roma’s control which makes it look so. Barinov tumbles backward and blood pisses from his nose in a great shower. He totters on his feet and Roma jumps up and swings his arm in a massive arc, clotheslining Barinov in his fat neck. Barinov makes a choking sound and falls to his knees. Then Roma hops over him in one quick motion, reaches down and grabs his head, and twists once. A crack sounds. Barinov’s eyes go blank and he slides to the floor as though boneless.

  As soon as Barinov is dead, Roma steps over him and comes to me.

  “Hush,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

  He reaches up and touches my forehead, sticky and hot with sweat.

  “You’re either winded or having a panic attack,” he tells me.

  My breathing gets quicker and quicker, my chest tighter. Everything is fuzzy, out of focus. Roma’s words barely reach me.

  He takes my hand, squeezes it. “Listen to me,” he says. “You need to listen to me.”

  I can’t. I can barely hear him. I stare at the wall, wishing the tightness in my chest would go.

  He lets go of my hand and grabs my face with his hands, directing my gaze to him. His eyes are hard and his body is taut with veins and muscles. Water drips down him in small beads. He watches me with solid eyes. “You need to steady your breathing,” he says, bringing his face close to mine. “Okay? Felicity. Listen. I’m going to count your breathing with you. Okay? When I say one, breathe in. Then hold it. When I say two, breathe out. Nod if you understand.”

  With an effort, I nod.

  He takes me through the breathing exercises. One . . . two . . . one . . . two . . .

  Slowly the tightness in my chest loosens. My breathing slows. The fuzziness becomes clear.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’m better. Thank you. God, thank you, Roma.”

  He nods shortly. Then he makes to let go of my face. I dart my hands up and catch his hands before he can withdraw them, press them closely into my skin. “Don’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

  He watches my face for a long moment. Something seems to change in him. His eyes are no longer so hard. The wave of blue relents and light shines through.

  “I couldn’t let him hurt you,” he says.

  We watch each other.
And despite everything, the attraction is too strong.

  He leans in, and I lean in with him.

  We press our lips together, breathing in deep breaths of passion, nerves tingling around my mouth and down my neck. I kiss him like I’ve never kissed anybody before, completely without reservation, and then he leans back, a shocked expression on his face.

  “I have to protect you,” he says, as much to himself as to me.

  Chapter Nine

  Roma

  You stupid bastard, I think, taking Barinov under the armpits and dragging him through to the bathroom. A short-term solution, that’s all that can ever be. Sooner or later, somebody will notice Barinov’s absence. Perhaps one of his friends knew he was coming here; I’ll be questioned; his body will be found. I’ve just murdered an underworld high-roller. This was not part of the plan. The plan of playing our roles and lying low is void, now. I return to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Last time I checked, the yacht was a half-mile from the coast. That’ll have to be close enough.