I focused on where the sound was coming from and gasped.
Luka was stripped to the waist and hitting a punching bag that hung from the ceiling. He was barefoot, wearing only a pair of loose drawstring pants, and his muscles were gleaming with sweat.
I’d seen guys hitting bags at the gym, on the rare occasions I managed to work up the energy to go. But they hadn’t looked like this. They’d danced around the bag, hitting it in different places: nifty little crosses and uppercuts.
Luka just hit.
The bag was old and worn and, now that I looked, it swung from a hook. That explained why it hadn’t been there before—he must have had it stashed in a closet and only brought it out that morning. He was wearing hand wraps, but the material was worn, too, and they weren’t even the same color, one red and one black.
I knelt up on the bed for a better look. Each blow was a powerful sweep of arm, terminating in a brutal impact that lifted the bag as if it weighed nothing. It looked as if he’d punch clear through a brick wall, given the chance. He wasn’t showy or fast. He was just strong. And he looked as if he could keep going all day. From the sweat shining on him, he’d already been at it for hours.
I was embarrassed to feel a flicker of heat twist down to my groin. I squeezed my thighs together self-consciously, but couldn’t stop looking at his muscles. There was just something about that brutal strength, that danger. I shifted and the bed creaked.
He turned suddenly and saw me. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know you boxed.”
“I don’t box.” He looked at the bag as if embarrassed. “I hit things.” He walked towards me and began unwrapping the hand wraps. I saw his eyes flick over my body.
I realized that the sheets that I’d hurriedly wrapped around me when I knelt up had slid down. He was staring at my breasts. A hot tremor went through me.
“We will be docking soon,” he said, without taking his eyes from my chest. He must have known I’d caught him looking, but he didn’t try to hide it. That was the thing with Luka: he did what he damn well pleased. “We should shower.”
I nodded. “Who goes first?”
He just smiled.
***
I gasped as my naked back hit the tiles. My legs were already around Luka’s waist because he’d carried me all the way there. He turned the water on and the spray lashed down on us, plastering my hair to my head and racing down my body in a thousand hot rivulets.
Luka hadn’t bothered to take off his drawstring pants and they were soaked through in seconds. He kicked them off. Underneath, he was naked, hard and ready. I hadn’t even seen him grab a condom, but he had one in his hand and was rolling it in. Had he had that in his pocket, the whole time he was working out? Had he been planning this? The idea sent a wave of heat rolling down inside me.
I reached for him, intending to put my arms around him, but he grabbed them with one big hand and pinned my wrists above my head. His cock nudged between my slickened lips but didn’t enter me yet. I groaned, my ass grinding against the wall in anticipation. I was already addicted to this man. Through the water running down my face, I stared at the tattoos on his chest, the smooth curves of his bulging shoulders and biceps. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to stroke him all over, but the feeling of being held, of just having to watch and wait and throb with need...that was even better, in some ways.
What has he turned me into?
He lowered his head and licked at my breast, running his tongue over it in hungry strokes, licking away the water only for it to be instantly replaced with more. The combination of his rough licking and then the water flowing over my nipple had me panting in seconds.
Then he enveloped my breast with his mouth, surrounding my nipple with hot suction, and started to nibble on it just a little, letting me feel his teeth but not hurting me. I tried to climb the wall, the heat churning and roiling inside me, my wrists pressing hard against the hand that held them trapped. God, I can’t escape. The idea had me breathless. He has me pinned and he’s going to—
He moved back enough to look into my eyes and he must have been able to see the desperate need there. I felt the head of him parting my lips and this time he slammed up into me. I panted as he slid deep....deeper. Filling me until I gasped and groaned and leaned forward to bite at his shoulder with my teeth.
And then he fucked me.
My legs tightened around his waist, my ankles hooking behind him as he began to stroke in and out. Clouds of steam were rising around us, caressing our bodies and leaving them glistening. Every slow, hard thrust made me hiss air between gritted teeth, delighting at the liquid friction. The feel of him right up inside me was perfect, like we’d been made to fit together, like I wasn’t complete without him there. I arched my back, heaving against the hand that held my wrists, turning my face up to the spray and letting it blast me. Luka’s free hand slid over my cheek and then his thumb pressed into my mouth.
I opened for him, panting around it, my lips and teeth closing on his knuckle. His thrusts got faster, my ass pressed tight against the wall. I started to lick at his thumb with my tongue. I’d never done anything even remotely like this before, but I was operating on instinct now, lost in the pleasure.
He went faster still, the muscled bulk of him forcing my thighs wider, so wide they burned, but I wanted it. I didn’t mind the discomfort if it meant I could have more of him inside me. The pleasure was building and building, ribbons of it twisting together inside me, entangling my thoughts. I didn’t think about what he was or what I was or the insanity of falling for him. I let those shining scarlet ribbons wrap me up entirely, right up to my brain, and then tighten into a hard little knot….
Luka’s thrusts reached a peak. I’d closed my eyes against the spray but now I opened them and stared at him. His jaw was set, his eyes wild...and he was staring right back at me with a lust I’d never seen on any man. Suddenly, he pulled his hand away from my face and kissed me, hard and deep, and the feel of his tongue plunging into me sent us both over the edge. We panted into each other’s mouths as we came together in long, shuddering waves. I was pressed tightly between him and the wall, his hands still pinning my wrists above me. I was utterly helpless, utterly lost, and I’d never felt so alive.
***
A half hour later, I was dressed and waiting nervously at the bottom of the stairwell with Luka. On the stairs ahead of us, Yuri stood looking upward, his hand raised to tell us to keep waiting.
I looked down at myself. Instead of a dress, I was wearing snow boots and tight, tight jeans, plus a sweater and my black coat. “Are you sure?” I muttered. “I don’t feel very...dressy. Given that I’m meeting your dad.”
“Trust me,” said Luka. “Being warm is more important, in this place.”
We both went silent. The tension ratcheted higher with every second we waited there, until I could barely breathe. Then Luka said, “Besides, I like your ass in those jeans.”
I felt myself flush and gave him a half-shocked, half-turned-on look. But the truth was, I was glad of the momentary distraction. This was a whole new kind of fear.
We were waiting for the guards to tell us it was safe to disembark. They were checking the whole area for snipers. Any moment, Yuri was going to wave us forward and we’d emerge into the daylight, blinking and helpless. And pray that the guards had done their job.
“Who is it?” I whispered, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Who is it, who might try to kill us?”
“Olaf Ralavich and his men. A rival family.” He shook his head. “Not like us. They are not part of the brotherhood.”
“They have less...honor?”
He looked as if he was going to spit. “They have no honor at all.”
Yuri waved us forward. After long minutes of waiting, now we had to move fast. Luka went first and I almost wanted to press up against his broad back like a child, cuddling up to him until we were safely inside. But Yuri had warned u
s not to even hold hands, in case we had to break and run.
I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. And found myself at the end of the world.
It happened while we were at sea. There’s been a war, and we missed it. God, what if we’re the only survivors?
That’s what it looked like. Like every post-apocalyptic movie I’d ever seen.
The yacht was moored at an ugly, concrete dock. The sky overhead was almost the same shade of light gray, the clouds completely covering it. Even the sea looked a sickly gray. The gray blankness made the desolation before us stand out even more.
There had been factories, once. Now they were just shells, walls ripped down to expose their innards. There were scorch marks from fire—or possibly bombs. There was no bird song and no greenery of any kind that I could see and not even a blade of grass.
The guards marched us towards the nearest building: three men in front, three behind, guns drawn and eyes watchful. Other guards were already patrolling the cracked, crumbling road and I could see a few perched high up on walls, keeping a lookout. “What is this place?” I asked.
Luka shook his head. “Nowhere you ever want to come again.” Even he seemed unsettled by it.
Crossing the open area felt like being a mouse crawling across a highway. My heart was a tight, pounding ball in my throat as I waited for a shot to ring out. Despite the instructions, I grabbed Luka’s hand and squeezed it tight. He squeezed back.
Seconds later, we reached the building and trooped inside. I let out a long sigh of relief. Looking out through the cracked windows, I could see the yacht. It looked very small and vulnerable out there on its own. Luka had been right—it wouldn’t have been safe to leave me there.
As the fear receded a little, I became aware of the cold. Luka had been right—it was freezing. And very, very, creepy. The sooner we got out of there, the better.
Soon, we heard a car. Luka gave me a meaningful look. I looked down at myself as if checking my appearance. I was still trying to play the new girlfriend, eager to make a good impression—and, weirdly, part of me did actually want that. The rest of me was scared as hell that Luka’s dad would see straight through my cover. Unlike his son, he wouldn’t be blinded by feelings.
A car door slammed. New guards entered, exchanging nods with our own guards. They all stood to attention and I could see the fear in their eyes. The same dread that Luka inspired in civilians, this man inspired in criminals. And then he was walking into the room, his long coat flapping like a cape.
“Luka,” said Vasiliy Malakov. “It’s been too long.”
I could see immediately where Luka got his build from. Vasiliy was almost as tall as his son, almost as wide and, despite being in his fifties, he seemed to have retained most of his muscle. He was almost like a prototype for Luka—not quite as big, not quite as handsome (Luka must have inherited his gorgeous eyes and cheekbones from his mother) but still a man that made you stop and look, even at his age.
He embraced Luka and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he turned to me. “And you are?” he asked me in Russian.
I had to remember to blink and look uncomprehending.
“She doesn’t speak Russian,” said Luka quickly, in Russian. “She’s American.”
I got the sense the Vasiliy had seen enough in his lifetime that very little would surprise him, but that did the trick. He turned and stared at his son as if he’d said I was radioactive. “You brought an American here?! To a meeting?!”
“She’s okay,” said Luka stiffly. “She’s fine.”
His dad shook his head. “You couldn’t keep your dick dry for one night?”
“It’s not like that! She’s not just—” Luka took a breath to calm himself. “I like her.”
His dad sighed and laid his face in his palm. “Luka, Luka...an American?! She is not suitable for you.” He glanced at me. “She’s pretty enough, I grant you. I’d want to jump between her legs if I was a little younger.”
“Father!” snapped Luka.
I willed myself not to blush. I didn’t want them to know I understood Russian.
Vasiliy sighed again. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. What have you told her?”
“Only that it’s guns. She can keep quiet.”
They’d been talking in Russian for a long time. I tried to look uncomfortable, as if I was wondering what was going on. Luka caught my look. “My father is asking all about you,” he told me in English, forcing a smile onto his face. “He says you’re exactly what I need.”
I smiled at the lie and then smiled at his father.
“Why did you tell her that?” asked Vasiliy in Russian. “Sometimes, I worry there’s too much of your mother in you. Soft like butter.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to dump her, when you get back to Moscow. I can’t have an American sniffing around.”
I felt myself tense and tried to hide it.
“She’s not sniffing—” Luka began.
But his father interrupted him. He put a big, fake grin on his face and grabbed hold of me, kissing each cheek in turn. “Welcome!” he said in English. “So rude of us to talk in Russian. I apologize. Luka has been telling me all about you. You must call me Vasiliy.” Then, still grinning at me, he said in Russian to Luka, “I’m serious, Luka. Get rid of her as soon as you get home.”
I had to keep the stupid, dumb smile on my face even as I felt the hurt inside me swell. He hated me. Somehow, the fact he disliked me as a father, that I wasn’t good enough for his son, bothered me even more than the sniffing around comment. Stupid! As if this is any sort of normal relationship! As if you’re really his girlfriend!
But Vasiliy’s distrust was a problem, too. I was going to have to be super-careful around him. Luka would give me the benefit of the doubt but Vasiliy wanted to think badly of me. The slightest hint that something was off about me and I’d be screwed.
One the guards held his finger to his ear, listening to his earpiece, then nodded to Vasiliy.
“They’re here,” said Vasiliy. “Let’s go.”
***
The building we were in was an old factory of some kind—big, hulking machines and stacks of old cardboard cartons. We’d been waiting in what used to be the front offices. Now we moved through a door and onto the cavernous factory floor.
A group of men approached. Wait...not a group, exactly. They kept their distance from one another, as if there was no trust between them. And they didn’t seem to have anything in common. Some of them were dressed like bikers, some of them like blue-collar workers and some of them in suits. And something was off. There was something familiar about their clothes, their attitude.
“Okay,” said one of the bikers. “Let’s get this started.”
Only he didn’t say it in Russian. He said it in English, with a broad Jersey accent.
Vasiliy stepped forward and introduced himself, clasping hands and kissing cheeks. I listened to the men, memorizing their names. Every one of them was American and I heard accents from New York to California. I felt sick. The weapons I’d seen in the yacht’s hold were heading straight for my home country.
“I want to thank you for making the trip,” said Vasiliy in English. “Some things are better discussed in person.”
I remembered what Adam had said: that Vasiliy was the figurehead now and Luka ran the business. Vasiliy would have brokered this deal and persuaded all these men to fly out here and then drive God knows how many miles to wherever the hell we were, somewhere isolated and totally private. Vasiliy was the showman and the face they’d come to trust. But, now that the pleasantries were over, it was time for Luka.
I’d grabbed Luka’s hand again as we stood there listening to his dad. Now he dropped it, looking at me almost apologetically. Then he walked forward and, suddenly, he was all business, the mask coming down. I felt my heart slowly icing over again as he reminded me, word by word, what he really was.
The way things were done now, with big shipments of guns coming to America i
n cargo containers, was dangerous and costly, he explained. “One shipment is lost, and it’s hundreds of thousands of dollars. And when the weapons do get into the country...what then? You still have to get them across several states to reach your customers. Every state border means another chance of getting caught.” He glanced at some of the bikers. “Paying off rival motorcycle clubs, bribing the police. It’s a mess.” He shook his head. “No more.”
“We are going to do for guns what McDonalds did for hamburgers and what Starbucks did for coffee,” he said. He described a complex network of distribution, with legitimate, Russian-owned businesses trucking the guns across America to exactly where they were needed. “No more big deals,” he said. “A million small ones. Too small to track, too small to trace. If one shipment gets caught…”—he shrugged theatrically—”so what?”
As I listened, my blood ran steadily colder. It wasn’t just the audacity of the plan he was outlining. It was the way he sounded just like his dad. Not quite as slick or polished as Vasiliy’s showmanship, but he was getting there. In a year, maybe two, he’ll be just like him.
This was why I needed to be his salvation. But how? How could I save him when my whole purpose here was to take him down?
When Luka had finished, the Americans looked at each other. Eventually, one of them spoke up. “It sounds good,” he said. “But what about Ralavich? Most of us buy our guns from him. You’re taking a big slice of his business. What about repercussions?”
Vasiliy stepped forward. “I’m not scared of Olaf fucking Ralavich. His operations in the US are a mess. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. It’s time for a change.”
Luka called for the guards and they trooped in, carrying the crates I’d seen on the yacht. “A sample,” said Luka. “To show we mean business. Yours to keep—a crate each.” He picked up a crowbar and cracked the top off one of the crates. It was filled with gleaming assault rifles.
The Americans exchanged glances, impressed. Meanwhile, I was reeling. A sample?! This huge pile of crates was just a sample?! There must have been hundreds of guns there.
Conflicted (Undercover #2) Page 7
