You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 2)

by Georgia Le Carre

  Nine

  Dahlia Fury

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37FGwDMMZEg

  Yuri opens the door for us and says something to Noah in rapid Russian who looks at his watch and immediately starts walking towards the study. I guess we didn’t make the twelve o’clock curfew.

  ‘Thanks for bringing me home, Noah,’ I call to his retreating back.

  He lifts his hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t break his stride.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Yuri says.

  ‘Yeah, same to you,’ I reply and run up the stairs.

  I actually feel a bit queasy. Getting into such a low swung fast car after drinking so much and eating a whole bag of greasy fries is not exactly a good idea.

  I quickly clean my make up off, brush my teeth, use the toilet, change into my nightgown and go down to Zane’s bedroom. I open the door and he is already there. I have the impression that he is full of leashed energy, that he was pacing the floor impatiently, even though he is standing with his legs shoulder-width apart and looking at me with a deliberately blank expression. Sexy as hell, actually.

  ‘Hi,’ I greet.

  ‘Noah says a man was waiting for you,’ he says neutrally.

  ‘Mark was not waiting for me,’ I scoff. ‘We just ran into each other outside the bar.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe Noah is such an old woman. Imagine running to you with that bit of gossip.’

  ‘It’s not a bit of gossip. It is Noah’s job to notice even the smallest inconsistencies. You didn’t just run into him. He was waiting for you and only approached you when you were alone.’

  I frown. I guess he is right. Mark was waiting for me. I shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re just friends now.’

  ‘Is he the boyfriend that you talked about?’ His voice is very quiet, his eyes intense.

  ‘Yes, but I ended it before I came here and our relationship had not become physical.’

  ‘Are you still in contact with him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a nice guy.’

  ‘I don’t want you to see him again.’

  ‘Why? We’re just friends. I feel nothing for him but friendship.’

  He walks up to me, swirls my hair in his fist, and pulls my face upwards. From every pore of his body seeps raw masculinity, neither manufactured no harnessed, just a true force of nature. An Alpha in the truest sense of the word.

  ‘You might feel just friendship,’ he murmurs, ‘but he lusts for you, Dahlia. A man who waits on the street for a woman is crying out for her.’

  I lick my lips.

  His head swoops down. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and sucks it. ‘You can tell him this. If I catch him within ten feet of you I’ll stuff his dick into his ass.’

  I stare into his searingly bright eyes. ‘His dick in his ass? How Neanderthal of you,’ I say to lighten the mood.

  ‘Call it what you want, but do not make the mistake of thinking it’s an idle threat because it isn’t,’ he says softly, and nibbles my earlobes. He raises his head and looks down possessively at my breasts, but his voice is cold and businesslike. ‘I don’t take kindly to other men sniffing around my woman.’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell Mark.’

  His eyes become less guarded.

  ‘What did you do tonight?’ I ask.

  He bends his head and brushes his mouth against my cheek. I close my eyes and revel in the sensation of his warm lips against my skin. ‘I waited for you,’ he whispers.

  Something inside me starts melting like butter in a hot pan. I’m going to blow it. I’ve had a bit to drink and I can’t be trusted not to throw my arms around him and admit that I’m in love with him. Activity. I should engage in activity.

  Silently, I start unbuttoning his shirt. He helps me by unzipping his pants and pulling them down his legs. He kicks them away and I get onto my knees. When I am mouth-level with his boxers, I lean in and catch the waistband with my teeth. I tug it outward and over his turgid cock and pull it down his legs. When I rise up the long thick shaft is millimeters away from my lips.

  I extend my tongue and delicately lick his cockhead. It is satiny smooth.

  ‘Your cock is so fucking beautiful,’ I say.

  Zane kneads his fingers into my hair and groans, as I swallow the tip and bob my head up and down the shaft. I look up at him and he is staring down at the sight of his cock disappearing into my face. It is sexy and I hungrily take him even deeper, but when he touches the back of my throat I get a sudden uneasy sensation in my stomach. My eyes widen with shock.

  Oh my God, no. No fucking way. No, this can’t be happening to me.

  I pull away abruptly, but it is already too late. Vomit is hurling out of my mouth and landing directly on to his crotch and thighs. Bits of fries are hanging from his balls. Ugh. Yuck. And the smell.

  Until that moment I have never known what it is like to wish for the ground to open up and swallow me, or for lighting bolts to blitz the room I was in. Totally mortified I cover my mouth with both my hands and look up at Zane’s face. I’m pretty sure vomiting while giving a blowjob is a major passion killer, but I don’t know what I expected. Probably him staring down at the mess I have made of him with revulsion, shock and maybe even irritation, but what I see is a man who doesn’t seem to care that I have been sick all over him. Instead he stares down at me with deep concern etched in every line of his face.

  He reaches down and pulls me up by my upper-arms. As I am pulled upwards I see his cock is already at half-mast. Shit. How embarrassing. All I can think of at that moment is: thank God I didn’t have a kebab or a burger. Bits of undigested meat will look so much more disgusting.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you ill?’ he asks, frowning.

  I am so horrified I can hardly bear to meet his eyes. ‘I think I’m not used to being in a sports car after drinking so much. I’m so sorry,’ I mutter, awkwardly using the backs of my hands to wipe my chin.

  He lets go of my arms, picks up his shirt, and roughly wipes his groin and legs. Then he takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom. I follow him like a lamb. He switches the shower on and helps me undress.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I apologize again. ‘I bet nothing like this has ever happened to you.’

  ‘No,’ he admits.

  ‘Oh God, I groan.

  ‘Hey,’ he says suddenly. ‘It’s only the contents of your stomach? I’m planning on putting my tongue in your ass!’

  Struck dumb, my face reddening, I stare at him.

  ‘It was nothing. A bit of vomit,’ he says kindly.

  ‘I … er … should brush my teeth,’ I say and move to basin. I squeeze some toothpaste on my toothbrush and quickly clean my teeth. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  ‘You should have seen your face though,’ he says, his eyes full of mischief.

  ‘You should have seen yours,’ I retort.

  He smiles and so do I. We are like two kids trying to make friends for the first time. He stops smiling and so do I. He bites his lower lip in such an unconsciously seductive gesture I feel something inside me contract and can only hope it is not my stomach. I quickly look away, spit, rinse my mouth, and put my brush back into its holder. I look up and he is still looking at me.

  ‘I’ll clean up the mess. The smell …,’ I trail away embarrassed.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he murmurs. ‘We’ll sleep in your room tonight.’

  By now the shower stall has filled with steam. He opens the door and we step into it. Deliciously warm water sprays down on us and washes away my sick. Zane pours liquid soap into his palm and rubs it on my chest, my breast and down my body.

  I squirt some onto my hand and rub it on his abs, his flat stomach, and lower still. I notice that his cock is no longer at half-mast but hard as fucking steel. I pour more soap and languorously stroke his cock. My slippery hands pull at it and he groans. I cup his balls and massage them gently while my other hand carries on tugging firmly at his cock.

  He pivots me around and my palms slap agai
nst the tiles. I exhale as he grabs my hips and tilts them upwards. Warm water beats down on my head and back with sensuous insistence as the blunt head of his cock starts to part then slide into my pussy. I push eagerly towards it taking him deeper into my body until I feel his balls on my pussy lips. I wriggle my ass and it sends tremors of pleasure shooting into my veins.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he growls and I hear the thick hot lust in his voice.

  I press my legs together to make my sex tighter and grind myself into his groin.

  ‘Oh fuck. You’re so fucking tight,’ he groans.

  My pussy throbbing with pleasure I attain greater and greater heights of pleasure. My eyes turn half-shut. My pussy wants to feel him explode inside, feel his hot cum shooting deep into it. I start bouncing on his shaft, harder and harder, but it’s not enough. The craving for him is like fingers inside my belly. I want him to thrust like the wild beast he is.

  ‘Take me harder than you’ve ever done,’ I cry harshly.

  He doesn’t need a second invitation. He grabs my hips and pounds me so hard and so damn deep my feet come off the floor and I am suspended in the air. He keeps going like that, his hard cock punishing my wet and hungry sex until a shuddering, pulsing climax overtakes us. For a while we remain joined and breathing heavily, the soft rain sluicing down our heaving bodies, then he withdraws and the water washes away all history of our coupling.

  In a rare moment of tenderness he wraps me in a towel and gently pats me dry. I stare at his dark head. If only it could always be like this.

  If only.

  Ten

  Aleksandr Malenkov

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWFb5z3kUSQ

  I am ten years old tomorrow. I can punch and I can take a punch. There is no school tomorrow. I hang my uniform in my cupboard and hear my father roar at my mother from the living room. There is something wrong with his tea. It may be too sweet or not sweet enough. The walls are thin and I hear my mother walking into the living room.

  I close the cupboard. It is one of those old ones with a beveled mirror on the door. I look at my reflection. The first thing everyone sees when they first meet me is my eyes. I look into them and it is like looking into a stranger’s eyes. I hear my mother reply, her voice is muffled, placating, frightened. Then come the inevitable flat, dull sound of her flesh being hit. I turn away from the mirror and walk to my door. I open it and go into the living room.

  ‘Papa,’ I say.

  My father turns his murderous gaze my way and starts advancing on me. He is drunk. My mother grabs his arm and tries to pull him back.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ she pleads.

  He elbows her in the neck and she falls to the floor choking.

  My fists clench. God, I hate my father.

  Blood pulses through my ears, the world becomes silent. There is only me and him. He comes up to me and swings his fist. I evade it easily. With a roar of anger he swings again. This time more wildly. I duck. He misses. His fist crashes into the wall. His eyes almost pop with pain and he bellows with fury.

  I don’t say anything. My heart feels cold. I know I will eventually have to let him hit me, but it is better if I tire him out first. Once he banged his head on the wall and knocked himself out. That is the best case scenario. When he woke up he was livid but it would be worth it.

  Cursing, he nurses his injured knuckles in his hand for a few seconds. Then he flexes them and clenches his hand into a lethal fist. He looks up at me, his face twisted with hate.

  ‘If you don’t stand still boy I swear I’ll kill your mother with my bare hands,’ he snarls

  This is it. The fight is over. I lock eyes with him and stop moving. He comes towards me and punches me in the gut. I don’t see it in slow motion like in the movies. His hand flashes through the air and suddenly it is in my stomach. Kaboom.

  My mother screams.

  I love you, mama.

  Forever and ever.

  Eleven

  Dahlia Fury

  For my birthday, buy me a politician.

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4kTei0XrCs

  ‘Hey Molly,’ I say into the phone.

  ‘How’s it going, doll?’ Molly’s cheerful voice comes through my cellphone.

  ‘Great. How are you?’

  She sighs. ‘I’ve got a client who insists on wearing leopard and tiger prints at the same time. If it gets out that she consulted me, my reputation will be in tatters.’

  I laugh. ‘You’ll make it work.’

  ‘I do hope you’re right. So what can I do for you today?’

  ‘I need something to wear to the races.’

  ‘At this time of the year you’re presumably going to Cheltenham?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘It’s less high fashion than Ascot, but it can be lots of fun and very romantic if it rains.’

  ‘What? English rain is just wet and cold.’

  ‘The object is not to go into the rain, but snuggle up to each other in the bleachers.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not going to hope for rain.’

  She chuckles. ‘Coming back to your outfit. I think I have exactly the thing for you. I just saw it like three minutes ago at my friend’s boutique. It’s very, very French. A two piece skirt suit.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Do you want to wear a hat?’

  ‘A hat? I haven’t worn a hat since I was a kid.’

  ‘Then you must wear one. The races is one of the last few places left that one can wear a hat to anymore.’

  ‘You have successfully convinced me,’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that soon.’ She pauses. ‘I have your measurements so I’ll see if I can get a milliner to make one to match your outfit. Marney should be able to do it, but I’ll call you back and let you know if she can’t, and I have to find something readymade instead.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, impressed by Molly’s list of contacts and her ability to rustle up the perfect outfit at moment’s notice.

  ‘Right see you tomorrow night,’ she says crisply.

  ‘Thanks, Molly.’

  I slip into nude block heels (Molly says high heels will simply mean I’ll spend my day balancing on the balls of my feet on grass) and stand in front of the mirror looking like a character from Beverley Hills Housewives. My dress is immaculately tailored, lush pink, knee-length number. It comes with a coat in the same material an inch longer than the dress. The hat is a side sweep felt concoction in a delicate shade of blush, and decorated with three silk camellias dyed to match my outfit.

  ‘Go knock him dead, Dahlia,’ I whisper to my reflection, and go down the stairs to Zane’s room.

  As I open the door he is getting into a dusty-black single-breasted jacket. His shirt is bottle green and his tie mustard brown. Wow! He looks precious yes, but complicated. Somehow astonishing. Like coming across an extinct saber-toothed tiger and knowing that loving him or bringing him into your world can only mean loss. But he is real and I love him. The visceral desire to protect him is so strong I feel it like something the size of a fist in my throat.

  He stops mid-shrug and stares at me.

  Don’t address him seriously or carefully. This is a light occasion. I clear my throat and I twirl around. ‘Well, what do you think?’ My voice is light and easy.

  He pulls the lapels of his jacket together and walks up to me. ‘I think,’ he says brushing the back of his hand on my cheek, ‘it is cruel that one woman should have been given so much beauty.’

  I grin. ‘And I think it is cruel that one man should have been given so much charm.’

  He smiles. ‘That is one adjective I’ve never heard used on me before.’

  ‘That’s probably because you didn’t decide to lay it on thick before.’

  His eyes glow. ‘There was no one worth laying it on thick for.’

  I place my hand gently on his chest and look up into his gorgeous eyes. �
�Good. I’m glad.’

  He smiles. ‘Have you got your betting money ready?’

  I lift up my pink purse. ‘Yup.’

  He smiles. ‘It’s going to be very difficult for me to keep my hands from sliding up your dress today.’

  I laugh.

  We go outside and there is a spanking new, astoundingly beautiful Aston Martin DB11 waiting outside. Noah opens the passenger door for me and I slip into it feeling like a movie star. The seat is snug, deep and form fitting. It doesn’t smell of masculinity like Noah’s car, this one just smells like something very, very expensive. Practically every surface – including the headliner and rear deck has been finished in luxurious leather or some other exotic material.

  I touch the smooth leather as Zane slides into the driver’s seat.

  ‘That’s handcrafted raccoon,’ he says.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told me that. I like raccoons.’

  ‘Yeah, well, when I die Aston Martin is welcome to my skin if it’s going to end up in a car like this.’

  ‘You’re one crazy Russian,’ I tell him.

  Zane grins and guns the car. Raucous doesn’t describe the full glory of a V12 engine’s menacing roar. There is no point screaming over the noise so Zane switches on a Bang and Olufsen stereo system that is powerful enough to counteract the thunder of the engine, and the car fills with lively violin music. An hour and a half later and we are at Cheltenham Racecourse.

  As Zane drives up I see Noah and another member of Zane’s security team, I think his name is Boris, are already there. We get out of the car, and Boris gets into it and goes off to park it.

  I look around us in wonder. Everyone is colorfully dressed, which is rather unusual in Britain, and there is an air of festivity and excitement about them as they mill about talking and laughing.

  The three of us make our way to one of the private boxes. Zane’s friends and acquaintances are already there. Rose champagne and canapés are served by smiling staff. For the first time I get to see Zane interact with other people and I am shocked to see how different he is with other people. He hardly speaks and allows the other person to make most of the conversation while he inclines his head politely and listens and gives the occasional nod. There is almost an invisible force field around him that discourages anybody to get too familiar or close.