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

by Georgia Le Carre

  ‘Get your goggles and helmet on,’ he says, and I obey. I look out of the window and the jarring thought is: What the flying fuck am I doing? I have seen videos of jumpers falling out from planes and disappearing from sight and now it is my turn. Jaron shuffles me over to the edge of the plane, with our legs dangling out. My mind goes blank. And suddenly there is neither fear nor nervousness. A strange calm comes upon me. I turn my head to look up at Jaron. There is a strange light of excitement in his eyes. Our gazes meet and for a second we are connected on a deep level.

  ‘Three…two…one, we jump.’

  The force of the wind slams into me instantly as we hurtle through the sky at crazy speed. It pulls and sucks at the flesh on my face with a force that is shocking. My mouth drops open with the impact of the free fall and Jaron has to reach down and close it for me. I quickly get into the position Jaron taught me. The cold dry air and my own nervousness make my lips stick to my gums.

  I bring my tongue out to wet my lips and my tongue is buffeted by the freezing cold wind. There are sharp ice droplets in the air and Jaron holds his hands out over my face to protect me. We fall at over a hundred miles per hour from thirteen thousand feet. I give in to the unique high of rushing through cold, clear air, the dip in the stomach. The speed and the sensation of danger push everything else out of my mind. It is unexplainable and amazing and so different from anything I have ever experienced. Never have I felt that sensation of all my senses being open, on alert and on edge.

  The free fall lasts just under a minute.

  At five thousand feet Jaron gives me the hand signal and I move my arms across my chest in the brace position and wait for him to pull the chute. As he pulls it we are dragged into a vertical position. In movies it always seems as if pulling the chute causes the person to jolt upwards with great force, but it does not happen like that. The parachute opens slowly and the fall in speed is gradual.

  We begin to glide down under the canopy. Now that we can hear each other speak, Jaron asks, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I say, and I am filled with an odd emotion. A feeling of great tenderness for him. I don’t exactly want to call it love, but it is protective and slightly possessive and full of gratitude for the experience we have just shared. He even lets me steer at one point.

  He points to landmarks and I let my eyes follow his gloved hand, but I am still in a state of shock. My heart is pounding like a mad thing. It takes us four, maybe five minutes to glide down and then it is time to land. It was over too quick.

  Jaron reminds me to raise my legs up. I immediately obey so I don’t get injured. We have the perfect landing.

  ‘Whoop… Touchdown, baby,’ I holler.

  Jaron unstraps me, and, turning me around, kisses me hard. Really hard.

  ‘What was that for?’ I ask, when he raises his head.

  For a hot minute it seems as though he is going to say something important. Then he shakes his head and says, ‘For coming with me and being so cool up there.’

  I am buzzing like crazy. I grab his face and kiss him back passionately.

  ‘What was that for?’ he asks.

  I want to tell him about that strange emotion I experienced about him in the air, but I stop myself.

  ‘Thank you for that experience. It was super amazing,’ I say excitedly. ‘I shall never forget it.’

  He nods.

  I laugh with exhilaration. ‘Can we go up again?’

  He laughs too. ‘Maybe not today.’

  ‘God! It’s the best drug in the world.’ Adrenalin-fueled I whoop with joy. Finally, I understand one tiny part of him. That part of him that seeks out danger.

  Twelve

  We go to Lana and Blake’s house and Tom, their chauffeur, takes us all to a private club called Annabel’s.

  The doormen usher us in like royalty and we end up at a red lacquered bar surrounded by artwork. The walls have depressing, old-fashioned, polished brass and dark oak panels, and the ceilings are low and Moorish. The lighting is kept so dim that there is the feeling of being in a tomb or a cave. The clientele represents the denizens of British aristocracy in suits and international men of mystery who have as decorative objects tall and stunning Eastern European women half their age, and of course the super rich spoilt children of the Middle Eastern oil men. The dress code is strict and everyone is in a suit or a cocktail dress. Despite every effort to retain a décor of the dark and somber appeal of a library, the atmosphere borders on the nouveau riche.

  A few very expensive cocktails later we move to their dining room where the walls are lined only with bottles of Bordeaux. The maître d’ does the usual and swarms all over Blake. The other waiters, mostly Italian, are friendly, a little cheeky and indulgent. We dine on some kind of Franco-Italian food, which is very good. Both Lana and I have pasta, Jaron orders the Bellota Iberica ham and Blake goes for blood-soaked steak. For starters Blake orders caviar, which is disgusting, but which everyone else seems to think is great. The wine is vintage and very expensive, but I don’t like wine so I stick with my cocktails.

  Blake is sophisticated and urbane, Lana sparkles, Jaron is charming and attentive, and I just watch Jaron. There is a dynamic at work that I don’t understand. I watch Jaron work Blake Law Barrington and his wife. He is smooth. He is clever. He is funny. He is charming. And he is not the Jaron Rose I know. He is wearing a mask. He takes my hand, he looks into my eyes, he even leans in and kisses me on the lips, but this is not the Jaron I know.

  The Jaron I know is assertive and demanding and, well, a fucking animal. This smooth, well-oiled…salesman is a shock to my system. Looking at him you’d never imagine that he flies down mountainsides in a wingsuit or goes to dive clubs where everybody is high on drugs just for the music. Is he hoping to get some business from Blake Law Barrington?

  After bitter chocolate ice cream Lana and I move to the starlit dance floor to dance to cheesy seventies and eighties tracks. Obviously, I am conscious that I am dancing to ABBA but I have drunk so many fifteen pound cocktails I don’t care anymore. It turns out to be surprisingly fun.

  For the most part it is Lana and me who keep rushing off to the dance floor to boogie while the men stay and talk about whatever it is that men talk about when their women go off to the dance floor. Once they come to interrupt us. From the corner of my eye I see Blake whirl Lana away by the waist and hear her surprised, delighted laughter, and then I am distracted by a hand grabbing me by the ass and pulling me around.

  ‘Classy, very classy,’ I shout over the music.

  ‘Don’t give out all your compliments in one night,’ he tells me and slams me into his body. I curl my hands around his neck.

  ‘Are you having a good time?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, you were right. Blake is a great guy, for a billionaire.’

  And I am filled with a sense of great relief. I think I had been worried that he would not get on with Blake. ‘I wouldn’t want to have him as my enemy, that’s for sure. But it’s great when he’s married to your best friend.’

  He replies but I don’t catch it because Mambo No. 5 comes on and I shout, ‘Look, Jaron, they’re playing your song.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he says, but we have a good time, with me kicking up my heels, singing, ‘A little bit of Monica in my life, A little bit of Erica by my side, A little bit of Sandra in the sun. A little bit of you all night long makes me your man.’

  Jaron twirls me around beautifully.

  ‘Mambo number 5,’ I scream, taking one step to the left and then one step to the right. Then we are clapping our hands twice in unison with all the other dancers while moving along and laughing.

  ‘All we need now is a dose of Macarena,’ Jaron says.

  And shock horror, the DJ puts on Macarena. My mouth drops open. And then we fall about laughing. Jaron makes an exaggerated production of limbering up before following me in the Macarena dance. It’s fun. I never expected him to be such a sport, to allow himself to be so goofy. Even Blake h
as a go. Lana looks flushed and happy and I wonder if I look like that too, because that is exactly how I feel inside. Flushed and happy.

  By the time we get home it is nearly two in the morning and I am singing Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira. ‘No fighting, no fighting,’ I sing tunelessly as Jaron stuffs me through the front door.

  ‘Oh, baby, when you talk like that…’

  He drags me to the bedroom, throws me on the bed and falls on top of me.

  ‘My hips don’t lie,’ I tell him slowly, enunciating the words properly. ‘I bought them in Columbia.’

  He rolls me over so I am on top of him and it is immediately obvious that he is in no mood to banter. My knickers are sliding down my legs.

  ‘You’re mine,’ he says harshly, so different from the man who sat at the dinner table at Annabel’s. This is the Jaron I know. The promise in his words shivers straight to my sex.

  ‘Do whatever you want to me,’ I whisper hoarsely.

  ‘Say it. Say you are mine.’

  ‘I’m yours, Goldilocks. I’m all yours.’

  ‘Now fucking ride me until you get home.’

  I murmur something incoherent and start unbuckling his belt. I slide my wet pussy against his cock and adjusting it to the center of my core, push down. This drunken sex is beyond delicious. It is like part sex, part dream. It could become part misery if I am not careful: shit, where did that thought come from?

  I blank it out immediately.

  I shudder on the edge. ‘Hell, I’m going to come,’ I gasp and look into his face. His eyes are burning green and a thin sheen of sweat is making his skin glow. My heart trembles. Jesus, save me, I am falling for Goldilocks. And then I am going out with the waves that come to fetch me. The thin sheen of sweat on his body—I slip on it. Shit, am I falling for Goldilocks?

  Thirteen

  It starts innocuously. We are at an old haunt of mine, a gay club, and I say, ‘I don’t know what I am anymore.’

  ‘You’re a recovering lesbian,’ he replies.

  The glib answer irritates me and I decide to punish him. A little. ‘I’m kinda missing the feel of soft skin,’ I say.

  An expression crosses his face. I can’t say for sure what it is, but he quickly veils it. ‘You want to bring another woman into bed with us?’

  The question throws me. I had not actually thought that far, but now that he has said it I can’t dismiss it either. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully.

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Pick a woman you want and we’ll ménage.’

  ‘Have you been with two women before?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fun?’

  He shrugs noncommittally. ‘It was OK.’

  I chuck back my vodka. ‘All right, let’s find out where I stand with this bisexual lark. Don’t go far. I’ll be back.’

  He lifts his glass to his lips, his eyes utterly veiled. ‘Good luck.’

  Vodka is singing in my veins. I walk over to the bar. There is a girl I know standing at it. She is actually very beautiful with long dark hair and she has a stud in her belly button. I know because I have been to bed with her.

  ‘Billie,’ she says.

  ‘Sahara,’ I say.

  She kisses me on the lips and introduces me to two other friends of hers. Both have just come back from the dance floor with sheens of sweat on their faces. One is a butch girl called Gerry, and the other is a truly stunning half-caste girl with light eyes. Impossible to tell the color in the dark. Her lips are big and delicious-looking. Her name is Poppy. Lovely. Poppy trails her soft chocolate finger on my bare skin. Honestly, black girls have the softest skin of all races. Like baby skin. I knew straight away I could have invited her over. I could have had her.

  But I turn away from her and smile at Gerry. Big, spiky-haired, poor, ugly Gerry. She smiles back, eyes shining.

  ‘Where did you get your tats done?’ she asks.

  For a pick-up line it sucks miserably. ‘Kilburn,’ I tell her.

  ‘They’re nice,’ she lies lamely. Chocolate finger was better. By far better. Still. I guess she’ll do for tonight.

  And then I stop myself.

  Who am I fooling? I know exactly why I am not picking the real beauty of the bunch. I don’t want Jaron to be interested in her. I can’t bear the thought of him being sexually attracted to another woman.

  I think about all their clever pussy muscles clenching and releasing my fingers as I make them come, and yes, intellectually it is a hot thought, but my stomach doesn’t quake. Not even the thought of their tongues licking my clit does it. I turn and look across the room at Jaron. He is looking down at the table and he seems unreachable and…for that moment maybe even sad. I stare at him.

  ‘Got to go. I’ll call you,’ I tell Sahara. I wink at Poppy (lovely girl) and shrug at Gerry.

  I walk back to the table. At a pillar I stop and watch him.

  In the light of the nightclub his hair stands out. Blond men are a rare thing. He is wearing black leather trousers that hug his hips and gleam under the nightclub lights. He sits at the table, cool, relaxed. And I have to admit he is drastically sexy. I watch him flick a glance at the dance floor and get distracted by a woman in a bikini top and a nothing skirt.

  She is beckoning to him with one finger. Bitch! The flare of jealousy and irritation is instant and burns at my guts. I quell the desire to stalk up to her and ram her finger down her throat. I stare at Jaron. He extends his thumb and last finger and bends all the fingers between and holds his hand as if it is a receiver to his face. What the fuck? He knows someone in my old haunt? A gay club? And the fucking bastard wants her to call him.

  I stalk up to him. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Gemma.’

  ‘Gemma?’ I can’t help how sharp my voice sounds.

  He breaks into an idiotic smile. ‘You’re jealous?’

  ‘No. I am not fucking jealous.’

  ‘Then it’s no problem.’

  ‘Can I ask you a stupid question anyway?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Are you sleeping with her too?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  That answer inflames me beyond all reason. I want to go around and slap him. I am in a bad way for this guy. And he is so cool and unconcerned and so fucking unavailable. ‘Just once can you just answer the fucking question?’ I grit.

  He laughs deep and dark. I realize then that there will always be about him an undercurrent of lurking danger. Like a deep, deep well. ‘No,’ he says very clearly. ‘I’m sleeping with you.’

  ‘So what are you asking her to call you for?’

  ‘She works for a friend. I want you.’ His voice is tense and low. ‘Exclusively. If you want to bring another woman into the picture and share me it’s your call, but I’m not sharing you with anyone else. If I see a man even sniffing the air around you, I’ll rip his skin off.’

  The breath squashes from my lungs.

  Jaron is watching me, his eyes deliberately blank. ‘Well?’ he asks.

  I make up my mind pretty quick. ‘Come on,’ I say, and pull him off his chair.

  He slides off easily and follows me out of the nightclub. I’ll give him this. The guy knows when not to chatter. Never asks me where we are going. Simply follows. I like that. I turn down the road and into a side street. I know this place. I came here once to vomit. It leads to a cobblestone alleyway. There are large silver wheelie bins and black bin bags of rubbish stacked by them.

  I pull him into the shadows of a doorway and slam him against the door. The sound is loud in the deserted place.

  ‘Remember when I said, I’d never suck your dick?’

  ‘You changed your mind?’ He chuckles.

  ‘You’re a genius, Jaron Rose,’ I say and start unzipping his pants. He is as hard and as long as a policeman’s baton.

  ‘I have a crazy fantasy. In it I am a policewoman who stops a very attractive woman on a deserte
d road. “Did I do something wrong, Officer?” she simpers. “You were speeding,” I tell her firmly, taking out my ticket book. “You’re not going to give me a ticket, are you?” she asks alarmed. “I’m afraid so, lass,” I say opening my book. “I’m so very sorry, Officer,” she purrs. “I promise to be more careful next time.” I click the top of my pen. “Surely there must be something I can do for you?” she asks desperately.’

  Jaron’s face is a picture. He is so turned on his jaws are clenched. I reach into his black boxers and take out his baton in my hand. It twitches with excitement.

  ‘“Maybe,” I inform the young lady. Then I make her get out of the car and tell her very, very sternly to bend over the car hood with her legs spread open. In my fantasy the dirty girl is not wearing any knickers. I lay my palm on her lily-white buttocks and slowly push my baton into her wet, wet pussy. She screams with pleasure.’

  At that moment I drop to my knees on the cold cobblestones and move my mouth toward his cock and the smell of his leather trousers. With my eyes trained on him I slowly push the thick shaft between the nice, tight O of my lips. He tastes nothing like I thought he would. Spice and plums! I don’t eat plums and I hate spicy stuff, but I like the taste of him.

  His head rears back. ‘Oh God!’ he groans and I see the muscles of his hands bunch as they move toward my hair as if he wants to grasp it and control my head like he would the reins of a horse, but he stops himself in time. Maybe he doesn’t want to scare me away. I open my throat and take him deeper and deeper into my mouth.

  He looks down on me, his lust-filled eyes astonished by my skill. ‘I love watching my cock fill your mouth,’ he snarls.

  He doesn’t know that Lana and I have been to classes in London where we learned how to deep throat with a condom-covered banana. I am forced further down the trunk of Jaron’s throbbing monster. His helmet pushes my tonsils aside and I gag as the silky head lodges at the base of my throat. For a few seconds the gag reflex sets in and I stop. My throat flutters desperately. I grip his knees hard.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But gag reflex just feels so fucking good.’