by Renee Rose
Is she worrying about me? About my safety? That’s damn sweet of her.
I keep working. “I am taunting them, yes. But don’t worry, I’m slippery as hell. They won’t be able to track anything back to me.”
I sense her gaze on my face rather than the screen, but I resist peeking to gauge her reaction to my handiwork.
“Where do you learn how to do this?” she asks softly.
“Vlad Popov, a bratva brother. I studied with him back in Russia. I heard he married into the Italian mafia and lives in Las Vegas now. Part of the Tacone crime family. But I have far surpassed his skills. At least in hacking. He was more interested in—” I stop myself. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t go spilling bratva secrets to this girl. Especially not when she might be working with the Feds.
Except I’m almost certain she’s not.
Still, I don’t trust my gut when it comes to her.
“Sorry. I probably shouldn’t ask about anything work-related.”
“Work-related,” I snort at the term. As if the bratva was a job, not an identity. A life. And for many, a prison. “Right.” I finish changing Alex’s tax returns and close out. “There. That will haunt him for a few years at least. Straightening out messes with the IRS is tricky business.”
“I still don’t understand,” Natasha says. “Why did he shoot Nikolai?”
I resist the anger that surges—toward both Alex and her—and review the scene in my mind. I hate to admit what I think. “Honestly… I think when I came for you at the same time Nikolai came at him, he panicked. Maybe he thought I was a danger to you. Or he just couldn’t process both events happening at once. It definitely seemed like panic rather than his training or premeditation.”
“Yeah, he seems young. He’s probably straight out of training, don’t you think?”
I nod my agreement. “I don’t like the fact that the Feds targeted you. You’re in a precarious position now. You’ve admitted to the FBI that you know you live in a bratva-controlled building. They’re going to continue to try to use you as leverage.”
Finished with the sandwich, she sets her plate on the desk. “What’s going to happen to me?”
I shrug. “Depends, amerikanka.”
“On what?”
“On what I find. On your behavior. On many things.” My dick thickens again, thinking of her punishment this morning. It’s so wrong, but I find myself hoping she’ll misbehave. That I’ll get to pin her wrists and smack her ass and listen to her sweet, choked cries.
“Is it up to you? Is that why Ravil said he’d let you sort of the rest of it out with me in private?”
I can’t help myself. My lips curve into a tiny smirk. “That’s right. I decide how and to what extent you are punished. So if you were wise, you’d keep a safe distance from me.”
Her lips part in a pretty “O” but she doesn’t look scared or upset. No, her pupils are dilated. She’s turned on.
Blyad’. I need to rediscover my anger toward her because right now, I’m thinking of a hundred possible punishments, and they all involve her naked and at my mercy.
8
Natasha
Much of the heaviness lifts from my chest after talking to Story and getting Dima to at least converse with me. I saw glimpses of the real Dima today. The one who’s not so on edge and pissed off at me.
Did he actually call me sweet Natasha? And give my childhood frenemy five parking tickets? I don’t know anything about hacking, but it was obvious he has mad talent. It was impossible not to be turned on watching him change people’s lives with a few strokes of his keys.
I shouldn’t have let him do it, but there was no way I was going to refuse the small consideration he was giving me. Not when I’ve been so starved for any kindness from him.
There’s chemistry between us, for sure. And he’s resisting it. I just need to figure out why.
Or...I just need to get him to forget about his resistance.
I give him space for the rest of the afternoon, and he stays in the office and works. I stay attentive to Nikolai, getting him to swallow a little tomato soup, keeping his pain meds, electrolytes, and antibiotics going.
He blows me off when I make dinner—just some heated soup—telling me he’ll eat later, so I eat with Nikolai, then go upstairs and take a long bath.
When I get out, I’m pretty much ready to burn the cocktail dress. I wash my little G-string panties in the sink and hang them up on the shower rod to dry.
I pull on the ugly fishing shirt, which is a boy’s size large. It doesn’t even cover my ass. It’s lame, even for a nightshirt. At least I won’t have to sleep in the dress again tonight although I might be more comfortable naked.
That thought makes me all fluttery—like sleeping naked in the same cabin as Dima means something might happen. And after our brief truce this afternoon, I desperately want something to happen. He’s been a dick, but now that the seed’s been planted that it may not be about my big fuck-up—that he may be acting from a frustrated desire for me—the need to verify that hunch is huge.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror and take in my appearance. My hair is up in a messy bun. The shirt is tight across my breasts, showing the stiffened peaks of my nipples. It falls below my waist, about to the crease of my hips, so my bare and freshly shaved lady parts just peek out beneath.
Walking downstairs like this would be daring.
I’m not demure, but I’m definitely no sex kitten either. But unraveling the mystery of Dima’s behavior makes it worth a try.
I head downstairs and walk past Dima where he sits with his laptop on his lap and some kind of action movie on the television. He doesn’t look at me as I pass.
Dammit.
I head into the kitchen in search of something sweet to eat--preferably chocolate. I search through the pantry, open and close every cabinet door, cataloging all the ingredients. And, if I’m honest, stalling. Because I don’t want to head back upstairs without getting what I came down here for—and it wasn’t just dessert. It’s a reaction from Dima.
“What are you looking for?”
I pause without turning when I hear his voice behind me. He’s in the kitchen with me. I make a show of opening an upper cabinet and standing on my tiptoes, reaching up to the highest shelves, which causes the already too-short shirt to ride up.
I hear Dima’s sharp intake of breath. “What are you doing?” He sounds choked.
I still don’t turn. This time I drop to my hands and knees to open a lower cabinet and stick my head inside. “I’m looking for chocolate.” I continue with my hunt, sitting back and shifting to ransack the next cabinet, even though I’ve already searched them all.
“What—what are you wearing?”
I stand and slowly turn, arranging my expression into innocence. “The shirt you bought me.” I slide my palms down over my breasts.
Dima’s eyes flare. His fingers clench into fists at his sides.
“It’s way too small.” I had no idea playing the coquette could be so fun.
“Gospodi, Natasha. What—where are your panties?” He spits out the question like getting the answer is a national emergency.
“I washed them in the sink and hung them up to dry. I only have one pair, obviously.” I bring my hands to my hips which lifts the shirt to my waist again.
Dima’s gaze flicks between my legs, and he grows pale. When his gaze flies back to my face, something he sees there makes it harden. “Oh, I see.” He strides toward me and catches my wrist, his brows down low. “I know what you're doing.” He yanks my body roughly up against his. “You're being a cocktease.”
I lift my chin and meet his blazing gaze with a defiant one of my own. That’s right. What are you going to do about it? I close the half-inch distance that lies between our bodies, letting my nipples brush against his hard torso.
His blue eyes darken, a menacing heat radiating from his lethal body to mine. He cocks his head. “You may not like the consequences,
amerikanka.”
Try me. I slowly look down between our bodies to take in the bulge of his cock against my belly.
“Tormenting me will only get you punished again. Is that what you want? Should I put you on your knees to take care of this?”
With my gaze locked on his, I slowly lower to my knees.
“I don't like this side of you,” he mutters as I reach for the button on his jeans.
Ignoring the sharp stab of pain his words produce, I resolve to keep the upper hand. Because I do have it. I watched his control crumble before my eyes. Noted the effect of my body on his. I lower his zipper, freeing his cock. Gripping the base, I part my lips, slackening my jaw to show my tongue but stop before I make contact. “You do like this side of me,” I maintain, somehow making my gaze a challenge, even though I’m the one on my knees.
His cock surges in my fist, the purpled head already weeping with pre-cum. He wants to put it in my mouth. He wraps a fist around my messy bun, but when I resist him guiding my mouth forward, he yields. He’s not the kind of guy to force a woman. I thought so, but it’s still a relief to be sure.
“Say it,” I demand. I flick the tip of my tongue over his slit, tasting the drop of his essence.
His breath rasps in through flared nostrils. His expression is stony, his eyes hard, but he mutters almost inaudibly, “You’re right, amerikanka. There's no side of you I don't like.”
Victory surges through me as powerful and pleasing as an orgasm. Maybe I do orgasm—I don’t know. All I know is I engulf his cock with my mouth and take him as deep as I can.
He groans, his fingers tightening in my hair. This time when he tries to drive, I let him, aroused as hell by his desperation, his dominance. He pulls me forward and back over his cock and I suck on the outstrokes, my tongue swirling along the underside, caressing him.
“Blyad’,” he curses in Russian.
I slide my hands up his muscular thighs, but when I move to cup his balls, he catches my wrist. “Nyet,” he says harshly. “Put them behind your back. This is punishment.”
As if touching him with my hands would be a reward. But I love the order because when I hold my hands behind my back, I feel like his naughty little sex slave, and it hurtles me to the brink of my own orgasm.
I know I have a submissive personality, but I thought it came from immigrating to a new country as a child, from trying hard to fit in. Until now, I had no idea it was a sexual kink. I didn’t know how wet I’d get being bossed around by the guy whose dick is in my mouth.
I suck his manhood like my life depends on it, pretending that it does because this idea of a sex act as punishment turns me way on.
He tightens his grip on my hair, holds my head still, and pumps in and out of my mouth. “Natasha,” he rasps brokenly, giving himself away. Not that he didn’t already.
There's no side of you I don't like.
Now that he’s shown me his cards, he can’t hurt me anymore. He can be a grumpy asshole all he wants, but I know the truth. He’s into me. Way into me.
Now I just need to figure out why he’s holding back.
“Da...da…fuck.” Dima shudders, his balls contracting. “Coming,” he warns, releasing his hold on my head.
I don’t stop sucking. In fact, I suck harder, glorying in the hot spurt of his cum in my throat, swallowing his essence down with pride.
“Jesus.” He glares at me. “Get up.” It’s a harsh command, but it has no effect on me now.
He catches my elbow and hauls me to my feet. I don’t know what I expect—he’s not gentle, and he seems angry, but he puts both hands on my waist and lifts me to sit on the granite countertop of the L-shaped island.
My legs tremble, my breath heaves in and out of my chest. Dima picks up my knees, lifting and separating them until my feet stand on the cool counter, and I have to brace with my hands behind me.
His mouth is between my legs in milliseconds, and he’s not slow or nuanced. It’s more like an attack. His tongue lashes me open, drags through my juices. His lips find my clit, and he works it between them until he can suction his mouth over and suck.
I scream.
Not a ladylike cry. A full-on scream of shocked pleasure. I wriggle under the intensity of it, push at Dima’s head, try to squeeze my legs closed.
Dima is unfazed. He’s like a starved man, and I’m the main course. His fingers dig into my thighs as he holds my knees wide and goes to town on me. I orgasm within sixty seconds, but he doesn’t let up. That’s when he slides a thumb inside me and starts finger-fucking me, fast and hard. The heel of his index finger rubs over my clit with every plunge as he lifts his head and sweeps a gaze across the kitchen counter.
He leans over to grab something behind me. I turn, but then I’m lost, lying flat on my back, too stimulated to be able to hold my torso upright any longer. I prop myself on my elbows to see what Dima grabbed: a bottle of olive oil. He unscrews the cap with one hand, never stopping with the other hand, except to change to his index and middle finger, which he uses to stroke my inner front wall.
I shriek again when he finds my G-spot. “Dima!”
The pleasure is too much. It terrifies me, how out of control I feel. I wriggle and pant and then—
Oh, God.
Dima presses his other thumb—which he oiled up for me, against my anus.
I squeeze it up tight, my pelvis lifting off the granite countertop, and he spanks my pussy in punishment. “Nope. You’re taking it in the ass for that little cocktease,” he tells me at the same time he breaches my back hole.
“I didn’t tease!” I cry out, my eyes rolling back in my head with the new sensation. It feels good—wrong—but so good. “I sucked you off.”
“That’s true.” Dima’s voice gentles, and so does his touch. He holds his thumb in my ass but doesn’t move it. Instead, he lowers his head to slide his tongue slowly around my clit.
“Dima,” I croon. I’m already desperate to come again. I’m trembling from the waist down. My legs somehow found their way onto Dima’s shoulders, and I’m blind with need. No man has ever done any of these things to me. No anal play, no decent cunnilingus, definitely no kitchen countertop bringing me to orgasm in seconds kind of thing.
He penetrates my pussy with his other thumb, keeping his tongue on torture-duty with my clit.
My belly quivers as I suck in short, panting breaths. “Please,” I beg. “Please, I need…”
Dima starts slowly alternating pumps—first in my ass, then my pussy.
I tremble from head to toe, each sobbing breath is a low keening cry.
“Oh, Dima.”
He starts pressing both thumbs in simultaneously.
“No!” I exclaim in alarm although I mean yes because my orgasm is storming down the door, just about to pass-through—
He pumps faster.
“Yes!”
There’s that moment of stillness—the zero point between inhale and exhale, between desire and pleasure, the pause just before the climax. The ceiling spins, my palms slap the cool countertop, and then the release hits. I cry out. My internal muscles squeeze and shake around both his thumbs.
“Dima, oh my God, Dima…”
I lie with my eyes closed, my breath sobbing in and out as I wait for the last aftershocks to pass.
Dima pulls both his thumbs out, and I hear him washing his hands in the sink. He dries them, and I sit up.
“Come here.” He takes my waist and lifts me down.
“Um, we’d better sanitize the hell out of that counter,” I say, suddenly embarrassed over what just happened.
Dima’s lips twitch. “I’ll do it,” he mutters. His hands still rest lightly on my waist. He tugs the hem of my t-shirt down, even though it won’t go lower. He reaches one hand behind me and squeezes my ass. His other hand comes to the front, and he lightly rubs his knuckle over my slit. “You keep this covered, or I’ll put my cock between these milky white cheeks and fuck your ass until you’re sorry.”
A tremor runs through me—not of fear—of white-hot desire. I like Dima unleashed. I like seeing his passion show, to feel how hot it burns for me. I don’t care if it comes in the form of punishment—hell, I think I actually love that part.
I catch his wrist when he starts to move it away and press his fingers over my dripping sex. That tremor told me I could orgasm again with almost no effort at all.
Dima doesn’t leave me hanging. “You didn’t get enough?” Two of his fingers dip into me, and my breath catches. I mold my hand over the top of his and grind against the heel of his hand to rub my clit. The ripple comes on within seconds, and my knees dissolve, leaving Dima to hold me up as my lips part on another choked cry.
Dima stares at me, seeming to forget to hide his fascination. “Jesus.” He shakes his head, as if in awe. His voice sounds rough. “Do I need to put you back on that counter and eat that pussy until you scream?”
He phrases it as a threat, like that would be a horrible punishment, and it makes me squeeze around his fingers again, another little aftershock rippling through. He watches my face as if with avid interest. Without removing his fingers from inside me, he presses my ass back against the cabinets and reaches for something.
“Maybe you require something firmer.” He spins me around to face the countertop, and I see he’s grabbed a wooden spoon. My butt clenches in response.
“Do you?”
I realize he’s checking for consent, at least I think that’s what’s happening. It’s hard to sort it all out, but my head wobbles in my neck in a shaky yes. With his palm still cupping my sex, fingers sunken inside, he smacks my ass lightly with the wooden spoon.
“Ooh.” I squeeze around his fingers. My belly is all kinds of flutters. As I pant and wait for more, I’m seconds away from yet another orgasm.
“Did I make your punishment too enjoyable?” He spanks the same side a little harder. I clench my buttcheeks. It hurts, but I love it. I whimper and cover his hand with mine again.
