His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  Her eyes widen. “Oh?” She looks sad. “Well… damn, Niko.” she smiles. “We’re gonna miss you, around here.”

  “Hey, I’ll be back.”

  She smiles. We both know the reality.

  “Is he awake?”

  She nods. “Yeah, he’s up. He’s doing pretty good this afternoon.”

  I just nod. “Thanks.”

  “You come say bye before you go, yeah?”

  I grin. “Will do.”

  Down the hall, I knock on Mr. Palmer’s door.

  “C’mon in!”

  He grins when he sees me. “Hey, kid.”

  “How’re we doing, Mr. P?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Well, it hurts when I piss, and the meds make me piss all the goddamn time. So that’s fun.”

  I grin. He grins back.

  “You all packed up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He chuckles. “Sir? What’s this ‘sir’ crap?”

  “Practicing for the drill sergeants.”

  He laughs, and then wheezes and holds his side. But he waves me off when I move towards him.

  “Nah, I’m alright. I’m alright.” He nods at my backpack. “You bring the tapes?”

  “You know it.”

  He grins. “Hell yeah. Who’re we watching first?”

  “Tyson versus Ferguson, obviously,” I smirk as I head over to the VCR in the corner.

  Mr. Palmer groans. “Oh c’mon, that shit again?”

  I roll my eyes. “This is one of his best fights ever. Period.”

  He sighs. “You really gonna make a dying man watch goddamn Tyson?”

  I freeze. I try and play it off, but Mr. Palmer catches it.

  “Relax, kid. I’m not lookin’ to punch out today.”

  I glance back at him. “You know what? Screw it. I brought Ali versus Frazier.”

  “Oh now you’re talkin’!”

  We watch the whole thing off the grainy old VHS tape. When we’re done, it’s late. I know I’m way past visiting hours, even if Samantha always bends the rules for me.

  “I’ll check in tomorrow before I grab the bus.”

  Mr. Palmer nods. He frowns and looks down.

  “Hey, it’s just basic. If I can take your damn ankle weights routing and that fucking raw egg and cayenne pepper diet, I can do anything, right?”

  He smirks. But he still looks… cloudy.

  “You okay?”

  He looks up at me. Then he points to the closet in the corner. “You wanna grab the black shoebox in there?”

  I frown. “Uh, yeah, sure.” I grab it from the top shelf and walk it back over. Mr. Palmer stares at it for a long time. He taps the lid, but then he shakes his head.

  “You know what? Forget it.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s nothing, kid.”

  I frown. “Mr. Palmer—”

  “I was wrong. Now ain’t the time, trust me.” He smiles wryly. “It can wait.”

  I look at him curiously. “You sure?”

  “Positive.” He smiles, and then his brow furrows. “Listen, kid… they’re putting me on this new drug tomorrow. I want you to come before you leave, but just…” he frowns. “Look, if I’m all loopy and out of it—”

  “Mr. P, don’t worry, I’ll—”

  “Will you shut up and let me tell you how proud of you I am for a goddamn sec?”

  I grin. “Be my guest.”

  “No, that was it.” He grins. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

  “I owe—”

  “Oh now don’t get weepy on me,” he chuckles. “They’ll chew your ass up in basic if you show up all teary-eyed.”

  I roll my eyes. “Alright old man.”

  He laughs.

  “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

  “Hey, watch yourself at training.”

  “If I can take your bullshit—”

  “My bullshit is kids play compared to jarhead training, Niko. You get through that and you’re gonna be a beast in the ring. You tough it out with the Marines, and you’ll even give that big hack Tyson a run for his money.”

  I chuckle. “And Ali?”

  He snorts. “Dream on, kid. Dream on.”

  Present:

  By the tenth page under my “Belle Bardot Russian Bratva” Google search, I give up. I mean it’s hardly a forensic deep dive. But fuck it. I can’t for the life of me figure out how the hell she’d be considered a Volkov asset.

  It does give me a peak into her background, though. I’m guessing most of America and the rest of the world already knows it from a decade of tawdry celebrity gossip magazines. But it’s all new to me. It’s also more than a little illuminating.

  She wasn’t born rich and famous. It’s not like she had Hollywood producer or rock star parents. Actually, it’s the opposite. She’s like one of those country-girl-to-success story types they make feel-good movies about. Only she’s the real deal.

  No dad, grew up with a dope-addicted mom who’s rumored to have done some porn. She lived off food stamps, and then went to live with her aunt when her mom ODed.

  And then, lightening struck. She got a small part as the daughter character in this movie that went on to win four Academy Awards. Then she’s acting opposite Clooney, Pitt, and Diaz in some romcom. And after that, she was a household name. Now, she’s one of the biggest stars in Hollywood.

  I pour over more of the Wikipedia article on her, and a few of the less-trashy interviews I can find. It seems Belle really made a name for herself as the cute but sassy kid character—the hero’s snappy one-liner daughter; that sort of thing. But a few years ago, she switched gears.

  All of a sudden, she’s out around LA looking sexy. I frown. I’m not even sure I’m comfortable using that word, considering she turned eighteen like four months ago. But it is what it is. She starts getting snapped on the beach in scandalous bikinis by the paparazzi. And she starts dating this fucking Daniel Crew douchebag.

  I glare at my phone, my eyes burning a hole through the pictures of the two of them. The kid looks like a royal fuckwad. Douchebag hair, a smug, douchebag grin, and some seriously douchebag tattoos.

  But of course, people are stupid and eat that shit up. Apparently, he’s got a rep as “a real bad boy,” as one blog I read phrases it. I roll my eyes. He’s like the diet fucking cola of “bad.”

  My eyes scan pictures of the two of them, hand-in-hand and smiling for the cameras. I hate the dull, throbbing ball of anger it creates in the pit of my stomach. And I want to roll my eyes at myself at the feelings of jealousy that comes up at a picture of him kissing her cheek.

  But there’s nothing out there—not a single picture of them—doing anything more than holding hands, or him kissing her cheek. I frown. Maybe she was telling the truth about it just being a made-up media thing. I scowl and swipe away from the picture of the two of them anyway.

  I do a new search for newer images of her. When the results pop up, I suck at my teeth, groaning. Shit. The first one is that shot I saw on the cover of that magazine—her in the red bikini with the sunscreen dripping off her tits and the “She’s Legal!” headline emblazoned underneath it.

  I growl thickly. She’s legal all right. Thank fucking God.

  My cock swells as I swipe through more pictures of her. Christ, they’re really going all out with trying to “sexy” her up away from the sassy-cute stuff she’s known for. The thing is… I grit my teeth and glance down at the bulge swelling in my jeans.

  That whole “sex her up” thing? Yeah, it’s working.

  Image after image of Belle in bikinis, semi-tasteful lingerie for some men’s magazine, and more flip across my phone screen. But finally, I groan, drop it to the bed and I take a deep breath.

  I gotta cool the hell off or I’m never going to survive sleeping in the room next to her, with the doors open between us. And with the little contest sizzling through the air between us? Yeah, I need to calm down.

  I glance at the search results one more time.
But then, something catches my eye—a headline on a celebrity blog so famous that even I know of it.

  Belle Bardot Bares All?!?

  My jaw clenches. I click on it, and my fury rises. According to the horribly written “article” littered with too many exclamation points and fucking emojis, someone’s hacked Belle’s cloud or something. And they’re threatening to release nude photos of her.

  My eyes sweep over the blurred out “teaser” that the hacker has already put out there. I frown. What the fuck. The image is so blurred, it could be of literally anything. It could be a basket of French fries, or a pile of leaves.

  But still. The idea that someone would do something like that makes me fucking furious. It makes me want to hunt down this hacker and any pathetic pieces of shit like him and post their nudes on the internet for everyone to gawk at. Let’s put this little fuck-wads balls up on the world wide web and see how fucking smug he is then.

  I hear whistling—a tune of some kind coming from her room. I stand and walk across the floor until I can see into her room.

  Shit. My breath sucks in. My cock surges against my jeans.

  It’s Belle whistling. In her bra and lacy little thong panties.

  My eyes narrow. My jaw grinds, and my balls swell. She’s prancing around the room—literally skipping and prancing—her tits bouncing, and her drum-tight ass flexing and swaying to the music on her headphones.

  She turns and catches me staring through the open door. And she smirks.

  She’s fucking with me. She’s playing the game, and it’s fucking working. She’s still smirking, not doing a thing to cover the fact that she’s all but naked as she pulls the ear buds out.

  “Sorry, was I disturbing you?” She bats her eyes innocently. She keeps this up, and I’m going to bend her over that bed and fuck the “innocent” right out of her.

  But I somehow get ahold of myself. I steady my nerves and bite back the beast inside.

  “Me? Nah,” I shrug. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  Her smirk fades. Her lips purse. She looks pissed, and I grin. Something tells me the “hottest girl in Hollywood” isn’t used to men telling her she’s “okay.” Even if in my case, it’s a complete fucking fabrication. She’s more than okay. She’s goddamn perfect.

  She’s a fucking goddess.

  But then she seems to catch herself. She rolls her shoulders back, thrusting her tits out. The cups are lacy and gauzy, and I can literally see the pink of her nipples poking hard against them. I groan, but I keep my composure. Barely.

  “You know, all you have to do is cross the doorway,” she smirks. “You know, admit defeat?”

  “Same goes for you.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

  I grin. “Same.”

  Her tongue slips out to wet her lips slowly. Her bright blue eyes fill with a smoky, lust-filled heat. “You sure I’m not bothering you? I can put something on,” she purrs.

  I shrug. “Hey, you do you, princess.”

  “Okay!” She says brightly. She turns and drops one of her ear buds. She pouts. “Oh, darn it.” Slowly, Belle turns, and without bending her knees, she reaches down to pluck it off the floor, giving me a full view of her perfect—her actually perfect, tight, soft, tempting ass, split right down the middle by her lacy thong.

  My teeth grind. The growl rumbles in my throat.

  I can take a lot. But fuck, I mean I’m looking at the most famous pop star on earth, in her panties. Bending over for me. Men would kill for this.

  I groan and clench my hand to a fist at my side. But I’m not breaking like this. She’s playing a game here—a dangerous one. But it ain’t gonna be me that breaks.

  She’s still bent over trying to play cock-tease when I turn and walk away. I grin when I hear the “what the fuck” muttered under her breath when she realizes I’m not gawking at her. But when I strip my jeans and boxers off and toss them into her view from her side, I hear her breath suck in.

  “I’m just gonna take a shower. That alright with you, princess?” I call out.

  “Better make it a cold one,” she tosses back.

  I chuckle and step into the bathroom. I should take a cold one. But I keep it nice and scalding hot. I did kill seven people earlier, after all. But that’s not what I’m thinking about when I soap up under the spray.

  I’m thinking of her. I’m thinking of how tight those panties were pulled against her little pussy, bent over for me. I’m thinking about the magazine shoots, and sunscreen dripping from her tits.

  I groan as my cock surges thicker and harder, until it’s throbbing swollen and obscene between my legs. I wrap a soapy fist around it and hiss quietly. But then I drop my hand and shake my head.

  Enough of that. What am I, fourteen?

  I’m still hard as I rinse off. I’m still throbbing when I get out and dry off. The doors between our rooms are obviously still open, and I grin. Two can play this fucking game.

  Naked and rock-hard, I stroll over to the open doorway. I lean against it as my eyes land on her. She’s laying across her bed, scrolling through her phone. She’s on her stomach, legs together, her ass towards the door. And she’s still in her goddamn bra and panties.

  “You don’t have a spare towel, do you?”

  “No, I—”

  She turns to glance over her shoulder, and her jaw drops. Her face turns bright red and her gaze falls right to my cock as her eyes about bulge out of her pretty head.

  “No? No towels?”

  She swallows. She’s still just staring at my thick, throbbing cock. Her tongue wets her lips. But then she seems to catch herself. She makes an “eep” sound as she quickly drags her eyes up to mine, her face still throbbing with heat.

  “Um…”

  I smirk triumphantly. “You okay, princess?”

  “Fine,” she blurts quickly. Her eyes start to dip again, and I can almost see the power it takes her to keep them looking into my eyes instead.

  “You seem flustered. Need me to put something on?”

  “I—”

  “Still just like all the guys in Hollywood?”

  She blushes and drags her teeth over her bottom lip. Slowly, she curls her legs under her and sits up. She moves to sit on the edge of the motel bed. Her face is bright red, her eyes wide but not sure where to look. They keep dropping to my dick before she tries to yank them back up to my eyes. She trembles slightly, and her hands grip the edge of the bed.

  Somehow, she’s gone from sultry temptress draped across the bed to nervous, innocent schoolgirl. She almost looks scared. For a second, I frown and wonder if I’ve taken this too far. Famous sex kitten or not, she’s young. She’s eighteen. There’s a chance I’ve taken her show of bravado and trying to be a little tease as a real deal that she actually isn’t.

  “I’m gonna grab a towel,” I mutter quietly when she shivers. Yeah, fuck, I’ve taken this teasing game too far.

  I turn to leave. But when Belle slowly uncrosses her legs, and leaves them slightly spread, I stop. My gaze drags back to her. I see the flush of pink on her face. I see the way her nipples are hard and pink against the gauzy lace cups of her bra.

  I see the darkened, wet patch on her panties, right between her thighs.

  She swallows, trembling. I know I should leave. I need to leave. I need to pull myself from this doorway, barricade the door shut with a piece of furniture, jerk off, and shut this shit down, now.

  But I can’t move. I can’t even look away from her. I look at her like I’m starving, and she’s a full-spread meal. The air feels like it’s sizzling between us. The room is warmer. My pulse thuds with a hypnotic beat in my ears. My hands clench and then clench again.

  “No,” she croaks out in a whisper.

  My jaw clenches. “No what.”

  “No,” she swallows. “You’re not like all the guys in Hollywood,” she whispers. “You’re not like any of the guys in Hollywood.”

  Belle’s teeth rake over her lip agai
n as she arches her back just a little bit. Her lip catches and twists in her teeth again. And this time, it’s the straw that breaks this camel’s back.

  My brain sends the signal. My legs respond, and I step across the doorframe into her room. Belle’s breath catches. She whimpers quietly and her eyes drop to my feet before sliding back to my face.

  “You lose,” she whispers hoarsely as I move towards her with purpose. She gasps and slides back on the bed, biting her lip, resting on her elbows as I storm towards her. Belle whimpers when I push between her legs and lean over her, bringing my face and my lips an inch away from hers.

  “If you say so,” I growl. My hand slides into her hair at the nape of her neck, grabbing a fistful of it. But her moan is stifled when my mouth crushes to hers, and I kiss her deeply.

  The feel of her soft, pouty lips is like sweet relief. It’s like the dam breaking. I snarl into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her. She’s trembling against me, but also moaning so eagerly when I push her back against the bed. Her hands falter on the covers before they move to touch me.

  Her soft, small fingers drag over my biceps. My hand tightens in her hair. The other lands on her hip. My thumb brushes against the lace of her panties. Belle whimpers into my mouth. Her hands grow bolder. One slides to cup my jaw as she kisses me passionately. The other moves to my ribs. She pushes it lower, but then seems to catch herself before it gets too low.

  I’m not going to catch myself, though.

  I kiss her deeply, sucking her tongue between my lips. She moans and trembles against me. Her body arches to press to mine. I slide my hand around the waist of her panties. My fingers slip under the material, and Belle whimpers. Her stomach tightens against my hand, and I slide it deeper.

  She’s so smooth; so fucking soft. So fucking silky. My hand delves under her panties to cup her mound. My thick finger strokes through her lips, and I growl into her mouth. She’s wet—so, so unbelievably wet and slick for me. My finger pushes into her. Belle pulls away from my mouth to moan loudly. But then she smashes her lips right back to mine.

  She clings to me, gasping as I stroke my finger in and out of her. I drag her slickness up and roll my finger around her aching hard clit. Her hips move with me, pushing greedily against my hand. I add more pressure, and her nails dig into my skin.