by Amarie Avant
I chuckle low in my gut, my massive shoulders rising. Slowing the direction my mind is headed, I resist the carnal desire to attack her addictive pussy. “Alright, I’m still in trouble, proceed.”
On all fours, Anastasiya crawls up. Her marinated sex lands on my lower abdomen. Eyes twinkling, she says, “Damn right, you’re in a world of trouble.”
How do I act civilized when I can already see her lips wrapped around my cock? Anastasiya stops dragging her thumb across the stickiness to gloss her lips with it.
I hitch in another breath. “Let me in your sweet pussy, moya milaya. You’re angry. I’ll fix it. You want me to fuck you. I know you want me to fuck you deep.”
The need to be inside of her grows frantic. Her nipples harden, and she hitches oxygen, licking at her lips. Then she reaches up, her breasts in my face again, as she ties my wrists to the headboard. “Asya, put those pretty tits around my dick. Or your mouth, you know how lovely it feels sucking me deep.”
“I’d rather ride the fuck out of you, Simeon.”
“Do it.”
Making quick work of the ties, Anastasiya gives a good yank before retorting, “Again, you’re not in charge.”
“Nyet talking. Make your move.” Impatience builds inside of me. “Close that pretty mouth, or I will put something in it.”
I expected another attempt at a retort, but her mouth clamps shut. Her tiny hand weaves down the length of me with a satisfying moan. Her pink tongue flicks out, soft and wet at my cockhead. My dick remembers the contours of her mouth well. Growling about the constraints, I let my head fall back on the pillow, while her mouth works.
“Grrr,” I grumble as cool air meets my dick.
“I said, ‘I’m in charge.’ ” Anastasiya matches my glare, moving up to clamp her hips around me. She pushes her legs wide, and I stop favoring oxygen to watch the apex of her sex swirl around my crown. Her pussy sucks me in, then rises, leaving the head of my tautness soaking in her juices. Hunger plays in Anastasiya’s eyes. She plants her silk fingers along her clit. Her lips quiver as she clamps around me as she thrusts downward. With an intoxicating grin, she does magic. My cock disappears, and I groan. My hips move in time with her movements. She leans forward, hard nipples gliding over my chest. She drags her teeth along the tender skin across my neck then bites down.
I hiss, “What are you doing to me?”
“Killing you, Simeon, like you killed me.” She chews her bottom lip, thrusting harder. “Because we part ways tomorrow.”
Allowing her this level of control arouses me tremendously. Her strokes are long and deep, gliding off my erection almost all the way before sinking down to the hilt. Eyes rolling back in my head, I succumb to her drug-laced pussy. That mouth of Anastasiya’s always diverged from what her sweet cunt said. Insanity elevates around us, pulling us both deeper. Nyet letting her go.
Chapter 35
Anastasiya
I slam down on his cock, over and over, my fingernails clutching his shoulders. The bastard didn’t believe me. He will soon. I can hardly smile, barely catching my breath as the pleasure builds. My legs cling to Simeon’s waist. He has nowhere to go but deeper inside of me. I come undone from gliding over his smooth erection. Even while riding him, Simeon finds the spots that make me gasp and arch, teasing the desire from my body. His dick has awakened my craving into something that can’t be ignored.
I concentrate on the pain I’ll cause him as I climb and crest. The heat and freedom of fucking Simeon crash over me in a violent wave. I throw my head back in a cry of passion, biting my tongue from the automatic response. When sex and Simeon are involved, I’ve declared my love to him a million times over. No more.
Bucking and moaning, my pussy floods his cock. The next release slams into me. Surprise flickers in my gaze. Simeon thrusts his hips upward, abdominals flawless, as he matches my vigor. We detonate, utter ecstasy rushing across our skin, binding us together as I fall into him. My nails dig into his back, pleasure vibrating through me. I delight in his slight hiss of pain.
“I love you, moya milaya.” Simeon’s voice is rich, beautiful, reverberating in my mind like a therapeutic bell.
Don’t do it, Asya, you can’t hurt him.
Heat builds at the back of my eyelids, I sit up, tearing my fingers over his biceps, and he allows it. A canvas of viciousness and muscles beneath me. The fingers of my left hand trail across savage proof of who he is.
Skulls, guns, stars, all these tattoos are the makings of him. Smiling, I reach over and grab his firearm.
I can hurt him because he hurt me!
“Anastasiya?” The lust clouding his eyes dissipates. He snarls, “Do not fool yourself.”
“Oh, I have faith you’ll remove the ties. But you wanted to kill me, Simeon.” The barrel trails across a perfectly defined abdominal muscle. “You clipped my stitches. That shit hurt.”
Shame clamps his mouth together.
“No apologies?”
Eyelid twitching, Simeon growls, “I apologize. I had a fucking letter, Asya. Undeniably written by you!”
“For a bitch I once called Sister! Still, I forgive you. I won’t kill you,” I mutter, as he lifts from beneath me, sending my ass jolting on top of him. “Not a good idea to fuck with me while I hold a gun, though!”
Simeon frees his hands from the tie the second I squeeze the trigger.
“Fuck!” His mouth tenses.
Emotionless, I click the safety and toss the gun back onto the nightstand. Climbing off him and into a seated position, I search the bed for my towel and hold it out.
“You,” he mutters under his breath.
“Call me a bitch, Sim. Use your words. Use your hands!”
Simeon seizes the towel from my grasp and places it on his side, the exact place I was stitched up a few days ago. It’s a good thing too because he ruined my aim. The doors burst open. Guards enter on high alert. I slink down, shielded by his massive body.
“Enjoy your evening. We’re bonding.” I wave them off.
“Bring me something to stitch myself up with,” Simeon growls. He slides into a seated position.
“Oh, I almost forgot you were capable of stitching. Oddly, a tiny babushka did the honors for me.”
“Who the fuck stitched you up the first time?” Simeon clinches his teeth, holding the bloodstained towel on his side. Face softening, he groans, “Listen, don’t answer. Fuck the past. I want us—”
“We are on your rollercoaster. Let me off nicely.” Burrowing my head into my pillow, I snuggle farther into the sheets. The scent is so intoxicatingly sexy. I’ll sleep well tonight. This beats a goodbye kiss. I snort, “Do you feel an iota of remorse from my direction, Sim? No!”
The door opens again. A byki tosses a miniature stitching kit and closes the door. Simeon catches it in a large fist. He removes the towel. Blood streams from what I assumed was a flesh wound. Ooops. A chunk of skin is gone. Darn, his custom bullet is huge. He glares at the kit before flinging it across the way. I hide a smile in my pillow. Simeon climbs out of the bed.
“Let me off the rollercoaster, asshole!” I taunt.
A hard smile crosses his even harder stone-carved face. “You have that mouth. I could never murder you, not on account of that mouth.”
“Let me go!”
“Not an option, girl.” Rolling his eyes, Simeon turns away. He plucks up a vase on the coffee table then another shiny object. One by one, he inspects the hotel’s décor.
Having watched my fill of 20/20 in America, I clear my throat. “Are you searching for the perfect blunt force . . .” Shit, he is going to kill me, I consider as he chuckles to himself. Not a minute ago, Simeon declared that my mouth was my saving grace. But I no longer believe in him.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. I’m no match for Simeon. Kirill at least offered a knife when he almost spazzed out on me. “Are you—”
“Nyet,” he mutters, lifting a metal, oblong shape, tosses it up and catches it. “You fucked me c
razy just now, meaning I could never kill you.”
Lies! I scamper across the bed to grip the gun again. Smiling at him, I let the nozzle glide around my index finger. “This is crazy. But I could pull a Romeo and Juliet. Place a slug between your eyes . . . eh, kidding. We aren’t madly in love. Just psychotic. So, I’ll kill you then die by the hands of the next mudak to fly into this room. I have no problem with that.”
Simeon laughs low, deep. I blink a few times, holding the gun steady as he disregards me, searching across the room.
He disappears into the bathroom, returning with a face towel and wraps it around one side of the metal artwork. He stops at the extended fireplace, which is the same as in my room. Fire billows across the area. Taking a measured breath, Simeon sits on the tiled hearth. He places the end of the metalwork inside of the flame as if we’re at a bonfire.
“What are you doing, Sim? I’m holding a gun.”
He mutters over his shoulder, “Cauterizing the wound from my beloved Anastasiya, but by all means.”
“Whatever.” I drop the gun into the fray of blankets, reach over to the nightstand and grab a glass figurine. As he’s starting to place the heated metal across his flesh to seal his wound, I toss it in his direction.
“Fuck,” Simeon grits. The fiery metal lands on his designated target. In a tense voice, he growls, “What are you doing?”
“Contemplating!” I shout back. “As to how I’m in the room with a complete sociopath. You’re burning a wound I gave you, instead of exacting revenge. I’ve hurt you more than anyone. You have hurt me more than anyone on the planet! Simeon, put me out of my misery.”
The metal clatters against the marble floor. His golden skin is singed red and purple, where it is melded back together.
“I can’t, Anastasiya!” Warm eyes smolder over me, and his voice lowers, “I’m not capable of killing you or letting you go.”
Taking a measured breath, he looks me over. “I made a mistake, not finding you the very second you needed me.”
“I don’t need—”
“I’d call it the fucking mistake of my life. Not ripping Chutin’s heart out on day one of your disappearance . . . fuck! That isn’t the extent to how far I’ve hurt you.”
Chin high, I retort. “Then what is?”
Shoulders slumped, Simeon replies, “From time to time, I thought about how fucking stupid I was for allowing you to stay.”
“Should’ve shown me your true colors sooner.” My voice grows taut. Damn, he’s wrong about my mouth. I’d have murdered me a long time ago.
“Dah. Day fucking one, I should’ve let you go, Anastasiya. The moment you followed me back to my car. That dictated how fucking awful your world would be, and I’m a monster. A monster like my father.”
I can’t stop gawking at him, can’t refute his statement. My gaze swallows him whole, from head to foot. The pure definition of trouble, right there. His broad shoulders are all contours and tattoos: all taut flesh, misery to the female race. For dumb girls, like me, instincts warn us, but our hearts fail us.
“From the start, I told myself not to let this beautiful, wounded bird fly off into the world. What’s to say another bad mudak, like me, worse than me,” he growls, tossing a fist at his chest, “would not claim you, hurt you! That still happened, Anastasiya. Oleg and Irek still happened.”
But I knew them before you. I stop myself from removing the blame weighing on his shoulders.
“Now, it’s too late. Before a few days ago, I could have always given you my loyalty.” He huffs. “In the past, I’d doubted everyone I was affiliated with, but I’d rampage to the end of the bloody fucking world because I didn’t doubt us. Then I did. Second worst mistake of my life. Not finding you sooner.”
“Where do we go now?” My tiny voice echoes across the room, though all I want to say is, “Never let me go.” Yup, dumb girls like me. Can’t get him out of my head. Can’t remove his essence from my heart, my fucking bloodstream.
“Away from Russia.”
Chapter 36
Anastasiya
One Week Later
I remember gripping fresh soil. I’d sprinkled it across Luka’s custom baby-blue casket. His mother, father, Kirill, and other siblings sifted the same soil through their fingers, praying for him, although, Luka’s body wasn’t submitted to the earth.
At the end of the procession, his final resting place was in a rich, marble mausoleum. The entire Resnov family has been placed there for decades. Mother Sofiya was too “weak” to attend. Kirill gave the sweetest speech. His wet gaze flickered over me as he mentioned wishing he had accepted Luka. Not many Resnovs knew Luka was gay, or they had their heads stuck too far up their own assholes to see it. I was shocked to see Mikhail still in Russia. He kept his distance, though, favoring his father, Malich.
For now, the Seven, all of the uncles, insist that Simeon create a plan for Irek Chutin. They promised that their patience and resources were at the Tsar’s disposal.
The moment Luka was sealed in, Simeon said we were headed to the tropical island he had promised. Though numb, I warned that as long as a Resnov didn’t own the island, I’d go.
Now, the sea-salted air whispers across my skin. My freshly pressed hair tickles my cheek, and I push a strand back. I lean my arms against the weathered wood. Glittering water takes up the entire sunny horizon. I stand on a wooden platform surrounding the overwater bungalow. Farther out somewhere, the sea merges into turquoise skies. The bungalow is the only structure around for miles, presenting all the luxury and peace I ever needed.
“Why are you standing there?” I groan. I glance over my shoulder at Simeon. He has a massive shoulder leaning against the open partition. He’s wearing all white for a change, not with the intention of reveling in blood. The linen pants and shirt offer a delightful deception, normalcy.
“I was quiet.”
“Yeah, you were,” I mumble. But I felt your eyes warm over me as if assessing me and protecting me all at once. I won’t say as much. We haven’t fucked since I shot him, not a single taste from each other’s lips. But his presence has always pleased me, going all the way back to when we met, even when I was mute.
“The chef and his team are en route, Anastasiya. What do you have in mind?”
I shrug, glancing off in the distance. “There’s the boat.”
“What are you hungry for? You were in your room all morning and didn’t make any suggestions for last night.”
“Not hungry,” I sigh. His intoxicating cologne fuses with the sea air, set to levitate me toward him. Simeon saunters toward me.
“You have to eat.” His hands rub down my shoulders.
I shy away. The overwater villa is big enough for both of us. His bedroom is over two-thousand square feet away from mine. “I’ll eat whatever.”
He claims my biceps firmly when I do another two-step. “I’ll make you eat, Asya.”
My lashes flutter upward, deadpan gaze on him.
He doesn’t test me, inquiring, “You were thinking about Luka?”
I look away. “Yeah . . .”
Biting his lip pensively, Simeon asks, “Or were you deliberating over Irek, or my mother?”
My gaze levels with his. “No.”
“You sure?” His hands travel up my shoulders, glide across my neck, and frame my face. “The second you say you’d like to return, my mother will answer for her actions, Anastasiya. I spoke with Kirill. A team is sifting through all of Chutin’s political affairs and outings. We will carry out your orders for him.”
I chortle hesitantly. “My desired plan of torture, sure, thanks.”
“How many times have I said, ‘I’d do anything for you,’? ” he murmurs, temptingly close. “I’ve failed. Test me.”
Pleading ribbons his gaze. Simeon never utters or begs, but it’s consuming him. Our lips are a fraction away from each other. The sound of a boat switching gears sends me reeling back in my flip-flops.
A few minutes later, the cre
w of four starts off the motorboat.
“Ms. Anastasiya, I have your jar of peanut butter,” the chef says. His blond dreadlocks jostle softly in the wind as he holds up my craving. “Mr. Resnov, you’ll be happy to know I spent all night studying a borscht recipe for later.”
I pluck up the jar, prepared to mutter my appreciation when Simeon takes it from me. “She’s eating real food today.”
For an entire month and a half, Simeon force-feeds me a delicious array of food. After candlelight dinners overlooking the sea or late breakfasts at the kitchen table, I return to my room. Keeping down food is impossible. Breakfast is always the worst. Hallucinations of Oleg and his foul oatmeal flit through my psyche.
This evening, I groan, my bare feet moving along the smooth glass floor. A colorful school of fish is right below. In a maxi dress, I amble out of my bedroom, closing the door quickly. My body flush against the wood, I close my eyes and breathe. Good. I stalled Simeon’s routine. He has a habit of knocking on my door precisely at seven. This bedroom is my sanctuary, not his. No way you’re getting inside, I muse. My half-smile falls when I feel his gaze on me.
I peel open my eyes. Simeon is on the opposite end of the hallway. The side conveniently marked his side. The kitchen and other common areas are between us. And his damn walk, he owns the vast space between us. Ceasing temptation, my vision plummets from his frayed shirt and how it caresses his muscles. The fit of his jeans is another no-go, I end up gawking at his large feet. Mister casual, are we? I find my voice, “What?”
Time trickles by. He had to be checking me out too. Simeon clears his throat, “We’ve been here for over a month—”
“Return to Russia.” I stay planted against the closed door, though he’s slowly passing by the kitchen island. What’s worse? Not allowing him to enter or having nowhere to retreat?
“My intention isn’t to rush you.” He stops, leaning nonchalantly at the entrance to my hallway. My area. There’s too much space between us.