“How sore are you?” he asked coarsely, his gaze slowly sliding up my naked body to meet mine.
My throat felt tight when I realized he did feel a little guilty. The thought aroused a weird sensation of solace, spreading something warm and heavy that melted all the tension within.
“Sore,” I exhaled.
He murmured something in Russian that radiated down my spine. When he pushed my legs apart, they complied.
He thumbed the top of one of my thigh-high socks, growling, “These fucking socks, Mila.” He tugged one down a little and nipped the flesh beneath it, sending a hot shiver through me.
Pulling back, the heat of his eyes warmed my sex, the ache inside coming alive again and pulsing. I was growing warm everywhere, the feeling interrupted by a cold wave of shyness when I recognized his intention.
“Wait,” I blurted and tried to pull free from his grip—but, as usual, it didn’t budge.
The look that lifted to my face was heated and narrow-eyed with a silent question.
“I bled.” My body grew tense in his hands, ready to flee from the embarrassing situation.
His dry expression conveyed he didn’t understand the point I was trying to make.
I grew flustered at the fact I even had to explain this. “It’s . . . gross.”
A second passed, and I thought he wanted to laugh, but the humor was contained by the intensity in his gaze. “As much as I wish otherwise, there is nothing about you I could find gross.”
The warmth that rushed to my face was consumed by fire when he went straight for the soreness around my opening, tracing it with his tongue. The pressure stung a little, but the heat of his mouth relieved it and sent a zap of pleasure to my toes.
Breath shaky, l readjusted my purchase on the couch, my thighs falling open at the next lap of his tongue, which he then slid inside of me. My head lolled back, a moan escaping my lips.
“Fuck, kotyonok. Dazhe tvoya kiska na vkus kak klubnika.”
I understood the gist of the statement given the mention of “cunt” and “strawberries.” The dirty Russian pushed all reservations to the wayside. Bracing one hand on the couch, I slid the other into his hair. I ran my blunt nails across his scalp and felt a shudder ghost down his back.
He was ignoring my clit, each lick making it throb in anticipation. Every time he came close to where I wanted him, I rocked my hips to make him get there, but he only drew his mouth back to my opening, which he soothed with undivided attention.
A fire brewed beneath my skin, sending a flush to every cell inside of me. My breath accelerated to little puffs of air, and the pressure in my core began to heat and build and blister. The flat of his tongue slid upward, so close to my clit I trembled, dying with need.
“Please,” I begged, my fingers tightening in his hair.
“Nyet.”
Ronan knew it would send me over the edge. I wanted to complain this wasn’t about him, but I didn’t have the words to do so—nor did I want this to stop yet.
Sliding a rough palm up my stomach, he squeezed a breast in his hand. I released a frustrated exhale as the ache inside swelled, desperate to be filled.
“More.”
Somehow, he understood what I needed and slid two fingers inside of me, immediately pressing against a spot that made my eyes roll back. The heat of his gaze warmed my face, a groan rumbling in his chest.
“Eta pizda byla sozdana dlya trakha.”
The pressure expanding, the sound of his voice—it was all too much. The final push that sent me over the edge was him sliding his tongue over my clit and sucking. Heat erupted, traveling down my spine like flames and sizzling in my blood before quieting to a languid hum. My core pulsed around his fingers. My clit grew so sensitive I tried to weakly shove his head away, but he took his time before stopping.
I vibrated everywhere in the aftermath, a quiet taking over and plunging me into sated darkness. I didn’t know how much time passed before he lifted me and carried me to my room, but I did know I fell asleep before my head hit my pillow.
xanthophobia
(n.) fear of the color yellow
Darkness cast the room in shadow, though a golden sheen surrounded Mila’s sleeping form like a halo. The strange glow could be a trick of the light, but the night was a moonless one, meaning there wasn’t any fucking light. With a sense of annoyance, I realized I needed to get my vision checked.
My gaze narrowed as it swept down her body—from her cheek resting on a curtain of long blonde hair, to the shallow breaths escaping parted lips, to the rise and fall of her breasts, and the sliver of visible skin that trailed to her navel. The view was a painter’s wet dream; the girl too flawless to be real.
I wanted to slap her.
The thought was the only thing that explained the slight tremble in my hands. I slipped them in my pockets, unsure of the bizarre reaction considering my throat tightened in revulsion at the idea of actually following through with it. Though slapping some sense into Mila may benefit her. Maybe then she wouldn’t apologize to men who kidnapped and degraded her. Or fall asleep in their arms after they roughly took her virginity.
I shouldn’t have taken her so hard even believing she wasn’t a virgin. I especially shouldn’t have continued to fuck her after learning the truth, unable to find the will to stop right away. My conscience was having a party—with tea and biscuits and pathetic deflating balloons. It was uncomfortable as fuck. Especially because I could still taste her in my mouth, feel her fingers in my hair, and hear the sound of her breathy moans. All of it burrowed beneath my skin, settling something heavy in my chest. It felt like . . . cancer.
When she shivered in her sleep, I automatically stepped forward to cover her up but stopped myself, a frustrated, “Jesus Christ,” passing my lips.
Running a hand across my mouth, I recognized Mila was just as infectious as her mother was claimed to be. She was clearly having ill effects on my health. The shimmer my eyes painted on her skin suddenly became clear: it was a warning sign near a pool aglow with radioactive waste.
I needed to get rid of her.
The thought was a tug-of-war inside of me; a conflict that tightened my muscles, pulling and jerking each sinew taut. The fair part of me said Mila didn’t belong here. Though another part surfaced, telling me I took her virginity. She was mine.
The first woman to get me on my knees in over a decade was apparently this one, and all I regretted was the fact Mila could come at the drop of a hat. She tasted so good, I’d wanted to fuck her with my tongue for an hour minimum. The memory of it and how tight she was flooded heat into my chest; sent my blood boiling to the surface of my skin. An uncontrollable urge to slip between her thighs and wake her up with my mouth began to cloud my mind and judgement.
I turned and got the fuck out of there.
Shoulders tight, I headed downstairs to the library and poured a drink, then settled behind my desk. I swirled the vodka in the glass, staring at it thoughtfully, until I figured out a plan of action. Ignoring the multiple messages from Nadia, I texted Albert, whose presence I felt enter the room a moment later.
“Release Ivan,” I said in Russian, keeping my gaze on my drink. “He can hitchhike his way to Moscow naked.”
“The men won’t like it.”
Under any other circumstances, Ivan would be six feet deep. The day he took Alexei’s side was the day he was dead to me. I would have had control over Moscow years before I did if Ivan didn’t betray, fuck me over, and then disappear—to where I now knew was Miami. I’d relish putting a bullet in his head. Though a heavy weight sat on my chest over how things went down tonight and that I wasn’t sure I’d have stopped if Mila didn’t give in. I may be on a straight path to hell, but I’d never forced a woman before. I’d never lost all sense of control like that. It made me feel like the piece-of-shit clients my mother entertained. The only way I could think of to alleviate the feeling was to release Ivan—Mila’s friend/lover/whatever the fuck he was.
“Tell him to let Alexei know the deal is on for Saturday.”
Albert remained quiet for a second before replying, “I thought he wasn’t gonna bite.”
I didn’t say anything but I didn’t have to. Thankfully, Albert didn’t question it further.
“It’s Monday.”
I looked up to meet his gaze. “What are you, a news anchor? You gonna tell me what the weather is next?”
“I am just curious why you need the rest of the week to close the deal.”
My eyes hardened. “Because I can take as much goddamn time as I want.” And because I was compromising with both sides of the conflict inside of me the idea of letting Mila go invoked.
The fact she was a virgin fucked everything up. I didn’t have the patience to go slow and sweet and pretend the woman meant anything to me besides a good lay. Though the thought of someone else giving her that seared like acid in my veins.
Knowing I was the first to be inside of her made me feel slightly . . . selfish, like a kid on Christmas morning who didn’t want to share his new BB gun. And just as that gun would be forgotten a week later, so would the irritational greed I experienced concerning her. Then I would have my revenge and never again associate yellow with anything but tropical fruit.
“I was sure you would like to be the one to deal with Ivan.”
My grip tightened on the glass, a darkness flaring in my chest. All I’d been able to see since Kostya shoved the surveillance video in my face was Ivan’s hands on Mila. Most nauseating shit I ever saw. And infuriating. The sight coated my vision with a red mist, rage blistering in my blood. I forced myself to remain in Moscow until the flames cooled, but I guessed I should have stayed longer.
“Tell him I’ll kill him if I ever see his face again,” was all I said. I’d never spoken truer words, which was why I couldn’t look at him now without backing out on the decision I’d made to release him.
Without a word, Albert disappeared to carry out my order.
Now that was out of the way, I downed the vodka in my glass and focused on more important matters. Like what product would wash off the virgin blood still gripping my dick like a vise.
mamihlapinatapai
(n.) a look between two people that suggests an unspoken, shared desire
“Where is he?” I demanded.
Yulia sat in a rocking chair sewing a black doll dress. The shrewd glance she bestowed upon me behind antique spectacles made me feel like she knew all of the sinful happenings of the house—including last night’s. Beneath her stare, I shifted and bumped into a framed portrait of her that sat on the nightstand.
“Leave my room before you break things,” Yulia grumbled.
I righted the frame. “This isn’t a room. It’s a morgue.” Everything was so drab and black, I doubted anyone would notice the difference if an embalming table took the twin bed’s place. The only decorations that livened up the space were multiple dolls’ sightless stares.
“Where is Ivan?” I repeated.
I’d slept the night through, not waking until the sun caressed my skin. I thought I’d had a bizarre sex dream until I saw my torn dress. I wished I could tell Ms. Marta I was living the life of one of her bodice rippers—with more murder and much less declarations of love at least—but my old tutor was probably dead. Ronan’s pessimism was rubbing off on me. As well as other things.
I wasn’t going to analyze what happened between us because it was simply too much to process. And I had other matters to worry about—such as Ivan rotting away in the dungeon. Though when I went down there this morning with some food I stole from the kitchen, his cell was empty.
“I do not know,” Yulia said simply. Then an annoying, knowing lilt touched her voice. “Why do you not ask the master?”
Heat washed up the back of my neck. “First of all, stop calling him that. It’s beyond weird. Second of all, I’m not going to ask him because—well . . .” I trailed off, growing more flustered as a satisfied smirk played on Yulia’s thin lips, her eyes focused on the swoops of her sewing needle.
I had a good reason for why I wasn’t going to ask Ronan, and it had everything to do with being nervous as hell. There wasn’t a chance I’d admit it though. I didn’t know where he and I stood now or how to act around him. It was past the time for breakfast, but he hadn’t sent for me. He was probably being served a bowl of Fruit Loops by Kylie’s sex-hungry twin without a care in the world right now, the night forgotten as soon as he showered my virgin blood off him.
I pushed the uneasy feeling away and continued, “Third of all, I know you know where Ivan is, so why don’t you reach into your good Catholic heart and tell me?”
“I am not Catholic,” she groused, her gaze sharp. “I am Orthodox.”
“Same difference.”
“That does not make sense,” she mumbled, pulling her attention back to the small lace hem she was sewing. I couldn’t help but notice the design matched Yulia’s dress.
I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath before opening them. “Listen, if you tell me where he is, I’ll leave. If not . . .” With a demure expression, I moved to the shelf of dolls, ignoring Yulia’s “Do not dare!” and picked one up. “Aw, isn’t she cute?” I pouted in thought, looking her over. “I don’t think the black dress matches her personality though. I’m going to find her something yellow to wear.” I took a step toward the door.
“They let him go,” she growled.
Pausing, I turned around. “What?”
“Can you not hear? They freed the traitor.”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. “Why?”
“Put Lada down,” she insisted, her eyes on the doll as if it was her child and I was about to drop her from a bridge.
“Tell me why, and I will.”
She scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “He is just lackey. Not the one Master wants.”
My eyes narrowed. “The real reason.”
She returned the glare for a beat, but seeing I wasn’t leaving without getting what I wanted, she said like she was pulling teeth, “They will not kill him even though he is worthless traitor. They shared time in prison.” Then she frowned thoughtfully. “They probably tortured him some though.”
I swallowed, hoping Ivan still had all his fingers and toes, but a weight lifted off my shoulders at the fact he was alive. I didn’t understand why they captured him if they were just going to let him go. Not to mention, when I spoke to Ivan, he believed Ronan would kill him. I had the feeling something had changed between yesterday and this morning, and my mind could only settle on what happened in the drawing room after sunset.
Questions—so many questions—stirred. I could demand answers, though I thought I had already pushed Yulia too far by the look she gave me while stabbing her needle in the pincushion like it was a voodoo doll.
Gingerly, I set Lada back on the shelf and turned to the door. “Thank you, Yulia.”
“Come to my room again, you will have bad luck for seven years!”
“Grouch,” I muttered on my way out, only to hear a significant insult in return.
“Harlot.”
Ugh.
I was relieved to see the dining room sat empty except for a single filled plate in my spot at the table. After grabbing the dish, I slipped on my boots and coat and stepped outside. The men no longer went silent in my presence, now used to me traipsing around in the snow. Pavel even came over to greet me, following my steps to the kennel while trying out some of the English he was attempting to learn. It was awful, but I’d never tell him.
Albert barked something at Pavel, who gave me an apologetic smile. “I leave now. Boss teach me how . . .” As he scratched his head in thought, a weird sense of anticipation ballooned in my stomach at just the mention of Ronan, knowing he was the only one referred to as “boss” around here. Unable to come up with the word, Pavel moved his hands like they were on a steering wheel.
“Drive?” I supplied.
“Yes. He tell me I
suck ass.”
A laugh escaped me. Pavel should probably stick to letting Ronan teach him to drive and not English.
“Well, you’d better go learn then.”
He blushed, dipped his head, and started toward the car.
When I reached the kennel, I smiled at Misha, who excitedly paced the fence. A giant of a German shepherd with solid black fur, he looked menacing, but he always greeted me, tail wagging.
Albert had told me all of the dogs’ names as well as to not feed them human food because it would make them fat and lazy. I’d forgiven the giant for his part in my abduction, but I also thought he could toss his demands in the trash along with his cigarette butts.
Kneeling in the snow in my fur coat, I passed out the breakfast on my plate and joked, “You’re all going to be vegans in no time.”
Xander dropped a strawberry with a well-timed look of disgust.
“Okay, maybe not,” I laughed.
Eighteen days had passed since my vacation in Moscow took a twisted turn. Only two and a half weeks, but it felt like forever. It was a little sad to say I’d miss some of the dogs here more than the superficial friendships I’d gained from over twenty years in Miami.
Khaos wasn’t lazing in the corner like a lion this morning, which told me he was inside the kennel, most likely making an effort to avoid me. I saved the best piece of food for him even though he always turned down my offerings as if they were peasant fare.
The snow started to soak through my coat, but the chill was better than tiptoeing around the house to avoid Ronan. Though, just as the thought hit, so did an electric tingle that slid down my back, wilting my heartbeat to slow little thumps.
I turned my head to see Ronan step out the front door wearing Brioni sans jacket, with a handgun in his waistband. My throat grew thick. I wondered if the pistol was the one he would use to shoot my papa in the head. I had nothing else to barter to save my father; nothing I hadn’t already offered only to be turned down.
The Darkest Temptation Page 25