by LP Lovell
Her fingers sink knuckle deep, and she fucks herself hard, fast, angry. The sight of it drives me to the brink of losing complete control. A choked moan slips through her lips, and I can't stand it any longer. I keep the gun aimed at her while I yank at my belt and tug at my fly, fisting my cock when its finally freed. My hand slaps against my stomach as I force my pace to match hers.
The city creeps by outside as the motorcade winds through crowded Moscow. And here she and I are... like animals.
She moans, swearing under her breath while her back arches from the floor. The sweet chorus of her orgasm is all I need. Heat gathers in my stomach before spreading through my body in a violent show of force. My chin drops to my chest and I growl, coming hard and fast before I slump against the seat to catch my breath. I lost control—to an extent, I think as I fasten my belt. It's not until I notice the come stain on my Prada dress shirt that the annoyance sets in.
Camilla shoves her skirt back into place and pushes to her knees in front of me. I press the gun to her temple. Her hands land on my thighs as she leans over me and grazes her lips across my cheek. "You look so beautiful when you come," she whispers before moving to the seat next to me.
"What a dangerous game you play, little kitty,"
"Oh, but they're your games, Ronan. I just play." She pulls a compact from her bag and carefully applies a new layer of blood-red lipstick.
"You don't just play, Camilla."
"Now, now." She pats my arm. "Don't imply that you don't have absolute and complete control over my every action, Ronan."
My jaw tics and I turn to the window. Rows and rows of snow-covered tombstones and crosses pass by as we wind through the cemetery. Eventually, the limo slows and pulls to the side of the road. The driver hops out. The door opens and I grab Camilla’s hand, dragging her to the edge of the seat as I step out.
People file out of the cars behind us, all making their way to the green tent set up on the hillside. I take Camilla’s arm and loop it through mine just as Anastasia and Nikoli walk past. Anastasia's eyes lock on Camilla, and Camilla brings her lips to my ear. "I think she's obsessed. You know, women like that are liable to go crazy and murder you in your sleep." She kisses my cheek, all for show I know. But I like to be showy.
"She's more likely to murder you." I arch a brow, and she rolls her eyes.
We take a seat under the graveside canopy. Ana sits on the other side of the silver coffin, glaring at me, her leg anxiously bouncing. Her gaze shifts to my right and I glance at Camilla to find the two engaged in a possessive stare off. I lean in, sweeping the tendril of dark hair away from her ear. "Such a good little lapdog," I whisper before I kiss her neck.
"I told you already, I bite, Russian."
Forcing a look of remorse on my face, I stare straight ahead at the casket and wrap my arm around Camilla's shoulders. The minister steps behind the coffin and clears his throat, asking us to bow our heads. Camilla drops her chin to her chest, crossing herself. While everyone else prays, I watch Camilla, seemingly harmless with her head bowed in reverent prayer, but she is like a lotus flower. Pretty and deadly.
And I hate to admit it, but it is very much a thrill.
Chapter 17
Camilla
“Killing in the Name” – Rage Against the Machine
I slam my bedroom door shut. Fucking Russian! Every time I think I'm in control, he makes me unhinged.
He fucked me with a gun – a loaded gun— and I liked it. I wanted it! Hell, I can't remember ever being so turned on, so desperate for a man. Sex is my weapon, but he turns it on me so easily. I close my eyes, picturing the way he gripped his dick, the way his muscles strained and popped against his skin. The fierce yet utterly controlled look in his eyes as he watched me break apart on the floor of his limo.
My eyes snap open and I groan in frustration, flopping back on the bed. I'm supposed to be getting close to him the same way I got close to Jésus. The mantis does not fall into her own trap for fuck's sake. He's playing me every bit as hard as I'm playing him, but I have a lot more to lose. I need to break him. I need to make the devil weak.
I get up and go to the closet, shrugging a silk nightie over my head. It barely hits the top of my thigh, and as much as I don't care, I can't be too obvious. Ronan Cole is not one for obvious. So, I slip on a silk robe and tie it at my waist before leaving the room and walking down the stairs.
The low hum of a woman speaking in Russian floats through the foyer, and I follow the sound to the doorway of the front living room. There he sits, a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. I walk into the room and move straight past him, over to the drink cabinet in the corner. His eyes burn a hole in my back as I pour a drink, and I stare at the wooden sideboard where only days ago I sat and touched myself for him. I smirk at his uptight control. He won't touch me? We'll see about that. I want to pluck his dirty secrets out one by one and use them against him.
When I turn around, his eyes are fixed on the TV. "What havoc have you caused today?" I jokingly ask.
"I wouldn't call burying the Prime Minister havoc, per se."
I cross the room and take a seat on the sofa a couple of feet away from him, crossing my legs. "You know, going to the funeral of a man you killed has to be bad juju." I tip the drink back, swallowing it in one gulp.
His gaze strays from the glass in my hand to the bottle on the sideboard. "That's my special brandy you're so carelessly necking..."
I roll my eyes. "If you're going to drink, then drink. Don't sip it like a pussy."
"Fine brandy is meant to be savored."
"Sure." I push to my feet and go back to the sideboard, picking up the crystal decanter of his precious brandy. I take the top off and walk back to the sofa, pouring a splash into my glass.
He eyes me before snatching the decanter from my grasp. "You may very well be the closest thing to a savage I've ever stumbled across."
"Oh, Russian,” I laugh. “Don't pretend you don't like things a little wild." With a smug smile, I lift my glass and down the contents, my eyes never leaving his. "Live a little," I say.
He motions toward the television and smooths his hand down the front of his jacket. "I do live a little."
I glance at the TV. I don't understand what they're saying, but images of a factory with Chinese writing and missiles scroll across the screen. "I heard you were into weapons." I narrow my eyes. "Risky business."
His eyes flash with delight. "I like their power. The fear they instill."
"Uh-huh. I prefer not to attract the attention of every government agency in the world. I bet the Americans have a massive hard-on for you— a Russian arms dealer." I have to laugh.
"The FBI and I are like this," he crosses his fingers together on a smile.
He's joking, right? His eyes hold mine. Jesus fuck, I don't think he is. "Just..." I point at him and shake my head. "I need a drink." I move to snatch the brandy bottle and he simply grabs my throat, holding me at arm’s length.
"No more of my celebratory brandy." He nods back to the sideboard. "Have all the Russian vodka you like."
I make a face. "What do you think I am? Russian? Who the hell drinks vodka?" I say, getting up. I go over to the cabinet, open the decanter, and sniff it. "God, it smells like gasoline." I pour some into my glass and neck it, wincing.
He shakes his head. "Do you intend to get yourself drunk?"
"I'm stuck here with your charming company in Dracula's fucking castle. What do you think?" I patronize as I pour another glass.
He drags a hand down his face before pushing up from the couch and stalking toward me. He takes the vodka, pours another drink, then corks the bottle. "You can't be hungover tomorrow."
"Why?” I sigh. “Are you planning another assassination?"
"I have a ribbon cutting ceremony at the Children's Hospital." he grins. "The new Ronan Cole Bone Marrow Transplant unit is opening.
I stare blankly at him. "Now you are joking..." I tip my head back and r
elease a breath. "Fuck, I can't even tell."
"I think a blue dress would work nicely for tomorrow."
"Do I have a choice in this? Charity and saintly behavior...really not my thing."
A soft laugh slips through his lips. "For you, there is no such thing as a choice any longer." His finger swipes my cheek.
"Pluh-uh-ease." He scowls at me. "Repeat,” I say. “Pleeaase." More scowling. I can't help but grin. His jaw ticks and I find it sexier than I'd like.
"The amusement you provide is quickly wearing off."
I shrug. "I'd say the same, but you are the least amusing person I've ever met." I know I push him. I'm not sure if I just like the thrill, the sense of danger, or I want to see if I can make him snap and kill me. He says I'm only alive for his amusement, but we both know that's not true. There's more to it. I drag my eyes over his expensive suit. Maybe he’s just like all the others. Perhaps he just wants to fuck me. "Why do you need me to go?" I ask.
"Because a man such as myself does not show up alone, and your beauty looks good on me." He swipes his special brandy from the sideboard.
"Well, I'm so glad I make the cut for your ever-growing harem.” I tilt my head. “Right next to the Russian President's wife." I place my hand on my chest. "My daddy would be so proud."
A slight smirk tugs at his lips. "Be ready by ten," he says, turning his back to me. I'm dismissed.
______
I stand on a raised platform overlooking a crowd of standard, white-collar people. Board member types and doctors huddle close to the stage, smiling at Ronan. If only they knew… He gives some speech in Russian and they applaud him. He turns a wide grin on me and cameras flash. I fake a smile, watching as he snips a pale blue ribbon with a pair of gold scissors. People clap some more, and Ronan shakes a few hands before moving over to me and placing a hand on my waist as his lips brush over my cheek. "Smile, Krasivaya." He turns toward the crowd as the cameras continue to snap photos.
I feign a moment of coyness and turn my face slightly into his chest. "My fucking face hurts, Russian."
"Ah, but the pictures will look so pretty in the newspapers. People may even think you're a civilized woman."
I continue to smile through gritted teeth. "And people will think you're the second coming of Mother Theresa, and not the guy who probably plotted her death for unknown purposes."
He glances at me and grins. "I liked Mother Theresa."
"I knew it." I narrow my eyes at him. "I knew she was corrupt. No one is that damn righteous."
He laughs as he places a possessive hand on my waist and guides me off the stage. People stop him left and right, shaking his hand and singing his praises, until finally, we make it outside. The car is waiting in the roundabout, his driver holding the door. I climb in and Ronan slides in beside me, still smiling at people gathering outside as the door closes. The car pulls away and he leans his head back against the seat on an exhale.
"How do you do this?" I groan. "All the smiles and the bullshit and the fucking niceties."
"I rather enjoy the theatrics of it. The manipulation of painting one face over another and another until I'm seen as nothing but a saint, or the devil depending on who you ask."
I snort. "You're not that good, Ronan. The devil can't hide his horns."
"The devil doesn't have horns, little kitty."
"No, apparently, he wears a custom suit."
His eyes gleam. "You may very well be the most entertaining hostage I've ever had. Congratulations!"
I plaster a sweet smile on my face. "You're a dick, you know that?" He, of course, ignores me.
The city passes by the window and I wonder how long he’ll keep me. How much longer I have to figure out a way to destroy him. We drive across town, and the car slows to a stop in front of a restaurant with groups of businessmen loitering outside.
The driver opens the door and we both step out, heading toward the restaurant. A young hostess greets us at the door with a tense smile. Without a word, she guides us to a private room at the back of the building. Ronan stops in the doorway and shakes his head, saying something in Russian to her. She goes rigid and pales before she turns on her heel, leading us into the main restaurant. He literally puts the fear of god into people, and I won't pretend it's not entertaining to watch.
The hostess sets the menus on a table by the window. Ronan pulls my chair out and the hostess stares at me, dumbfounded. I guess he doesn’t often take women to lunch… He says something to the hostess, and she hurries away. Frowning, I take my seat and he pushes the chair in before sitting across from me. He lays his napkin across his lap and flashes a blinding smile at me. My stomach tightens slightly in response. Fuck him and his model-worthy face.
"Why are we here? Are you meeting someone?" I ask, but there are only two chairs.
He glances at his watch. "It's noon.”
"And? You don't make passive aggressive threats before five?"
"It's lunchtime." He pauses. "We're eating lunch."
I wrinkle my nose. "We're eating lunch....in a restaurant...like a date?"
A large grin shapes his lips. "Precisely."
I lean back in my chair and drum my nails over the crisp, white tablecloth. "Let me guess, the President and his wife are due here any minute?"
"No."
What the hell is he up to now? He's always up to something. I don't mind being a part of his schemes if I know what they are, or at least vaguely know what they are, but I don't like not knowing someone's motivations. Humming to himself, he picks up his menu, and I turn my attention to the one in front of me. It’s all in fucking hieroglyphics.
A waitress comes over with a bottle of wine and she pours two glasses. Ronan closes his menu and folds his hands on the table in front of him as he talks to her, I guess ordering. I jab my finger against a random item on the menu and show the waitress. She doesn’t acknowledge me.
"I ordered for you," he says as the waitress takes the menus and disappears.
I roll my eyes. "Of course you did."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. "So, dear Camilla, what is the worst thing that's ever happened to you?" I glare at him and attempt to pull my hand away, but his grip becomes painful. "Leave your hand," he orders.
"None of your business,” I narrow my eyes at him, “Russian."
He moves his hand away from mine. "I guess it would be a sore subject for you, that not even your own father would rescue you. The humanity of darkness can be awfully hard to swallow." How does he know everything?
"My father was a business man." I jerk my chin up. "I'm not a damsel, Russian. I don't need rescuing. After all, the darkness is what makes people like you and I, is it not?"
"It is." He pulls a cigar from his jacket and lights it. "I find the darkness," he takes a long drag, "rather titillating."
"What about your father, Ronan? How did he die?" If he wants to poke me then I'll poke him.
There's a slight flicker in his eyes like a match being struck and the faintest of smiles curls his lip. "He was brutally murdered." His finger trails across his neck mimicking a knife cut. "His throat slit from ear to ear."
I take a sip of wine, watching him carefully. "I do hope you found the man who did it."
"Oh… I did." He picks up the knife from the table, sliding his fingers along its edge. "The thing about power, Camilla, it can only be managed by very bad men, and my father only thought he was a bad man. He had too much…" he stabs the knife into the table and I jump, "heart."
"You killed him?" I breathe, surprised by the wave of pity that washes over me. My father was bad in every sense of the word, but I loved him, respected him. Ronan's world is reduced to strength versus weakness. The powerful versus the powerless. I'm in awe of it, but it's tragic in a way.
"It was only business." A sadistic grin spreads over his lips, and I can see that, to him, it's exactly that. He studies me, those cold, blue eyes boring into me as though to pluck me apart bit by bit. "People li
ke you and I, we rise out of ashes,” he says. “It's when a man is at his lowest that he finds the drive to become great, is it not?"
"My father used to say that a man must be face down in the dirt before he truly finds himself. He'll either lie there, or he'll find a will the likes of which he's never known." I know from firsthand experience just how true that statement is. "But I cannot imagine that you were ever kissing the dirt, Russian."
He puffs on his cigar again. "I did come from very humble beginnings. But you did not."
I eye his expensive suit. I know what he's doing—he wants to know things about me because knowledge is power. I want to shut it down, but I also need to know about him, so I offer a tentative trade. Inhaling as his eyes hold me prisoner, I quirk my lips up. "No. Drugs and blood pay well. My father ran it all, started it all, back when cocaine hadn't even touched American soil." I shrug and trail my finger around the bottom of my wine glass.
"How proud he would be to know his daughter ran the Juarez cartel as opposed to his only living son."
"Gabriel didn't have the stomach to do what needed to be done in the early days," I say carefully.
"Seems he still doesn't have the stomach."
"Perhaps.” I glance at Ronan. “Or perhaps you underestimate him."
"Come now, Camilla." A knowing smile crosses his lips as he raises his cigar.
"Gabriel is... eccentric at times."
"I don't wish to talk about your brother or my cartel,” he says. “Only you."