by Jasmin Quinn
“Rusya.” To her ears she sounded vulnerable and lost. How could this happen? She didn’t need his money, his power; she needed his trust and regard. And she could have neither of those no matter how much she wanted them. He loosened the towel and she felt the soft whisper of breeze as it draped to her feet. She was naked, her eyes closed. In front of Rusya Savisin. A man she was betraying. A man who would ultimately kill her.
His hands against her bare skin, soft as he fondled her breasts.
“Please, this is…”
He interrupted her. “No words right now, Esma.” His accent rolled over her name like the scent of a raincloud. A promise.
She pressed her lips together as he continued to touch her breasts, squeezing the small mounds, tracing her nipples, gentle pinches forcing her desire. Then he moved his hands lower, one steadying on her waist, the other sliding between her legs. “Open.”
She did, her body seeking what her brain was fighting. His fingers slid through her folds, gathering her dampness, bringing it to her clit, circling it. She was shaking with fear, with dread. With longing. And he was bringing her up, where she wanted to be, but also didn’t. She was wet with her want of him and he knew it, his breaths deeper, his other hand tightening on her waist as his fingers dipped towards her aching opening, not entering, but teasing, borrowing more of her desire and bringing it to her clit, easy even strokes, quickening to match her breaths. Her hips moved in concert with his fingers, her hands dug into his shoulders. “Rusya,” she whispered as her orgasm tore through her, a few blissful seconds of forgetting as she shuddered. As she came down, she wanted him to pull her to him, pull her into his arms and hold her. She needed that moment more than anything.
“Don’t open your eyes,” he said softly.
He shifted over on the bench and guided her down beside him. She felt his abandonment as he rose, the whisper of his bare feet on the cedar and then the soft closing of the door behind him. She waited half a minute, then raised her eyelids. She was alone. Naked, her towel on the bench below. She pulled a heavy shuddering breath into her lungs as she grabbed at the back of her neck with her hands.
She would have cried if she could remember how. Her death was so close and it all seemed so unfair.
Chapter 10
Rusya made the call on his way to the hotel, arrived first, in time to slip into a bathrobe, have a drink. The woman arrived at the time he asked for, to the minute. Someone new, not known to him, young, beautiful. Fully capable of doing what he asked, keeping her mouth shut and leaving when she was done.
It didn’t settle him. He used to think a fuck was a fuck. Any woman would do. Even with Irina, his wife, it was like that. She was good enough. But now he knew he was wrong. It was Esma he wanted, needed. It was her face he imagined as he held the hooker down, her ass in the air, her hips between his hands. It wasn’t enough to think about Esma while he came. He wanted more, he wanted all of her.
Chapter 11
Esma rapped at the door and then entered Rusya’s office without waiting for him to invite her in. He wasn’t there and she bit her lip as she searched the room. As if he might materialize if she looked hard enough.
Janice caught her looking as she followed her in with a carafe of coffee in hand. “He spent the night in a hotel. He does that sometimes.” She moved past Esma and set the pot down on the bar top, pulled two cups out and poured one for Esma.
“Why?” Esma asked.
Janice shrugged. “He probably had a date. He doesn’t bring women here.”
Esma stilled as her heart froze. She was so completely off-balance last night after what he did to her in the sauna. This morning she thought it all a dream but then knew it wasn’t. Didn’t know if she should be angry at what happened, at what she wasn’t brave enough to stop or elated because he was interested in her.
And now? Well now, hurt filtered through her, making her heart ache and her brain wish for a drink.
She took the cup of coffee Janice offered and murmured her thanks, wishing it was whiskey or vodka. Wishing she could have something stronger to help her stop thinking about all the ‘what ifs’. Wishing her insecurities could drown themselves in a bottle.
“He called, said he’d be in shortly.” Janice was brusque this morning. She left without so much as a goodbye.
Esma stood in the centre of Rusya’s office, lost, unsure what to do next. She’d steeled herself this morning, gave herself a good talking to as she got dressed. She’d spent the last week watching him under her eyelashes, watching the way he talked, the way he drank his coffee, the way he smiled. He seemed like everything any woman would want. The package. This was a man who had power, money, status, good looks without the false modesty of so many men in his position. None of that mattered all that much to Esma though she didn’t know for sure because she’d never had it before. Rusya was out of her league on so many levels.
She was a farmer’s daughter from a rural village in Turkey, too smart and willful for her own good. Which led to an arranged marriage, which led to her husband’s death, which led to a murder charge for Esma. She was unfettered, unfiltered, raw in her words, in her relationship with the world. She could be like the boys, play with the boys, beat the boys when she wanted to. She fought with her words and her fists and sometimes engaged too quickly, not letting her brain catch up with her emotions.
Rusya was opposite. He was a man who isolated himself from the world, was controlled and careful in his interactions. Thoughtful and spare with his words. Honest, even if he was a criminal. A man who didn’t hide behind anything, didn’t need to be anyone but who he was. It’s what made him attractive to her. She’d never met anyone like him in her life and she felt her need of him so intensely it overwhelmed her at times.
But her desire for him fucked with her instincts because she hadn’t realized that he was feeling the heat too. She could usually pick up on the signals, but Rusya, his fucking restraint, their polite interactions. At least on some level he wanted her. The physical one anyway, the level that spoke to their desires. He was male even if he was Rusya Savisin and she was not hard to look at. Her body had a lot going for it – a pretty face, wild hair and smooth, brown skin. She turned heads. She knew it and used the knowledge when it served her, but not on Rusya, not intentionally anyway. She wouldn’t dare be provocative around him. Actually, she wasn’t sure if she even knew how anymore. She knew how to flirt… uh, no... sober Esma had no idea how to flirt.
Drunk Esma was pretty fucking good at it though. Drunk Esma was good at a lot of things. She was good at talking, speaking her mind. Sidling up to a man and telling him exactly what she wanted, when, where and how. Drunk Esma didn’t have boyfriends, or moon after men, or let them accost her in the sauna. Drunk Esma wore jeans and leather jackets, carried a dangerously sharp blade strapped to her calf and could drop a 200lb asshole even when she was staggering drunk and blurry-eyed. Drunk Esma had the right words, the courage to defend herself and didn’t give a fuck about what anyone thought. Drunk Esma vomited in alleys, woke up in places she’d shouldn’t have been, and needed half a bottle of anything to get her through to noon.
But sober Esma. She overthought everything and was more verbal and less physical. Sober Esma wanted to push back, was too quick to voice her thoughts. Okay, drunk Esma was too, but unlike drunk Esma, sober Esma was on edge all the time, trying to find the woman inside her. Wanting something she’d never had. A loving, caring relationship with a man who returned her affection.
Her emotions were always on a pendulum, at one end or the other and she couldn’t find the balance. And the memories of her life before Jackman, and even with Jackman kept flooding her. These memories that alcohol banished so effectively were taunting her, reminding her how unworthy she was. Reminding her that she was exactly where she deserved, in a house, with a man who could take what he wanted from her. A man she desired and was betraying and each day she was here in his house, her betrayal got bigger.
And he, Rusy
a. Coming to her in the sauna like he did… it was… well… he crossed a line with her and she let him. No courage to resist or maybe no desire to. He could have her if he wanted to, anytime because of who he was, so why would he do what he did? He could have had her last night. But he didn’t. He looked at her, touched her, made her body respond and then left. And the voice in her head, the sober one kept nagging at her. He changed his mind about her, after he saw her, touched her. He changed his mind, left her and went to another woman.
She had barely slept last night, then dressed carefully this morning, spent extra time on her hair, spent too much time looking at herself in the mirror. But she’d been ready to face him, wanted to see what would happen next.
Now this.
She gave herself a mental kick for all her stupid thoughts. She should be relieved that he didn’t think of her as someone he could fuck. Then again, isn’t that what he did anyway? Helped himself to her, or did he? Maybe he wanted to see how she responded to him. Maybe he was testing the waters – if she didn’t work out as his translator, he could send her to a Russian brothel, maybe thought she’d make a good whore. But no, she was too old for that, brothels wanted the 20-year-olds, didn’t they?
Esma blew out a breath and sat on the chair. Her chair. The one she always sat in so that when Rusya was there, on the sofa, she was close enough to lean in and inhale him. Close enough to feel his heat. And he had heat. Masculine heat. He was so Alpha it squeezed her to the core. She’d always thought she could handle any man, Jackman included. But Rusya was above every man she’d ever met. She was so over her head with him. Which of course, was the stupidest thing in the world. But it hurt that he was out fucking another woman when she was right in front of him. When he had handled her last night and then left her.
She couldn’t seduce him, especially not sober. Even drunk, she didn’t know how to do that. She knew how to stroll up to a man and out throw an offer. Not many said no. But she didn’t play games. Fuck or fuck off, that was her way. But she was never invested. Not with her husband and not after the sonofabitch was dead. With Rusya though, it wouldn’t be like that. She was already invested. She was afraid to offer herself, afraid he’d turn her down. And she was right. He had her, could have taken her, but left instead. Went on his date and his happy little fuck.
He walked in as she was thinking all this and she startled. Her eyes swept him, looked for telltale signs of another woman, realized she was becoming ‘that woman’. He was immaculate, his well-cut suit moulding perfectly to his hard body. Hair groomed, no lipstick stains on the collar of his white shirt and as he sat down on the sofa, close to her, with his coffee cup in hand, he smelled perfect. Nothing lingering that suggested he’d been out fucking.
The silence stretched between them for a few minutes, Esma not knowing what to say, Rusya not saying anything, just studying her with his dark inscrutable eyes. She couldn’t hold his gaze and as she dropped her eyes, he said, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Esma stilled, stopped breathing. The fuck! But she swallowed down her words, all of them, except two. “You didn’t.” She was aware her tone was terse but she couldn’t seem to guide herself away from her anger. “I was going to finish my coffee and then I was going to do some research. I’m pretty f… self-directed.”
His eyes scrutinized her. Nothing to show what he was thinking, but she figured even a caveman would pick up on her pissiness. “Should we talk about last night?”
Esma tilted her head back, looked up at the ceiling, blinked a couple of times as her eyes burned. “Which part? The foreplay in the sauna, or your date, later, after you left me?”
He was quiet, silence stretching. Then, “The sauna. The rest is none of your business.”
If he was anyone else, Esma would have hammered him with every ounce of strength she had. What a fucking arrogant asshole. She cursed herself for being so transparent, but even so, his response didn’t merit one from her. Because if she did say anything, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
That decided, she dropped the coffee cup onto the table with a bang and stood. “Gotta get to work, boss.” She scooped her laptop off the coffee table, took it to the fireplace and thumped her ass down on a chair, flipping open the lid. “Lots to do.”
To his credit, Rusya didn’t react to her flippancy. She sensed his gaze on her but she refused to look up. She was such an idiot for so many reasons. The man was perfect. And she was a fucking mess, never said the right thing, never did the right thing.
If she could have, she would have had a drink. It would have helped her push the feelings of hurt and rejection down where she could cope with them. But sober, she was so raw. She felt it all, the betrayal, the frustration, her insecurities, which pissed her off even more because she had no reason to feel anything. This man who she’d known for only a few days. It was possible he had a girlfriend already. Someone he loved. Someone who was loveable. She was a blip on his radar. Someone he couldn’t resist, candy to play with, but not willing to take it further.
Fuck. Her eyes and throat hurt. Tears. She was going to fucking start crying. How absurd. She didn’t cry, hadn’t cried since she was 12, since her father belted her for crying. She slapped the laptop closed and stood, looked over to Rusya who was still gazing at her. “You’re a fucking prick,” she said. Then stormed out of the office. She needed a little space away from him. A little time to not cry.
Chapter 12
As the door to his office slammed shut behind Esma, Rusya closed his eyes. His mind filtered over their discussion. It was possible he could have handled it better. The exchange, well maybe last night too. He hadn’t planned to touch her in the sauna, not really. He had wanted to sit with her, be with her alone. But she was too fucking hard to resist. He wanted to know if she was as passionate as he thought she’d be. He wanted to feel her, put his hands on her, see her naked.
It was a line he shouldn’t have crossed. Or, he guessed, once did cross, should have dove straight in. Leaving the house, going to the hotel. She found out, because he was late and she would have asked Janice and Janice would have not thought anything of telling her he was out with a woman.
He rubbed at his face as he raised his eyelids. What did she call him? A fucking bastard…no… prick. She was probably right. He grinned to himself as he considered what he should do about it. Maybe nothing, maybe let her have this moment. But she had to understand that there were lines she couldn’t cross with him, no matter the nature of their relationship.
Their relationship…
Such unfamiliar words for him. He’d never had a woman this way. A relationship where he had to be mindful of his behaviour, had to consider feelings. Irina, his wife, she was a good bratva daughter, a good match and they were happy enough. She never complained or got angry. Never expected anything, not really. Did what he wanted, what he asked. A good wife. She’d never once called him a fucking prick. Maybe that’s what made the marriage tolerable; maybe that’s what made the marriage loveless.
He thought about that – passion. In love, yes, but also in hate. A fine line between the two and his anger was always simmering below the surface, like a volcano. Enough friction, enough cracks and he erupted. Not often anymore. Not like when he was younger, when the smallest of transgressions would set him off. As he matured, bit by bit he reined it in. It earned him a reputation, both his temper when he was younger, and now, his deadly coldness. It earned him respect.
But with Esma, he felt ready to explode. It wasn’t just how attracted he was to her physically. If that was the case, he’d have fucked her by now and they’d have moved on. There was so much more to it than that. But he’d moved too fast, showed his hand, took more than he should have too soon. Not like him to do that, not with anyone.
He didn’t want to hurt her, and he was afraid he might. She was so full of passion. She held it tightly to her, but it leaked out in her easy smile, in the subtle way she dressed, held herself, talked. She was a small bundle of ener
gy, a morsel and he feared what he might do to her if he unleashed his own desires.
He mulled over his next move. Hated that he was doing that. Usually he knew right away what to do, the long thoughtful pauses he often had before he spoke were a reflection on his decision, a quick check to see if he had considered all the angles. A habit now that he carried into his exchanges because it served other purposes too. It helped him gauge others, it helped him know what they were thinking.
He left the office, walked slowly up the stairs and down the hall. Stood outside Esma’s suite, thoughtful, then rapped at the door a couple of times, opened it, and walked in, like she did on his office door. He half-hoped he’d catch her changing or doing something that would force his hand. Do something to set off the fireworks between them.
She was at a small desk, in an armchair pulled up close to it. The file she was working on was open, papers scattered, her laptop off to the side, a pencil in hand. Always, she worked with a pencil, not a pen. She chewed on it, erased with it, muttered over her work as she tapped it. Stuck it in her hair, behind her ear, twirled it between her fingers. Enticing.
Her eyes were red as she looked up and he realized he’d made her cry. She knew that he’d been out fucking and he felt uncharacteristically gratified at how poorly she was taking it. But then he let the thought go, because he decided that maybe in this moment, he could quit being a fucking male and try to be civilized.
She said nothing as she watched him with her big brown eyes. He was fully aware that he was testing his restraint. Her, in this room, with a bed. He could lock the door, pull her to him. Fuck her. And there was nothing she could do about it. He tried to banish that thought too, reminded himself to be a gentleman.
He picked up the other armchair in the room, this one facing the fireplace, and flipped it around, moved it closer to Esma but also between her and the door. He didn’t want to have to chase her down if she decided to bolt again. If that happened, he knew it would end badly. He was barely civilized, no matter how he presented himself to the world. All it took was a small push, especially if he was invested. And for some reason, with Esma, he was invested.