Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  It was not gentle, he was not gentle, two fingers plunging into her vagina as his thumb raked her clit, over and over. Esma felt the fever rising, heard her moans of pleasure and was going to peak when he stopped, flipped her to her back and dropped down on her, capturing her wrists again and holding them over her head as he sank deep into her, fucking her, claiming her as he bit down on her shoulder.

  Esma bucked her body, meeting him thrust for thrust until she peaked. Her orgasm hit her hard, raced through her, lighting her nerves on fire. Rusya’s fingers curled into her shoulders as her pussy tightened around his cock. He shouted her name as he came, bucked on top of her pumping his semen into her. Then he stilled, they both did. Wrapped together, holding on to the moment. Just a moment, a few seconds sprawled on top of her before he slid out of her, rolled away and sat up.

  She was flat on her back, still catching her breath, still coming down, when she felt his desertion. She froze. “What are you doing?”

  He looked back at her, blew out a breath and gave his forehead a quick rub with the flat of his hand. Then he dropped back down on the bed, pulled her into his arms and held her close to his chest. She heard the rapid beating of his heart as she curled into him, seeking his warmth, his comfort. He was back now. In control. She felt it in the caress of his hand on her back, the tenseness of his muscles under her fingers. He was back to being Rusya Savisin, Russian mob boss.

  She shifted, held herself tighter to him. She liked that man, hard and in control. Probably loved him. But she didn’t want to share his bed. She wanted the passionate man who lost his control, fucked with her mind and her body. She was so fucking greedy. She wanted it all.

  Could she bring him back? She shifted onto her belly, pulling herself up, laying her chest on his. She loved the broadness of it. The hardness of it. She ran her hand over it, sliding her fingers along the ridges, through the dark scattering of hair, tracing his tattoos. Rusya’s eyes were closed as she glanced into his face, his features relaxed now, less guarded. His hand, splayed across her back, pressed in as she caressed him.

  She touched her lips to his, pressing softly, taking the lower lip between her teeth and biting. Gently. Then her tongue, sliding along the lip until it reached the corner, dropping a small kiss before pressing harder in, bringing her tongue inside. She watched his face, and captured the moment he opened his eyes, the single unguarded instant they met hers. His passion, longing, wanting jumped out at her, searing through her, razing her emotions, seizing her heart. He brought his hand to the back of her head, and pushed her closer, taking over the kissing, drawing her tongue deeper into his mouth, using his own tongue to sweep inside hers. Every nerve in her body woke up.

  He rolled her onto her back and dropped down on his side, looking at her. One arm was propped up, elbow bent, hand holding up his head. The other explored her body, touching her breasts, pinching her nipples. He dropped his head to a nipple, took it between his teeth and nipped it gently. Esma gasped as a wave of pleasure rippled through her. He sucked gently, his tongue tasting it, licking it. He moved his hand to her other breast, stroking it, teasing the nipple with his fingers, then squeezing the softness of the mound. Then, still sucking on her nipple, he traced his hand over her belly. Touching it gently, following the lines down to her pelvis, through the small triangle of hair to her pussy. He shifted on top of her, dropped the hand that had been holding his head, laced his fingers through her hair, and kissed her lips.

  His fingers on her pussy now, finding her clit, polishing it gently, small circles, soft pressure, eliciting a moan from Esma. Her eyes fluttered closed as he rubbed her, moving his fingers lower, pushing one into her welcoming tightness. “Open your eyes, Esma,” he said softly.

  She did.

  He was over her, his dark gaze meeting her fevered one. Watching her as he fucked her with his fingers. Thumbing her clit, making her moan, “Yes,” she groaned as she closed her eyes. Then opened them again as he raked her clit with his thumb, dropping down to pick up some of her wet desire, drawing it back up.

  Then he slid another finger into her, pushing at her walls, her tightness, curling into her, scraping the nerves and jolting her. She jumped and he grinned, unguarded, almost boyish. She grabbed his shoulders as he worked her from inside and out, her eyes staring into his, pleading. “Yes. Please. Yes.” She gasped and he sped up a little before he eased off.

  “God, Rusya, don’t stop.”

  He touched his lips to hers as he started up again. She thrust her hips up to his hand, she was losing her mind. He sped up, eased off, sped up, eased off. “Rusya,” she cried.

  “What do you want, Esma?”

  “Please, don’t stop.”

  “Softer,” and he gentled his petting, “Or harder.”

  “Harder, Rusya. Please, harder.” She groaned.

  He sped up, applied more pressure. “Like this?” His eyes bored into hers as he held her.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a squeak, she lost her words, nodded her head, begging him with her eyes, holding his head now, keeping it close. And then she dropped her head back, exposing her neck, thrusting her breasts up toward him as her hips bucked. She was coming, it was there, and then as she pulled his hair, she dropped off the edge, falling, crying out his name, slamming into his hand. Bringing her knees up and welding his hand to her pelvis, feeling the bliss as it rippled through her.

  Rusya kissed her lips as she came down, drawing his hand up her belly, carrying her wetness with him, leaving a trail of their passion. Then he pulled her into his arms. Held her as they lay. Minutes passed, neither spoke. Waiting for the other, maybe.

  Then Rusya said, “Why don’t you want my trust?”

  Esma felt a bloom of ice scrape through her, every muscle stiffened, and she knew he felt her reaction to his words. “I was scared.”

  He didn’t respond and she thought he knew she was lying. He slid under the covers and brought her with him, holding her close. Later, when neither could find sleep, Esma got up, gathered her clothes and left the apartment.

  He didn’t stop her this time.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday came and went. No intimacy, little conversation unless it was related to work, which lasted late into the evening, trying to get as much completed before they left for Moscow. After, both bleary-eyed, Esma and Rusya went their separate ways and didn’t see each other again until Wednesday.

  It was still awkward in the morning, at the airport, on the plane. A long flight from Vancouver, stops to refuel, Esma was tired. She and Rusya were stumbling around each other with their words and their interactions. More her than him, although it was hard to tell when Rusya was awkward or if he ever got that way. He was who he was, spare with words, dark eyes constantly landing on her. Not asking her why she left his bed. They both knew. They never talked. They needed to talk, but that couldn’t happen now. It was too late to talk. The window had closed.

  The weather was ferocious and knocked around Rusya’s private jet like the tiny tin box that it was. They weren’t alone. Anto was with them as well. Rusya said or did nothing to indicate to Anto the status of his relationship with Esma, and Esma was relieved for that. It was bad enough that Anto knew who she was and what she was about. He didn’t need to know that she and the boss were sleeping together. No, not sleeping. Fucking.

  She stopped. She hated that word. Well sober Esma hated the word. But they were intimate, not really making love because both times Rusya pressed his will on her, all three times if the sauna counted. And each time she let him. Why was she being so coy, always letting him lead. What was her motto. Fuck or fuck off? Where was that girl, she wondered?

  But she knew the answer. That girl was at the bottom of a tequila bottle somewhere down in Mexico. That girl fucked. That girl had a good time, forgot all the things she needed to forget, then sobered up and started drinking again. That girl wasn’t Esma anymore. And little by little, Esma was starting to learn about who she was. Not someone who fucked, not s
omeone who wanted a casual, uncommitted relationship. Esma, the sober woman, wanted to make love, wanted to be held, wanted to be loved. It was so fucking messed up. Sober Esma missed drunk Esma.

  She watched Rusya as he talked to Anto in Russian, leaning forward. His face serious, but talking with his hands, more animated than she’d seen him in past. These two together. They were close, like brothers. She and Anto were going to rip his heart out. She wondered if Rusya loved her or was just attracted to her. In the first few days before things started spiralling out of control they’d talked, were friendly, she made him smile and laugh. But now, it seemed that they were always too serious. The friendliness had gotten lost in the confusion of feelings.

  The plane bucketed and Esma grabbed the arms of the seat. She didn’t like small planes. This was a jet, maybe big enough to hold eight passengers. Needed two pilots to fly it, so not so small, but still the weather was kicking it around. It would be ironic to die in a plane crash when there were so many other, more torturous ways for her to meet her maker. The plane shipped to the right and Esma sucked in a long breath, looked to Rusya who was watching her.

  “Are you okay?” His face was creased with concern and her stomach did a little cartwheel. She hated that she responded to him like a dog in heat.

  She afforded him a small thin smile and a nod. “Don’t love this turbulence.”

  Anto laughed. “We all gotta fucking die somehow. Going down in a plane isn’t so bad.”

  Both Rusya and Esma glanced at him, then each other. Rusya smiled and shook his head. “Anto, stop. You’ll make Esma vomit.”

  “I won’t vomit,” Esma said as her stomach rolled in concert with another shake of the plane. She shifted in her seat, closed her eyes, and hung on to the armrest.

  By the time they landed in Moscow, Esma was shaking. The turbulence never stopped. Her insides were jumbled and she was sure that all her organs were mixed up, out of place. She could barely stand, and as she tried, she got dizzy, dropped back to her seat. Anto laughed without empathy as he headed to the open door, but Rusya stopped, took her hand, helped her up. The were alone together for the first time in a while, and he pulled her close to him.

  “I’ve got you,” he said. The new Esma, the sober one felt her eyes burn. The tears slipped out and she tried to catch them before Rusya saw, but not fast enough. He drew a thumb across her cheek with his free hand and gave her a little smile. Enough to make her heart stutter.

  Then Anto was back, head inside. “Let’s go. Yuri has a car waiting.” He scowled when he saw the two together but said nothing as he retreated. Smart man, Esma thought as Rusya took her by the hand, held it is his warm firm grip and placed the other on the small of her back, guiding her down the stairs and toward the car.

  As they got close to Anto, Rusya narrowed his eyes as he handed her off to Anto. “She’s a little shaken from the plane ride. Look after her.” He turned to the man standing by the car. His father. Yuri Konstantinovich Savisin was tall like Rusya, in his late-50s, Esma guessed. And had Rusya’s handsome profile. He was aging well, some grey in his hair, some lines on his face, but his posture was erect, his chin proud. Father and son were a lot alike.

  Anto and Esma watched as Rusya and Yuri greeted each other, warm embraces and affectionate kisses. “Son.” Yuri held Rusya by the shoulders, examining him. “You look good. Your mother and I missed you.”

  Anto’s arm was circling Esma’s waist, propping her up. He had to bend his head down low so he could murmur in her ear without being overheard. “What’s going on, Turk?”

  “Nothing.” Esma kept her eyes glued to the father-son reunion. She didn’t dare look up at Anto. He’d see the lie in her face and then he’d have another reason to kill her.

  Rusya made introductions. Yuri gave Esma a slight bow as he took her hand and grazed the back of it with a kiss. “Ah, Esma, the translator with a checkered past.” He offered a small smile and Esma suppressed a shudder. His grin was contrived, his words meant to rattle, and his manner too arrogant. In his eyes, she was beneath him. She wondered if Rusya picked up on the vibe, but he seemed not to notice.

  She didn’t want to let it go though, not completely. She tossed him a friendly smile and said, “Don’t we all, Yuri Konstantinovich.”

  He returned her smile with one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed. And you must call me Yuri. Even the Russians can’t say my full name without choking on it.”

  Esma nodded as Yuri ushered them into the limo. She was seated next to Rusya and across from Anto. Yuri was across from Rusya. Father and son did most of the talking while Anto interjected here and there with small serious comments. Esma said nothing, just followed the train of conversation, trying to get her brain to keep up with the rapid Russian words that flowed among the three men. She was fluent yes, but she was Turkish first, English second. Russian came in a distant third, and quickly tired her out, especially now, because the exchange was fast flowing and the flight had drained what little energy she had.

  The drive to Rusya’s childhood home was lengthy and thirty minutes in, she stopped trying to listen and looked out the window, at the winter in Moscow. Bleak like Vancouver, but cold and snowy. The roads, treacherous from a melting and freezing, extended the travel and by the time they got to the Savisin estate, Esma had a headache on top of her unsettled stomach.

  There would be no hotels for Rusya and his entourage, Yuri told them as they pulled up to his house. They would all stay here, with him and his wife. “It’s so rare we get to spend time with Rusya and I don’t want to waste it in unnecessary travel as we prepare for next week’s meeting with the Turks.” His eyes landed on Esma as he said his words and she wasn’t sure if he expected a response. She gave a small nod as she returned her attention to landscape outside the car. She was a little awestruck. Another huge estate, but this one lit up and decorated with Christmas lights.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  Yuri smiled. “A thing of beauty, indeed.” But his eyes were still focused on Esma as he said it and when she noticed, she felt the warmth of a blush. The driver opened the door and Rusya helped her from the car and guided her up to the house. A woman was hovering in the doorway and when she saw Rusya, she stepped out onto the front deck and held out her arms. Olga, his mother. A tall woman, with strong features and Esma saw Rusya in the lines of her face. She was thin, but like Yuri, strong posture, bright eyes, a wide smile.

  “Rusya, my son! So good to have you home!” They embraced, kissed. She laughed as Rusya said something to her that Esma didn’t catch. Rusya, so demonstrative with his parents, as if he was a different man, the serious mob boss left at the gates of the Vancouver airport. Little unhappy feelings pricked at her and she battled with them, struggled to keep them from showing up on her face, in her smile as she was introduced to Olga.

  “You must be cold, Esma,” she said as she wrapped an arm around Esma’s shoulders and ushered her into the house ahead of the men. Coats were taken, bags were brought in and rooms were assigned. Separate rooms for her and Rusya. He would sleep in his room, the one he always stayed in when he visited. She and Anto had use of guest rooms, which they could go to later. Right now, the family was together and there was much to talk about, much to celebrate as they moved as a group into a large formal living room.

  Esma was lost, not sure where to turn, what to do, not keeping up with the fast flow of conversation. The living room was big, beautiful, wood wainscoting and warm colours. A roaring fire in a massive fireplace, the centrepiece of the room, and a soaring pine tree in the corner, tastefully decorated for Christmas, an angel crowning it, and colourfully-wrapped gifts beneath it.

  Perfect, all perfect, except her.

  Rusya, engaged with his parents, deep in conversation, his mother’s hand on his arm as she and Yuri laughed at something he said. Anto, at the bar, helping himself to the vodka and some nuts set out on the top of it. And she, hovering self-consciously, by the entrance of the room, biting
her lower lip. Watching as the scene unfolded. Feeling diminished.

  “Esma, come join us.” Yuri waved a hand to her and Rusya turned, his eyes on her, hesitating a moment, then holding out his hand. She smiled at the gesture, stepped up and took it. He gave a small squeeze and released her, but it was enough to help centre her.

  “Let’s have some drinks.” Yuri headed to the bar, laughed as he saw Anto washing down the mouthful of nuts with the vodka. “I see Anto has helped himself already.”

  Anto grinned as he tossed back the rest of the vodka. “It was a long flight and your son didn’t feed us or give us anything to drink.”

  Rusya disagreed. “I gave water, you thug. It’s nothing more than you deserve.”

  Anto roared his laughter, startling Olga who then joined in. Esma tried to laugh but could only manage a small smile as a wistfulness stole over her. Why couldn’t he be like that with her?

  “What do you drink, Esma?” Yuri poured red wine into a glass and passed it to Olga.

  The need to belong rose up in her like a ravenous wolf. Fuck, she wanted a drink. “Sparkling water is fine.” Everything about her screamed different.

  Yuri disagreed. “Sparkling water is never fine! Red wine? Champagne?” Then added, “Vodka?” with a sly wink.

  “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  Yuri’s smile faltered. “Of course, my apologies for asking.”

  Yuri thought she was a practicing Muslim and Esma thought she should disabuse him of the notion before they turned a bedroom into a prayer hall for her. But she said nothing. Neither did Rusya. Drinks in hand, they sat on couches and chairs around the big fire. Rusya next to his mother on the couch, holding her hand. Esma in a chair next to Anto and across from Yuri. The conversation was fast and fluid and Esma tried to keep up as she sipped her water, but her head muddled the words and she thought she would have trouble responding if someone tried to draw her into the conversation.