by Jasmin Quinn
He’d ordered room service, a late-dinner, some sparkling water and orange juice. It was already set up, a service for two. Small candles burning. As his eyes swept the pretty set-up, his mind lingered on the possibilities. The weather had been slowly deteriorating and he thought they might get stranded in Moscow for a couple of days. He didn’t hate the idea of it, not with Esma here.
Esma had been showering and she drew his attention as she came out of the bathroom wearing the hotel’s robe, a white cotton kimono that contrasted with her silky, tan skin. Her curls were wet and uncontained, her face fresh and clean. She stopped, looked around at the table. The covered dishes, the candles. Her face lit up as she smiled.
Rusya felt the heat straight through to his cock. “Come here,” he said.
She unbelted the kimono and dropped it off her shoulders, letting it fall into a puddle on the floor as she walked slowly to him with a small sexy smile playing at her lips. He tilted his head as his eyes travelled the length of her. Naked, she took his breath away. Beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. She was opposite him, untamed, unruly, a demure pretense. Fierce in so many ways. And always deliberately goading him into losing control.
He’d never wanted a woman more.
When she reached him, she pushed her legs between his thighs and leaned over, a hand on each side of him, palms planted on the back of the couch forcing him to tilt his face up as she brought her lips to his and kissed him. Hard, searing, long and passionate. He reached a hand to the back of her head and drew her closer, his lips crushing hers, his tongue dancing, Sucking. His teeth nibbling down her jaw to her neck.
She dropped to her knees between his legs, her hands caressing his thighs, running up the length of them, to the button on his pants. “I want you, Rusya.” She flicked open the button and drew his zipper down.
“Show me, Esma,” he replied then hissed out his breath as she reached inside his underwear and wrapped her fingers around his hardening cock, stroking it firmly a couple of times, then pulling it out of his trousers. She leaned over and ran her tongue up the length of it and over the top, licking away the pre-cum that was already leaking from it. He was hard now, pressure in his balls building as he gazed steadily at her. Then she brought her lips down over his cock, sucking it into her warm, wet mouth. He groaned and shut his eyes as he laid his head on the back of the couch. The hand that was holding his cock worked in tandem with her mouth, jacking him at the same time. Up and down. Thrust for thrust. He looked down at her bobbing head and as if she sensed his gaze she tilted her head up, looking into his eyes, with affection, love maybe.
And he didn’t think it possible, but he got harder. This woman, on her knees, staring at him like he was her whole world, her mouth full of his cock, supplicant. He realized she’d do anything for him if he treated her well and it made his desire for her grow. She was his woman. Yes.
Then the thought got lost as she intentionally raked his cock with her teeth, brought her mouth to the helmet, sucked at the top, her tongue lacing around the crevices. A satisfied grin as she considered his hardness, the intensity of her gaze fucking with his control. She gave it another small squeeze then crawled up on his lap, straddled him with her thighs and guided his cock into her. So warm, wet, drawing him in, tightening around him.
Fuck.
Her breasts crushed against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her lips, her tongue, small kisses and licks on his jawline, his neck, his shoulder blades while she moved on top of him, pulling her ass up then down, fucking his cock, fucking him. He splayed his hand across her back, dropped a kiss to her shoulder, then a small bite as heat flooded him.
This way, slowly, rhythmically for a few minutes, then Rusya felt the build, the desire flooding him. The need roaring through him. He found her lips and ravished them until she was breathless, then his hands at her hips, urging her faster, thrusting up into her. “Rusya!” He heard her shout, dimly, as she came, the walls of her pussy tightening around his cock, dragging it in. She slumped against his chest hugging it, and he let her, for a minute, slowing his thrusts, but still pumping. When she looked at him, her lips swollen, her gaze dark, her wet curls hugging her face, he kissed her hard, then pulled her off and turned her belly side down on the couch.
She grabbed onto the cushions as he hammered back into her. Her back to him, her chest, her face on the couch, her ass in the air. She naked, he dressed. It made him crazy, wild with lust. Her cries as he thrust into her, her fever building again, her hands at her pussy, touching herself, it was fucking with him. He wanted to wait, wanted her to come again. Slowed a little, then it was too late. He lost it, his orgasm thundered through him, and he groaned loudly, then again as his balls tightened and the semen shot from him.
She cried out, breathless, holding her pussy, and he felt it, the tremors, her coming. It was perfect. The best thing in his life.
Chapter 30
Esma was on top of the world. She knew her high was fleeting, but she decided that for these few short hours, she would pretend that she and Rusya were the only two people in the world. There was nothing outside the hotel room door, no one knew her secret, Jackman wasn’t lurking in the shadows and there was nothing that Rusya wouldn’t forgive her for.
She had been thoroughly fucked by Rusya, or maybe he had been thoroughly fucked by her. Maybe both. After the sex, the soft caresses, she wrapped the kimono around her, belting it loosely at the waist, enough that it gaped open if she leaned the wrong… or maybe the right way, exposing a hint of her breasts. Each time this happened, Rusya’s eyes were drawn to her chest.
He was dropping his civilized veneer around her and she thrilled at it. His jacket and tie, discarded, cuffs undone, the top four buttons on his shirt open and the peek of his chest stroking Esma’s pussy each time her eyes landed on him. They were at the table, almost side by side drinking orange juice and sparkling water, eating their dinner like cavemen, delicate quails full of bones and they were picking at the meat with their fingers. Esma was starving. Sex made her hungry. Fantastic sex made her ravenous.
They talked about the week, the people, the considerations, and it was all going so well until Rusya mentioned his wife. It was because Esma asked about his home in Moscow. Where he used to live before he came to Vancouver.
“Surely not with your parents,” she’d said.
He shook his head as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “No. I have an apartment in Moscow, but I haven’t used it years. It’s been sitting empty. I should sell it.”
“Why not use it?”
“I shared it with my wife.”
Esma was plucking a little thigh muscle of meat from the bird and her hand stilled. Wife? “You were married?” She didn’t say ‘are’ because that would kill her.
Rusya nodded, took a sip of the orange juice. “Irina. She died.”
Esma dropped her hands to her lap, rubbed her greasy fingers on the napkin. “I’m sorry.” Her heart broke for the man who lost his wife but at the same time she knew she was lying. If Irina hadn’t died she wouldn’t have had the best sex of her life. A little guilt snagged her, but she quickly moved on.
Rusya shrugged anyway. “That was before I came to Vancouver. 12-13 years ago. I’ve lost track.
“You married young.”
“I was 25.”
Esma did the math in her head. That made him 38, ten years older. Not so bad. “How did she die?”
Rusya shifted, moved his plate off to the side and crossed his legs. He gazed at Esma as he wiped his hands and then discarded the napkin. Thinking what? she wondered. But she waited. She was used to Rusya’s long thoughtful silences.
“An enemy of my father’s thought to get back at him by killing me. He planted a bomb in my car on the street while Irina and I were out for lunch. His mistake was that he didn’t realize that I had not planned to return with her. I had a meeting nearby. I would walk to it and she would go home. The driver would come back later when the meeting
was over.” He paused, his hand on the table, his fingers tapping softly. “The bomb went off the moment the car was started. She and the driver were killed instantly.”
Esma saw his vulnerability, his guilt as the memories haunted him. “I’m sorry that happened,” she said softly, this time meaning it.
His jaw worked like he was clenching his teeth. He gazed across the room. “She was pregnant.”
“God.” Esma reached out and took Rusya’s hand, squeezing it. She felt overwhelming sadness for this man.
Then he said, “I killed the sonofabitch. Not gently, not nicely. Which then earned me an enemy, although we were far from friends before the death of his father.”
Ice slipped through Esma and she froze, bringing her hand back to her lap. Rusya Savisin would have many enemies, but none would be so present, so obvious. Except one. She held her breath. “Who?”
His eyes settled on her, refocusing as he drew the bread basket toward him, picked up a roll and tore it open. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it did matter because this was the opening she needed. Them alone in a room where they couldn’t be interrupted. Late at night, no one would disturb them and they were talking about his wife. She would tell him now and hope her words were convincing enough for him to forgive her.
“I was married too,” she said quickly as she picked up her napkin and wiped at her fingers unnecessarily. But it was a thing to do with her hands and helped keep her heart from beating out of her chest.
Rusya’s hand paused from buttering his bun. “Married?”
“Yes. A marriage arranged by my father to a friend of his when I was 16. Shortly after my graduation.”
“That surprises me.”
“My father was, is a prick.” Esma didn’t care if he objected to her foul language, she needed this out. “I was pretty much forced into the marriage.”
Rusya was no longer eating. The bun lay forgotten on his plate. He was listening closely, his eyes steady on her.
“When I didn’t do as I was told and sometimes when I did, my husband hit me. At first it was nothing, a slap here or there. But it got worse over time. I knew that after university I would leave him, leave Turkey. I was planning, saving money, getting a passport.”
All this rushed out of her mouth, the sentences jumbled around and she wasn’t sure if it was making the right sense. Fear stole through her and choked her. She couldn’t look into Rusya’s face to try to see what he was thinking, so she stared at her orange juice instead. “It wasn’t easy. He was a professor at the university. After graduation, I got the attaché job and was so happy. It meant I could be away from him. But that didn’t work out and I was sent back to Turkey.”
She paused as memories flooded her, took a quick peek at Rusya. His face, his eyes frozen on her, not moving. Listening intently. “After I got home, things really fell apart. Bad.” Her voice cracked. She touched a finger to her orange juice. “I decided to stay exactly three months, enough for us to settle back into a routine. He found out though. Found my passport, the plane ticket, the money. Confronted me with them, then proceeded to beat the shit out of me.” Esma swallowed at the memory. She never spoke of it to anyone because it made it too fresh. Brought back the pain.
Rusya said nothing. Just sat, darkly regarding her. Waiting for the rest of the story.
“I ended up in a hospital, treated for a concussion, cracked ribs. A car accident was the agreed upon reason. My father and mother knew. Father thought I deserved it and maybe he was right. I didn’t hide the documents well enough. Maybe I could have reported him, but in Turkey, it’s still a crap shoot. When I was well enough to go home, I took matters into my own hands.”
Esma paused, willing her heart to slow down. The hard part of the story was still to come.
Rusya shifted. “What did you do?”
Esma couldn’t look at Rusya, kept her eyes glued to the plate in front of her. “I goaded him into hitting me again, beating me. In the kitchen.” She swallowed a sob as the vivid memories surfaced. “I was ready for him this time and after I was hurt enough, I used a knife I’d laid out on the counter earlier. It was easy to stab him in the throat. I fled then, with nothing because he’d destroyed everything I had.
“I didn’t get far before I was caught, thrown in prison, charged with first degree murder despite the bruises on my face and body. No one would listen to me, not my parents, not the authorities. I was on my way to prison for the rest of my life.” She took a small breath and exhaled, dropped her napkin on the table and risked a small glance at Rusya.
He smiled as he caught her eye, a little upturning of his lips. To break the tension, Esma thought. Then he asked the obvious question. “How did you escape Turkey?”
Esma’s smile flickered back at him – incongruent with the turmoil inside her. It was now or never. Because he’s asked.
“I was rescued by a man with a lot of money, who thought I had some value. He paid off people and they smuggled me out of prison in the dead of the night, smuggled me out of Turkey and eventually into Russia.”
Rusya nodded, but his smile had faded. The pieces were starting to click for him. “Does the man have a name?”
“Jackman,” she whispered.
Rusya went still as stone, his eyes boring into her, piercing her. Quiet for so long, then, “Tell me the rest of the story.” Cold, dark, lethal promises in his voice.
“He took me in, trained me, sent me on missions. Nothing to do with you or the bratva.” She glanced at Rusya, couldn’t hold his intense gaze and dropped her eyes to her hands. “Until last summer. I fucked up because of my drinking, so he decided to punish me. Forced my sobriety and then sent me to you.” She glanced over. She saw her death in Rusya’s eyes, in the set to his jaw. She had very little time left to convince him not to kill her.
“I had no choice, Rusya. It was either find my way into your home and feed back information or he would kill me. I didn’t want to do this.”
He struck out at her, so suddenly she was unprepared, the hand slamming across her face, knocking her chair over, sending her sprawling. “Goddamn you to hell!” he roared as he stood.
She climbed to her hands and knees, tried to crawl away, but he stomped a foot on her back, flattening her, crouching beside her. “I’m a job to you, is that it, Esma? A fucking goddammed job! You had weeks to explain yourself, why the fuck now?”
Esma heaved around so she was belly up, vulnerable but she needed him to see the truth in her face. “Because… we love each other. Because you needed to know. I can’t keep pretending there’s nothing wrong.”
The quiet was deafening as it slid by, maybe a few seconds but it felt like hours to Esma.
Rusya’s face contorted. “Fuck you.” He walked away, running his hands through his hair, turned back. “Fuck you, you little bitch!”
Esma sat up carefully but decided to say down. Stay submissive. “There was no good time to tell you. If I told you the minute I walked into your house, you would have killed me or if not, he would have. I didn’t know you then, like I do now.”
“So, this was your job, to seduce me? Fuck me into telling you my secrets?”
Rusya was shaking with rage, his hands clenched at his sides and Esma knew she’d lost him. Knew she couldn’t recover from this, but it didn’t stop her from trying. “It wasn’t like that. You seduced me. You made me love you. I love you. I couldn’t be with you like this if I didn’t.”
Her words further inflamed him. He stalked to her, pulled her to her feet by her hair and lowered his face to her. “Do not say those fucking words to me again!” He shook her hard, pushed her hard, and she landed on her ass. “Do you fucking hear me? The only thing I want from you is answers!”
Esma blew out a shaky breath, tried not to cry even as her heart broke. She had to a find a way not to die. After, if she survived, she could mourn her loss. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything I know.” To her ears, she sounded shattered.
�
��How would Jackman know I needed a translator?”
Fuck, right for the jugular and the answer wasn’t going to appease him. “He set it up.” She held her breath.
Rusya’s eyes darkened as understanding flashed across his face. “He set it up? The whole thing? The partnership between the Turks and the bratva?”
Esma nodded, her voice small. “Yes. He made it happen.”
“Who’s inside? Not just you, Esma. Who else?”
Shit, shit, shit! “I don’t know.” Lies again, fucking lies, but if she betrayed Anto, she’d die a different death.
He came over, threaded his hand through her hair and pulled her up off the carpet.
She cried at the pain, thought she should fight back, but didn’t want to. If she resisted, there would be no forgiveness. Maybe there was still a chance she could turn this.
“You fucking better know!” He was shouting, his voice deep, booming, every word held the threat of death.
“Fuck, Rusya. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
He hit her again, a stinging slap across the face that brought tears to her eyes. “You’re still aligned with him.” He dropped his hands from her as if she disgusted him, stalked over to the bar, and poured a vodka.
Esma stayed rooted to her spot, thinking she should run, try to make the door, but she couldn’t force her legs to move. “I’m not, Rusya. I swear. I wouldn’t have told you if I were. You don’t know how much I hate him.” His eyes on her were dead, nothing but hardness in their depths. “Send me back to him, I’ll kill him myself.”
That got his attention and he tilted his head to the side. “What a fucking good idea. Get dressed.”
“What?” Esma shook under his words.
“I’m taking you back to Jackman. I’ve had enough of that fucker interfering in my life. It’s time I drew the line in the sand.”