by SR Jones
Staring at my reflection, I try to be objective. I’m pretty. I can see I’m pretty. Nice hair, good skin. I bare my teeth in a fierce smile; nice teeth, if a little crooked in a place or two. But I’m not beautiful. There’s nothing showstopping about me. My figure is not one thing or another. I’m not all petite and tiny like my old friend Suri who had guys all gaga over her because she was so small and delicate. I’m not tall and leggy, though, either, like a model.
I’m average height. Average build too, probably, and in-between a size ten to twelve. I’m curvy but not super curvy. Everything about me, I think, is okay, but kind of … normal. Average.
Konstantin is not average.
I sigh, and sick of my self-flagellation, I look around and freeze. On the bedside table is his iPad. He’s left it here. After me not having access to Wi-Fi or ways of seeing what’s going on in the outside world for a long time, he’s left this here. Did he mean to? Is he saying I’m no longer a prisoner as such? More of a guest?
I did agree to come back, didn’t I? He didn’t force me this time.
Nervous, but too curious not to, I open it and stare at the passcode protected screen. I don’t know what his number is.
Suddenly burning with curiosity to see what’s going on in the wider world, and what my friends are up to, I go hunting and searching in his drawers once more, until I find it. His passport. I go and enter the birthdate on there in the iPad, but it isn’t the right combo. What about his son, Michael? I rack my brains because we were in the club one night when he was celebrating his birthday, and I distinctly remember him saying it was that day. Then I recall, September fifth. So I try that. No go.
Crap. I could look up his wife, Yulia, to see her birthdate and try that; except I can’t because I can’t look anything up, without access to the damn tablet. Stupidly, and lazily, only half-assed now, I enter a couple of random numbers but then get locked out. A few minutes later, when it lets me try again, something possesses me to type in my own birthdate. It’s not because I expect it to work but because it’s what I do on my iPad at home, and it’s soothing somehow, familiar.
As I enter the last digit the screen unlocks.
What the hell?
He used my birthday for his passcode. Since when?
My heart is beating faster than usual. It’s a bit stalkerish, and I wonder if he’s been using it for a while? Not wanting to lose my opportunity to get online, I brush it off and focus.
Firstly, I browse The Guardian and The Times, catching up on the news I’ve missed. It’s all as depressing as ever, and I wish I hadn’t bothered. Then I log onto my Facebook account and scroll through friends’ posts. Suzy is posting about her usual stuff; clothes, makeup, funny memes. Vanessa mostly posts about dogs needing adoption, and I stare at one beautiful Golden Retriever boy who needs a home. He’s gorgeous, and in Romania, but will be ready for a home in the UK in about a month. He’s called Gulliver, and he’s beautiful. If only I could give him that home. I like the post and then because I can, I comment, Ah, beautiful. Wish I could give this boy a home.
After spending time looking at Facebook and seeing everyone is okay, I bring Google up and type in Konstantin Silvanov. I’ve looked him up before, but now I go deeper. Instead of simply looking at the first few page results, I go back, and back, and back, and then I stop. There’s a photograph of a much younger Konstantin, and he’s holding a medal, alongside another man, and they’re grinning at the camera. I can’t read the article, as it is in Russian, but it looks like a war medal.
Then I see another link, and this time it is in English. It’s about predatory business practices, and very dry, but I skim read it until I see Silvanov Asset Management. The firm is accused of predatory, if not at times illegal practices during acquisitions.
Footsteps on the landing have me snapping the tablet shut, but they pass the door. I open it again, delete all my search history and close it.
Konstantin is one complicated man.
Chapter Eight
Bohdan
The flight has only been in the air for thirty minutes, and I’m already bored. It’s a small, exclusive charter that K runs twice a week between Moscow and London. Only six seats, and today the only passenger is me. He doesn’t run it to make money. It takes a loss, he told me once. He runs it because people on flights often do business, make calls, use their laptops, and he films it all and listens to it all. All those Russian and British businessmen with connections between Mother Russia and Britain, unwittingly letting him see all their deepest, darkest secrets.
He also employs the best-looking flight attendants you’ve ever seen, and they’re paid to get the businessmen drunk, and flirt with them; although they never sleep with them. Drunk and flirty is enough to make them sloppy with the info they give out. These women aren’t air hostesses; they’re damn spies. Highly paid ones too, and I ought to know because I signed off their paychecks last month.
“Champagne, sir?” I glance up at this particular hostess, intrigued by her charming accent, and note her name. Ines. French? Fits with the sexy accent.
“It’s Bohdan, Ines, and no thank you. I’ll have vodka, chilled, straight up, if you have any.”
“Of course, Bohdan.” She saunters down the aisle, her swinging hips and ripe ass have my dick awake in no time.
K must have recruited her from Paris. One thing I know for a fact, though. If she’s working for him, he hasn’t fucked her. That shit got him into hot water a while ago, and he doesn’t do it anymore.
So having her won’t mean having any of his sloppy seconds.
I push out of my seat, and wander up to where she’s fixing my drink in the tiny galley. My mood hasn’t been the best these past few days. Someone is after our operation, attacking K, and now I must go to London, for who knows how long. I’ve sorted everything out as much as I can in Moscow, and things should run smoothly for a week or two, but you never know in our business.
Plus, I don’t like London. It’s one of my least favorite cities. It always feels like interconnected sets of villages to me, rather than a proper city. I can’t stand the Brits in general. I much prefer the French or the Italians. The Brits are dour, like us Russians, and they only come out of their shells when they’ve drunk too much … like us Russians. I like the exuberance of the Italians or the Greeks. In fact, some days, I think about leaving all of it behind and moving somewhere like the Amalfi Coast. What a glorious place. I’d buy a few acres of land, raise chickens, and grow food in the fertile soil. It would be heaven. I’m a street rat, a city boy, but I long for nothing more than the wide-open vistas of the countryside, or the beauty of the coast.
I’ve got the body of a boxer, and women tell me the face of an angel, but my soul is a dark place. With my past it couldn’t be anything but. I want to leave all this behind one day and simply be. Nothing more than existing while I soak up the sun and let it bleach all those dark, hidden places deep within me.
That’s not my life, though. This is. Being a fixer for K, and I’m damn good at it.
“Thanks,” I say to Ines with a smile. I bet my smile has around eighty percent of women wet within seconds.
Will Ines be one of them?
She smiles back, lowers her lashes, bites her lip and looks at me. Yep, she’s one of them.
“Won’t you join me?” I ask.
“Oh no, we’re not allowed to drink at work.”
“Well, I’m a colleague of Mr. Silvanov’s, not your usual cargo, and I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She shakes her head, but I can see she’s not a million miles away from giving in and having some vodka with me. I drink it and sigh. “That’s damn good vodka. Come, have one glass.”
She smiles again, and she’s got a lovely smile. “Okay, just the one. If you swear I won’t lose my job over this.”
“No, I won’t tell a soul.”
I pour two more glasses and hand one to her. These aren’t plastic glasses; they’re heavy tumblers, and when food is served, it’s se
rved on china not plastic. There is a security risk in it, but seeing as the two pilots on this route are ex Spetsnaz airborne division, and both are carrying, along with the navigator, K must feel the risks are outweighed by those facts.
We sip our vodka, and I like the subtle hint of color in Ines’ cheeks as the alcohol warms her. She’s got dark, glossy hair, and huge eyes that are almost black in this light. She looks like a high-end model, not an air hostess. Maybe she was before she did this. She must be in her mid-thirties now, I guess, which makes her older than me.
“Your hair is beautiful,” I tell her as I reach out and finger a strand, letting the silky weight of it slide between finger and thumb.
“Thank you,” she says.
Then I say to her, in French, “You’re welcome.”
“You speak French?” she asks, seeming surprised.
“Yes.” I don’t tell her I also speak English, Italian, and some basic Japanese. That would be boasting. I’m clever. It’s just a fact of life. The same way my good looks are a fact of life. I don’t think it makes me a better person, but it does make me a better weapon. People, men, always underestimate my brutality because who would think a pretty boy would break their bones? They also underestimate my intelligence. I can understand why beautiful women get fed up of being treated as if they’re thick because honestly? I do too.
“Were you a model, before you did this?” I ask.
Ines shakes her head. “No, a dancer.”
Her words pull me up short. Red hair, pale blue eyes, pale, unmarred skin, and slender limbs in ballet clothes flash in front of my eyes, before I blink the apparition away.
I don’t want to think about her. The only woman I ever loved. The woman who betrayed me and fucked me over.
“You have the grace,” I tell Ines.
Her body language is off the charts, and I can’t exactly be subtle about this. I want to fuck her on a plane, in the toilets. This isn’t a romantic seduction.
“You want to mess about?” I ask her with a rueful grin, patented to soften the directness of the question.
“Yes.” She practically breathes the word.
“Will your colleague cover for you? What, with you being so busy and everything.” I laugh, jerking my head to the other galley at the back where her colleague is busy organizing drawers in a trolley.
“She won’t even notice I’m gone. She’s got OCD. She has to get the drink trays in order every flight. I’m not being bitchy,” she says suddenly as if I’d think she was. “She’s genuinely got OCD, and she must make sure everything is just so.”
“All the better for us, then.” I smile, and she grins conspiratorially.
“Come on, Ines with the beautiful hair. Let’s have some fun.”
I take her hand and bring her with me into the nearby toilet, shutting the door and locking it. It’s much more spacious than the usual airline toilets and has a seat with a mirror across from it. Nice.
“You want it gentle, or hot and hard?” I ask.
I’m amenable to either.
“Hot and hard,” she says firmly.
“Lift your skirt up, pull your panties to one side, and come here,” I tell her as I sit on the chair.
She does as I say, and I grab her and tongue fuck her pussy. No gentle buildup, no foreplay—I go for it. She arches her back and cries out.
I work her like a pro, and I could do this all day. I fucking love the taste of pussy. I love the taste of women, full stop. Their scent too. The way they feel. The way they look. I’ve fucked more women than I can remember. I always glove up, and I always get tested every six months.
I didn’t used to be this way. Before her, I’d only had sex with one other girl. After her, I found the only way to get her out of my head was to fight or fuck. Luckily, K needs me to fight often, and I find getting a fuck as easy as buying bread.
When the woman in front of me is moaning like a bitch in heat, and her legs are shaking, I stop. I want to feel her cunt around my cock when she comes.
“Open your shirt; I want to see your tits.” I don’t sugar coat it. After all, she said she wanted it hard and fast.
She does as I say, unbuttoning her blouse, and letting me see her small, pert breasts in her lacy bra. I decide I like the view of her dark nipples through the lace, so I don’t order her to take it off. Instead, I suck one of those nipples in through the fabric and tease it until it’s hard in my mouth.
I let go with a wet pop, take myself out of my trousers, pull a condom out of my wallet, and roll it down my length.
“Climb on board,” I say with a laugh.
She grins and seats herself on me swiftly, giving neither of us time to adjust. Then she pulls up and slams back down, adding a slight twist on her movement. Soon, she’s working away above me, her eyes closed, and her mouth parted. She reaches down and fingers her clit while she fucks me, and it’s hard and fast like she said. Except she’s the one fucking me.
I lean back and enjoy the show because she’s hungry for it, and so am I. I like her honesty and her unashamed way of taking what she wants.
Christ, I hope she comes soon, because I’m about to. I say a few filthy things, not really thinking but wanting her to come, and it works. She cries out and grips me like a vice, while I fill the condom.
She stands, wipes her thighs with some toilet paper, and pulls her panties into place, smoothing her skirt down.
“Wow, that was nice. Listen,” she says. Oh no, she’s going to ask to see me again. What she says next surprises me, though. “I’m involved, happily, but we sometimes have threesomes. If you ever want to hook up again, give me a call.” She hands me a card.
I take it but shake my head. “Thanks, but guys aren’t my thing. Not even when double teaming someone as hot as you.”
She laughs. “Oh, I never said my partner was a man. She’s called Brigitte, and we’d love for you to join us sometime.”
The she kisses me sweetly on the cheek, buttons her shirt, checks herself in the mirror and exits the room, leaving me sitting there a little dumbfounded.
If I could fall in love, I might with her. I can’t, though. The reason I can’t is because I’m already in love, but the woman I’m in love with is also the person I hate most in this world.
Sometimes life fucks with you that way.
Chapter Nine
Cassie
I’m all nervous and excited. Lots of things are happening. A doctor came to the house this morning and took blood and swabs from both myself and Konstantin. She’s going to send them off to test us both, and if we’re clean, Konstantin wants us to screw with no condom. The idea makes me nervous. One more barrier between us gone. One more way for it to hurt even more when he walks away.
I try not to focus on that; instead, I focus on the good things. I’m going home, if only for a short while, and get some of my stuff, and even better, I get to see my neighbor. At some point in the next few days, I might go to Paris. Paris! Wow. I’ve always wanted to go there. My trips abroad have been limited so far to holiday type destinations. Places like Majorca. I’ve always wanted to travel and see other cities and cultures, not only go to British resorts in hot places.
I’m in the kitchen; the hard, smooth seat of the high chair at the long breakfast bar is cold on my thighs. It’s hot today, and I’m wearing shorts and a tank. The shorts are ones that came in the second lot of clothing, but they’re pretty cool. They’re denim and sit mid-thigh, so not long, but certainly not Daisy Dukes, which I’d feel all kinds of wrong wearing in a houseful of men.
Mrs. Dannivon isn’t here anymore. She left after the violence of the other night; although, thankfully she didn’t get hurt. She hid in the utility with the dogs. I’m the only woman. There’s a new cook, though, a man called Phillipe, and he makes the most gorgeous food. Good thing too, because the house is full of big men who eat their own body weight daily.
I’m slowly getting to know a few of them, but the only one I feel comfortable with is Reece
. He’s friendly, seems kind and laid back, and he’s also on the right side of the law and British military. I find his presence reassuring. Vasily is still in the hospital, but he'll be coming here to recuperate on his release. Andrius is still here, along with Alexei, who I avoid because I don’t know him; he’s scary. Then there’s Kasper; I tend not to have anything to do with him either.
Heavy footsteps approach from the basement, where a few of the men have been busy plotting, I presume. Konstantin and Andrius enter the kitchen. Konstantin tosses me a panty-melting smile.
“Are you eating ham with beetroot again?” Andrius asks.
“No, cheese and tomato this time.”
“Ah, okay. Sounds good, but not as good, da?”
I laugh. “Yeah, not as good.” I glance at his nose which is still swollen. “How are you?”
“I am good. My face will soon be as handsome as always, or so I am told.” He smirks, and Konstantin rolls his eyes.
There’s a loud beep from the hallway. It means someone has arrived at the house and is at the gate. Konstantin presses the alarm system fixed in the kitchen. He now has a monitor in the hallway, kitchen, his study, his bedroom, and on the upstairs hallway, as well as in the turret. He’s paranoid, and to be honest, I like it. Makes me feel safe.
The grainy face of a man appears on the monitor followed by a rapid-fire stream of Russian. Konstantin grins, shakes his head, and replies in Russian. Then he presses the button to open the gates.
He goes to the door, and a minute or so later I hear deep male voices talking and laughing.
“Bohdan,” Andrius says to me.
He’s one of Konstantin’s men, but I don’t have much more info than that.
They come back into the room, and for a moment I stare at this new addition to the household.
He’s incongruous here because he looks like a movie star. Well, no, not like a movie star; he’s more handsome, more beautiful, than any movie star I’ve seen. He literally looks like an angel fallen to earth.
He’s got dark blond hair, so dark it almost looks brown, but you can see where it will lift in the sun; already around his face are a few strands that are lighter. It’s longer than I’ve seen on any of the men here, except for Reece. It’s wavy too, and strands of it fall around his perfect cheekbones.