by Renee Rose
She lets out a surprised little “Mm.” I keep it up, drawing closer, so more of the strands come in contact. I can tell it’s getting stingier by the way her ass clenches, and her breath draws in. She doesn’t move from the position, though. She certainly wants this.
I draw my arm back and let the flogger tassels swing, whipping her soundly once.
“Ow!” She draws in a sharp breath.
“Take it, kitten.” I whip her again. A pink mark blooms where I struck the first time. I return to my more gentle figure-eights to diffuse the sting and warm her ass all over.
She moans and sinks down, first to her elbows then to rest her chest on the pillow I provided.
“Good girl,” I praise, even though she’s not doing it to be obedient—she’s doing it to make herself more comfortable. Still, this is how she learns to trust that my orders are for her own good. This is how she learns to trust.
I remember from Black Light how long it took to win her trust, and that was just as a partner for the night. Now, I’m looking at something altogether different.
My right to father our child.
I increase the power behind the twirls, smacking a little harder, and she flinches, squeezing her buttcheeks. I lighten it again and go down the back of each thigh then over her lovely back. “I should make you suck my dick tonight,” I observe. “Except I’m not sure I trust you not to bite it off.”
She murmurs her assent into the pillow, and I smirk to myself.
“I will have to take my pleasure,” I say, returning my attention to her ass. All her skin has a light pink glow. I set about darkening that hue on her ass.
Her fingers tighten on the pillow, her asshole clenches and releases.
I stop flogging and trail the tassels lightly over her reddened skin between her ass cheeks, against her pussy. I swing it and lightly whip her pussy.
She squeaks. I flick again. And again.
Then I drop the flogger and rub over her slit with my fingers.
So wet. Incredibly swollen. Very inviting.
If I cared more for her pleasure, I would drag this scene out like I did at Black Light. But part of me is still angry. So I consider my own desires first.
Right now, I want to fuck my new attorney until the room spins. I unzip my pants and free my straining erection.
“I am clean,” I tell her, my voice rough with desire. “I haven’t been with anyone since I was with you.”
I didn’t mean to tell her that. I’m not sure why I did.
Annoyance with myself makes me shove into her without waiting for her agreement, for her acknowledgement of my plan to enter and ride her bareback.
“I haven’t either,” she gasps as the force of my thrust pushes her forward.
I catch her hips, my heart suddenly lodged higher in my chest.
I shouldn’t be surprised at her admission, considering what I found on her laptop. It’s more that she willingly shared it with me.
But my thoughts start to unravel because being inside her hot, wet channel feels better than I remember. Better than any fuck I’ve ever had.
Can it be because I know she’s carrying my child? Something primitive and caveman in me finds it so appealing?
Or is it that her body is just so much more welcoming under the influence of all the hormones? Either way, I revel in the way her flesh seems to hold my cock tight as I arc in and out of her.
I grip her long blonde hair and wrap it in a fist, using it to lift her head. “You’ve needed this,” I tell her, my own raging lust making me cocky as hell. “Needed my big Russian cock fucking you senseless. Didn’t you, beautiful?”
She only mewls in reply. I didn’t expect her to agree. “You thought you’d given this up forever, didn’t you? Is that why you’ve been watching Russian porn?”
She bucks her hips in surprise, and I tighten my grip, increase the tempo of the fucking. “You needed a good Russian spanking?”
“Shut up!” she snaps.
I’ve embarrassed her. I don’t mind. I am being a mudak, I know. In the heat of the moment, I’m letting my own hurt show.
“Fuck you, Ravil.”
I chuckle. “As you wish, beautiful.” I slam in harder and harder, closing my eyes to savor how good it feels. Lightning strikes the base of my spine, my thighs shake as my balls draw up with the need to come.
I reach around and rub her clit roughly a couple swipes, but I’m too close. I need it so goddamn badly. I cup her nape to hold her in place as I fuck her hard and fast. I shout as I come—roar, actually—and reach around to give her clit my full attention.
She comes almost immediately, her channel squeezing and releasing around my cock, drawing out more and more of my seed.
“Blyat, Lucy. Blyat.” I stroke my hands all over her body, gratitude following fast on the heels of my pleasure.
Forgiveness.
Affection, even.
I wait until her orgasm has passed and she’s regained her breath before I ease out and get a washcloth to clean her up.
She doesn’t wait but walks past me into the bathroom. I hand her the washcloth, and she points to the door. “A little privacy?”
I shake my head. “Be nice or I’ll use my belt next time I punish you.”
Her eyes flare, but I’m certain it’s half with excitement. I walk out and shut the door. Let her have her privacy. She’ll have very little of it here with me.
I will own her every minute. Monitor her every communication, control her entire existence.
So yeah, if she wants to rinse off alone after I fuck her, she can have that tiny win.
There won’t be all that many.
Lucy
My legs tremble and my ass tingles with heat. Mostly, I just feel pleasure. The post-orgasmic languor of heavy limbs and bliss.
All those nights watching Russian porn trying to get myself off, I never got any satisfaction. Even when I did bring myself to orgasm.
But I’ll be damned if I tell Ravil that he satisfied me.
Asshole.
I partly hate myself right now for letting him do that. It’s just that he’s already proven himself a careful and attentive lover. And this pregnancy has me so damn horny.
Besides, I’m a feminist. I don’t believe that sex is the only power a woman has—a gift to be given or withheld. That’s bullshit. A remnant of patriarchal rule. Not one we need to subscribe to.
That sex was for me, even if it did look degrading.
And I got what I needed out of it.
And if he happened to enjoy it, too, well, good for him. It might help our negotiations.
I use the toilet and then turn on the shower. As I’m stepping in, Ravil knocks lightly and opens the door. He holds up my cosmetic bag for me to see and sets it on the counter before backing out again and shutting the door.
A chill runs down my spine remembering that man packed my things today. Moved me in with him. His threat to take me to Russia for the duration of the pregnancy is believable enough that I’m scared. He obviously has a great deal of money and connections. He doesn’t care about laws. He does what he wants.
Takes what he wants.
This is the type of man I wanted out of my son’s life.
But unless I come up with a way to get rid of Ravil, that won’t be possible.
I’m not capable of murder. So that leaves prison. I need to use my time here to observe and collect evidence of crimes. I could build a case and hand it over to the district attorney. Get Ravil put away.
I’d have to come up with a way to make sure whatever I put him in for sticks. And keeps him in there at least twenty years.
Unease prickles all over my skin. The chance of such a plan backfiring looms large. If I tried to put him away—whether I was successful or not—chances are good there’d be retribution. If not from him, then from his “family”. They seem tight. And he could still give orders from prison.
I shiver under the hot water.
It’s a bad plan. My
options are severely limited. I keep thinking.
Better plan—collect the evidence. Store it somewhere very safe. Use it as leverage on him.
Yes, that’s a decent strategy.
So I just need to treat my time here as a chance to spy on Ravil.
Find out everything I can about him and his operation.
And if he happens to satisfy my rather ravenous sexual needs during this time, there’s no harm in that, is there?
No.
I finish my shower and step out, grabbing a soft gray towel from the wire rack. It’s fluffy and absorbent, and it feels heavenly against my sensitive skin. Well, at least I get to live in luxury while I’m here.
I wrap the towel around my hair and walk out, naked. “I’m hungry.” I’m not usually rude or demanding, but frankly, he deserves it.
Ravil’s sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He’s still in his button-down shirt and slacks, which he barely took down to have sex with me. The contrast of the business attire with the tattoos across his knuckles and at his neck is sexier than it should be.
The bad boy who arrived. Who reached the height of success despite his bad boy ways.
“What are you hungry for, kotyonok?” He’s unruffled by my complaint.
“Chicken wings,” I blurt. “With honey barbecue sauce.” It’s true, that’s exactly what I’m craving, but I’m also testing him. He said I’m here so he can take care of me during the pregnancy. I’m going to make him work. I’m going to act like a freaking pregnant diva.
It doesn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. He picks up his phone and hits a button. He says something in Russian to whoever answers, then ends the call.
“Your wings are on the way,” he says mildly.
I’m irrationally happy at that. Only because when a pregnant woman has a craving, it really does feel like the end of the world if she doesn’t get it. I swear, sometimes I get so hungry I want to cry. I haven’t resorted to ordering takeout at ten at night or whatever time it is now, but I sure have wanted to.
Ravil’s gaze roves over my naked body.
I don’t hate being pregnant like some women do. I actually thought I might, but after I broke up with Jeffrey, I’d really feared it was too late for me. That it would never happen. And so, until now, this baby has felt a bit like a miracle. I relished all the changes my body’s gone through. Even the less-than-pleasant ones like getting up to pee twice in the middle of the night and wanting to cry at sappy commercials.
Still, no one has seen me naked since I changed shape.
“Prekrasnyy,” Ravil murmurs.
“What does that mean?”
“Beautiful. Truly. I’ve never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in my life.”
Three things simultaneously grow warm—my chest, my neck and my lady parts.
“What else can I get you, kitten? More of this?” He holds out the glass of cucumber water.
“May I just have some plain water?” The cucumbers were nice at first, but they don’t sound good anymore.
“Of course.” He picks up his phone again. When he gets off, he tugs down the covers of the bed. “Come. Cover yourself. Or put on your pajamas. If my men see you naked, I’ll have to kill them.”
I shoot a glance at his face because I’m not sure how serious he is. Does he really feel possessive of me?
He doesn’t smile.
Okay, then.
That sets my thoughts on a hamster wheel. Does he think I belong to him now? Is he claiming me along with this baby? Or do I have some chance of him letting me go? Of course, I wouldn’t want to leave without my baby, and he knows that. In fact, that would be the worst possible outcome.
So should I want him to claim me as his, too?
That thought’s too crazy to even consider.
I pull on my camisole and pajama shorts and climb under the sheet. He hands me my laptop with my phone resting on top of it.
“Listen to me, Lucy.” He doesn’t release his hold on the laptop when I try to take it from him.
I meet his icy blue gaze.
“You will do as I said. Tomorrow you will call your office and tell them you must work remotely. You may call, email or be in touch with anyone you need to do your job, but I will be monitoring your communications. One word—one plea for help or hint about your situation, about me—and you go to Russia. If you return—and that’s a big if—it will be alone. Understand?”
I pick up the glass of cucumber water and throw it in his face. It’s childish and stupid but fuck him. “I hate you,” I spit.
Ravil doesn’t move. He blinks the water droplets from his lashes as he regards me coolly. “Be careful, kitten. I can take away privileges, too.”
I close my eyes because I feel tears coming on again, and I don’t want him to see. “I hate you,” I repeat.
He shakes his head. “Don’t say it again. Our son is listening.”
It’s a crazy thing for him to say. I’m not sure if he actually believes it or not, but it gives me pause. Gretchen, my best friend from law school, would say he’s right—that the baby would feel it energetically.
“Your son was listening when you threatened to take him from his mother, too,” I retort. “Don’t threaten me again.” There’s a wobble in my voice that I hate.
He pins me with his blue gaze. “All right. You understand our arrangement?”
“I understand,” I say tightly.
“Good. I have no wish to threaten you again.”
The tears burn behind my eyes once more. I force myself to swallow. I’m saved from his scrutiny by a knock at the door.
He yanks the sheet up higher on me before he calls out in Russian.
The door swings open, and Pavel comes in with one tall glass of ice water and one without ice. He looks at me and says a few sentences in Russian. I’m guessing it’s something like he didn’t know which way I liked the water, so he brought both.
“Thank you.” I reach for the ice water.
“Pozhaluysta,” Pavel says. His smile is warm and friendly, like I really am a guest and not a prisoner. I find myself lifting my fingers to wave at him when he turns to say something at the door.
“Pozhaluysta. Does that mean you’re welcome?”
“Yes. And also, please,” Ravil says.
“Does anyone here speak English besides you?”
“I will be your translator.”
Oh no. Screw that. Does he think I’m stupid? If I’m going to be prisoner to a building full of people who only speak Russian. I’m sure he loves the idea of me being helpless around here, but that’s not what’s happening. I’m signing up for Russian lessons on that language app first thing tomorrow. By the time that baby’s born, I’m going to be fluent in Russian.
That goal takes some of the fear out of me ending up in Russia. Knowing the language would definitely make that scenario less terrifying.
I down the water, even though it guarantees I’ll be up in two hours to pee, and lie down with my back to Ravil. I’m just going to close my eyes until the food gets here.
Chapter 6
Ravil
Lucy doesn’t wake up when the food is delivered, so I send Pavel to bring it to the kitchen refrigerator, strip down to my boxer briefs, and climb under the sheets with her.
And then I lie awake, my hands behind my head. Thinking.
I didn’t get to my position at the top of the bratva by changing my mind once I’d made a decision. That doesn’t mean I don’t modify a plan in motion. Just that when I set my sights on something, I don’t stop until I get what I’m after.
In this case, I might not have been totally clear on what I am after.
Is it Lucy? Or only the child? Or is it mostly to punish Lucy for the offense? A good pakhan is capable of seeing his own weakness. Knowing his motives.
Blyat. I wanted to punish her.
Some sliver of that hungry boy from Leningrad still exists in me and believes that people like Lucy Lawrence are be
tter than me. That when they decide I’m not worthy of respect and decency, they must be right.
And then the older me, the one who proved himself with knuckles and knives, has to smash those people into the ground to prove it’s not true.
And Lucy disrespected the hell out of me.
An hour passes. Then another. I ran every angle of every possibility again and again just to know my options. Decisions still don’t come.
Lucy stirs, then sits up.
“Hungry, kitten?”
She pads to the bathroom with one hand on her belly. “Um, yes.”
“Do you want those hot wings now?”
“No,” she groans. She closes the door, and I hear her pee on the other side.
I get out of bed. “What are you hungry for?”
“I don’t know. Food.”
“Very helpful, Counselor. Come. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”
“Ooh, my very own escort. I guess I should be thanking you for letting me out of my cell.”
“After the water throwing incident? Yes,” I say although it’s not true. I bear no grudge over that. I threatened her. She retaliated in her small way. I like her feistiness. Now we can move forward.
If only I was sure what forward should look like.
I take her elbow and lead her to the giant kitchen, praying none of the guys are up and around because I don’t want anyone seeing her in miniscule pajamas.
“Please tell me you have more than just Russian food,” she whispers as I flick on the low lighting over the stove. It’s a dream kitchen, or so I’m told.
I don’t cook. The kitchen is adjacent to the living room, open on one side, with a breakfast bar and center island, all in pink and black granite. The appliances are stainless steel. The cupboards are solid maple with the soft-close feature and built in lighting underneath. I flip the switch to turn that on, too. If I turned on the overhead light, we’d both go blind.
The soft glow lights up Lucy’s pale skin and hair. She looks beautifully rumpled. I want to caress the hell out of that swollen belly of hers, but we’re not really on those terms at the moment.