by Zoe Blake
“And I told you, I’m not a wh—”
His eyes narrowed as he stalked toward me. The backs of my thighs bumped into the scarred wooden community table, which took up most of the center aisle, as I tried to back further away.
“Be very careful what you are about to say, I have no issue with bending you over that bench and teaching you another painful lesson.”
Blindly reaching behind me, I grabbed the worn straps of my backpack and held it protectively before me. “I’m not the type of girl men give expensive jewelry to!”
The tips of his fingers stroked my cheek before reaching for my long ponytail. He let the soft curls trail over his palm before saying, “I don’t think you know what type of woman you are… but I do. There is much more to you, my sweet Emma, than meets the eye. I think many people have underestimated and overlooked you… I won’t be one of them.”
Stunned, I didn’t even object as he reached to open the flap of my backpack and placed the jewelry box inside.
“No, I can’t! You don’t understand.”
“I’m not a patient man, Emma. I am tiring of hearing the word ‘no’ on your lips.”
We were sitting inside his luxury black Mercedes-Benz just outside my apartment. No matter how badly I entreated, he would not take no for an answer and had absolutely insisted on driving me home. Now he was demanding I pack a bag and leave with him.
It was insane.
“I don’t even know your last name!”
“Dimitri Antonovich Kosgov, now get your things. I warn you. Since my plan is to have you naked most of the evening, this minor concession is already stretching my patience.”
This was all too much. I needed time to think. To process everything that had just happened. Last night, I never expected to see this man ever again and here he was demanding I spend the night with him. There was also an enormous part of me that was scared to death to be alone with him. I mean really alone. Look what the man did when we were in public! Granted, we had been in an isolated basement, but it was technically public!
Not to mention, I was still sore from the night before and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure I would survive another night of rough sex with him.
There was a soft vibration on the console between us. Dimitri picked up his phone and let out a low curse in Russian. “You are very fortunate, little one. There is some business I need to attend to. This will be your only reprieve. Tomorrow night I want you here waiting for me at precisely six p.m. Do you understand?”
“You want to take me out on a proper date? Like dinner?” I was pretty sure that wasn’t what he meant, but figured I would pretend otherwise.
He touched the tip of his finger to my nose. “Have it your way, моя крошка. I will take you out for a proper date.”
He turned and exited the car. Quickly, before he could see me, I reached into my backpack and pulled out the red leather jewelry case and shoved it deep between the seat and console just as he opened my door.
As soon as I stepped out, he caged me in between his body and the car. “I want you to listen very carefully. From this point forward, you are under my protection. I will explain to you in intimate detail what that means over dinner tomorrow. Until then, I suggest you behave and not break any more of my rules. Trust me, моя крошка, you won’t like the punishment if you do.”
This isn’t fair!
“How am I supposed to know if I break a rule?”
“You won’t, until it is too late,” he tossed over his shoulder as he headed back to the driver’s side.
I threw my hands up in the air. “So what am I supposed to do until tomorrow?”
He smirked. Then said in his heavy, sexy-as-hell Russian accent, “Be a good girl and read a book.”
“Read a book? He told you to read a book?”
Mary’s reaction wasn’t so much a laugh as a cackle.
“I’m glad you are finding the spectacular mess my life has become so amusing!” I huffed.
“Your life was boring.”
I pressed my lips together, having no retort for her truthful comeback.
“How did he find you, anyway?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. I didn’t have time to ask him.”
“Didn’t have time to ask? What were you doing? Oh… never mind, I think I have a good idea.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I changed the topic of the now embarrassing conversation. “Oh, yeah, well, Buffy is preachy and derivative!” I teased.
Her jaw dropped with fake affront. “You take that back.”
I stuck out my tongue.
“Jane Austen is pedantic and trite!” she fired back.
“Blasphemy!” I shouted before tossing my pillow at her as I rose and walked across the room to my bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
I sighed. “To be a good girl and read a book.”
I could still hear her laughter through my door.
Chapter 8
Terror made me cruel.
- Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Dimitri
I pulled up to the unassuming dark grey stone building of the Red Square Spa a short while later. As I reached into the console for the valet key, a flash of red caught my eye. I yanked out the Cartier box, which held the two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bracelet I had just purchased, from its hiding place. The little minx. A rare smile crossed my lips as I thought of the pleasurable punishment I would inflict on that gorgeous ass of hers the moment I saw her next.
Of course, that was as far as I could go, at least for one more day. I hadn’t missed her pained reaction when I pushed a single finger inside her still perfectly tight cunt. My baby was sore from the pounding I had given her last night. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was such a tiny thing, and a virgin at that. If I had been a gentleman, I would have stopped, or at the very least been more gentle with her.
Unfortunately, I was no gentleman.
Giving her a few days to recover would be the extent of my willpower where she was concerned.
The primal, possessive urge I had felt the moment I broke through her maidenhead had not left me. It was undeniably intoxicating knowing you were the only man in a woman’s life. Something I had never experienced before. She was just so adorably innocent and naïve. I had this odd need to protect her, like a treasured doll I wanted to keep locked away, sheltered from the darkness of the world.
The fact that I was part of that darkness was immaterial to me.
I was selfishly claiming her as my own, regardless of the consequences.
As I said, I was no gentleman.
Peter, the usual valet, greeted me as I opened the car door.
“Whoa, is this the new Mercedes-Benz S-Class AMG S 65?”
Handing him the key, I nodded. “Yes, Peter, and I expect it to remain up front,” I instructed as I peeled off a hundred-dollar bill from my money clip.
“Yes, Mr. Kosgov. Absolutely. I won’t take my eyes off it.”
I climbed the outside steps and swung open the glass door before climbing the remaining stairs to the dining room floor.
“Dimitri Antonovich!”
Vaska Lukovich clasped me with both hands on either side of my neck and kissed my cheeks.
“Hello, my friend,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder, easily slipping into my native tongue.
“Come, I have a table in the back.”
We walked past the various Americans and other patrons dressed in white spa robes to the more private dining room in the rear. Surrounding the wood-paneled wall were small television screens flanked by short curtains with a running video of the Russian countryside, meant to mimic the view from a train.
A server brought over a basket of brown bread, a narrow crystal tray of pickles, two shot glasses, and an ice-cold bottle of Moskovskaya Vodka. I picked up the bottle and stared at the white and green label with distaste.
“I can’t believe you drink this shit.”
&
nbsp; Vaska scoffed, “That is your problem, my friend. You earned a little money and now have luxurious tastes. This is the vodka of my people!”
I had known Vaska Lukovich Rostov since we were both expat students at Oxford. We had both earned a great deal more than a little money doing business together over the years. None of it legal, of course. Except for the vodka, his taste for extravagant luxury was just as refined as my own.
He poured us both a shot. We lifted our glasses.
“Будем здоровы!” we said in unison before exhaling loudly and tossing back the shot.
He reached for a pickle while I broke off a piece of brown bread.
“So what is so important we had to meet immediately?”
Vaska poured us another shot as the server brought over a tray of caviar with blinis, hard-boiled eggs, and onion.
“I could tell by the scowl on your face when you walked through the door I must have interrupted something. A woman, perhaps? That new girl from the agency?”
“A woman, yes, from the agency, no.”
Like me, Vaska found it more convenient given our line of business not to entertain any romantic relationships. A protocol that until recently I had strictly followed as well.
“I will share many things with you, my friend, but not this, not yet.”
“Be careful.”
I nodded before drinking.
“There’s trouble in Morocco. They killed our contact at the port. The government has seized our shipment of the PKP Pecheneg machine guns we intended for our friend in the South. One of us will have to go there soon and… reestablish diplomatic ties,” he said as he scooped a small amount of caviar onto a blini.
I rubbed my jaw. The Moroccan trade route had become problematic over the last year. Perhaps it was time to find an alternative route. Dealing in illegal arms required a constant delicate balance of bribing the correct government officials while establishing ties with the more unsavory characters on the global market. It was a far cry from the classic concert pianist my mother had hoped I would become when she’d sent me to Oxford, but it paid much better. The irony was the motley crew of royalty, aristocrats, and political sons Vaska and I had met at Oxford was what had allowed us to embark on this lucrative venture.
While we usually operated in the shadows, the average citizen would be surprised by how often their governments came to us for assistance when they needed to deal with certain rogue nations. After all, we were the ones with all the government officials in our pockets and with the knowledge of all the ways you could sneak past the borders of just about any country. Our connections and usefulness allowed us to operate in a grey area of the law. The Russian government didn’t care, and as long as we didn’t arm anyone currently firing at U.S. soldiers, neither did the American government.
“Very well. Make the arrangements. I will head to Morocco next week,” I conceded.
It would disrupt my plans for Emma, but it couldn’t be helped. Besides, she would need to become accustomed to my leaving the country for long stretches of time without notice. I would make sure I had her ensconced in my home with twenty-four-hour security before I left. I had known her for barely a day and already it bothered me that she was not under my protection, living under my roof and in my bed.
She was too innocent and vulnerable. There was no telling what trouble she would get herself into. That she had somehow stumbled through her first twenty-three years of life without my oversight was of no matter to me. I was in her life now, whether or not she liked it, and would take control.
“There is another situation that may need your special attention.”
I knew what he meant by special.
“Go on.”
Vaska poured us another round. “You will need it.”
We both drank.
“The Petrov brothers are back in town.”
“Fuck.”
“It’s bad.”
“Tell me.”
The Petrov brothers were two idiot wannabes who took with brute force what they could have acquired through more diplomatic means and a well-placed bribe, which was how Vaska and I preferred to operate. We might be dealers in death, but that didn’t mean we had to be the ones pulling the trigger.
“Somehow, those two morons got their hands on two crates of ORSIS-CT20s. They’re here in Chicago looking for a buyer.”
I leaned back in my chair. The ORSIS-CT20 was Russia’s new large caliber sniper rifle. The military would not take too kindly to the embarrassment of learning two crates of their latest toy had wound up in America before they could even announce the acquisition.
“Set up a meeting for tomorrow night.” Then I remembered my date with Emma. “Wait. Make it the night after. Tell them we are interested in making a purchase.”
Vaska nodded. “Consider it done, my friend.”
“Contact General Yahontov in Moscow. Tell him we are about to make him a hero.”
“And that is why you are the brains and I am the good looks of this operation,” said Vaska with a hearty laugh.
Afterwards, we headed down the steep staircase to the men’s lockers. Changing into our robes, we entered the banya. The dry heat hit us like a wave as we made our way past the granite oven to take our places on one of the tiered cedar benches. As the hot air scalded my skin, it did nothing to burn away the memory of Emma’s sweet moans as I’d entered her body.
Soon, моя крошка.
Chapter 9
I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you. - Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Emma
“It says here, Russian women are known for being gorgeous,” called out Mary from the living room where she was curled up on the sofa with her laptop, a glass of white wine, and a bag of Doritos.
“What?” I shouted back from deep inside the narrow walk-in closet in my bedroom.
“Russian women are gorgeous!” she yelled even louder.
I came out of the bedroom holding up two dresses. “Which one?”
First, I held up the long black maxi dress I had gotten at Target last summer. Then I held up the purple A-line one I usually wore with my purple Doc Martens.
Mary pulled a face.
With a huff, I flopped down onto the sofa next to her. Pushing my bangs out of my eyes, I reached into the bag of Doritos as I bemoaned, “This is a terrible idea.”
Mary shrugged. “You’re probably right. I mean why on earth would you want to go out with a sexy, rich man on a night you have absolutely nothing better to do. Probably best to just cancel.”
Leaning over, I dramatically crunched down on one of her Doritos before saying, “Sarcasm isn’t a good color on you.”
She tilted her head while pretending to look in a mirror. “I disagree. I think it makes my blue eyes pop!”
“Seriously! What am I going to do?” I turned her laptop around to look at the images on the blog post she was reading about Russian women. “I can’t compete with that! Look at these women! They are all glamorous and… and… glamorous!”
“Well said,” Mary quipped as she pulled the bag of chips closer to grab a handful.
Grabbing the dresses, I stomped back into my room. There must be something suitable in my wardrobe to wear tonight. Unfortunately, after four years of college and almost two years pursuing a graduate degree, my clothes were decidedly broke student chic. It also didn’t help that I favored plaid skirts and light sweaters.
Since I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a librarian, and I remembered my school librarian always wore plaid skirts, cardigan sweaters, and a single strand of pearls. She wore that outfit so often I mistook it for her librarian uniform. It was small wonder I also gravitated to that style, and until now it had always suited my personality.
Last night, I had barely slept a wink. I just kept playing the events of the last two days over and over in my mind. It almost felt like it hadn’t happened to me. As if I were reading this from the pages
of a book. All the passion, drama, and intrigue! The dashing, handsome man searches and finds the poor student he shared a chance passionate encounter with.
I kept thinking about Dimitri and the intense way he looked at me with those stormy grey eyes of his. It was overwhelming and a little confusing to be the subject of such single-minded focus. He made me feel as if I were the only woman in the world. It was silly, of course, but still.
Worse, he made me feel as if I were interesting.
It was impossible, of course.
What would a man like him possibly find interesting in a shy book nerd like me?
Standing in the doorway of my closet, I leaned my head against the doorjamb. Across the room, the framed silhouettes of two elegant women, which hung over my bed, chastised me. White calligraphy overlaid the black with an inspirational quote from Henry James: “It’s time to start living the life you’ve imagined” and another from Jane Austen: “If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”
Finally, I was experiencing a real-life romantic adventure worthy of one of my book heroines, and here I was second-guessing everything and desperately wanting to crawl back into the safety between the pages of a book. Back inside the sheltered little bubble of work, school, repeat, which I had created for myself over the years.
Shifting my head to the left, I surveyed the rather naughty poster of a pulp fiction book cover I kept hidden on the interior of my closet door. A blonde in glasses wearing black lingerie straddled a half-naked man as he grasped a book in his hand. In bold gold type across the top it said The Nympho Librarian by Les Turner.
Closing my eyes, I remembered the sensually hypnotic look on Dimitri’s face as he’d gone down on his knees before me in the shower. The feel of his powerful hands as they’d forced my thighs open. And his tongue, oh, my God, the feel of his tongue.
That was quickly replaced by the image of him yesterday. His white linen shirt stretched taut over his muscled chest. The dark stain of his tattoos bleeding through the paper-thin fabric. Even the sight of his heavy black leather and silver wristwatch exposed by his rolled-up sleeves seemed to scream masculine energy and confidence. Remembering the raw anger that flashed in his eyes when he mistook my Dewey Decimal tattoo for a brand, my hand crept up to claw at the now-stifling feel of my t-shirt collar.