by Nicole Fox
He looks momentarily caught off guard, then he adjusts his rifle, aiming at my knee. “These ones ain’t rubber bullets, asshole,” he snarls. “Maybe I’ll kneecap you. Say you rushed me. Can’t be blamed for defending myself when a tall stack of shit like you tries to attack an innocent, hardworking Irishman, can I?”
I grin and then, quickly, feign as if I’m going to throw myself at him. He makes a squealing noise and steps back.
“Relax,” I tell him, turning around. “Put the cuffs on me and bring me my food. I have to say, Jerry, the service here really is terrible.”
I let them cuff me and then step back, watching hungrily as other guards bring in a foldout table and then plates and plates of food. The pirozhkis smell meaty and cheesy, rich with the muskiness of good pastry. The borscht is blood-red as the scent of beetroot fills the air. And then come the shashlyks, skewers of beautiful meat with peppers and onions. I feel myself salivating, but I hold myself as a man should, showing no weakness.
“You’re gonna eat it with your hands, Russian,” Jerry taunts. “No cutlery for you.”
I’m gratified to see how Ronan and Jerry spring to attention when Jamie enters the room, Garret trailing closely behind her. As usual, the tall, gray-haired man doesn’t look pleased to see me and Jamie in the same room. He obviously knows that something is going on, but whatever Jamie has on him, it’s keeping him in line.
“We can take it from here, thank you,” Jamie says, looking hot as hell in her gym gear—skintight leggings with a baggy tank top, the bra strap showing, making me want to hook it over her shoulder and reveal the nub of her nipple. She looks me over. “Good enough for you?”
I half turn, showing her the cuffs. “I have no problem eating with my hands, but even a Beast has standards. I’m not going to eat as though from a trough.”
Jamie gestures. “Garret, please.”
I nod at the older man. “And how are you today, my friend?” I ask.
He grunts as he uncuffs me, immediately raising his rifle. “I’m staying until this meal’s done,” he says. “He could use that table as a weapon. Smash one of those bowls and use a shard. No arguments.”
Jamie shrugs. “Fine, but afterwards, we need some privacy.”
He grimaces at that, but says nothing.
But then I forget about both of them as I sit down at the table, breathing in steam from the food. First, I pick up the borscht bowl and tip my head back, gulping it down, closing my eyes to savor the taste as memories from my youth flow down my throat. I remember how the kitchen would fill with the fragrance of beetroot, how Mother would sing softly in Russian, how sometimes she and Father would dance together as I read one of my adventure books.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and then look up to see Jamie smiling down at me. I grin, baring my reddened teeth. “Beast-like enough for you?” I inquire. “Why not pull up a chair? There’s enough for both of us. We’ll make a date of it.”
Garret grunts. “Careful, Russian.”
“Or what?” I smile up at him.
He narrows his eyes. “Jamie deserves your respect.”
“I agree,” I say. “Which is why I invited her to sit down at the table … and not to bend over it.”
Garret rages, hefting his gun. “Enough!”
Jamie, her freckled cheeks flushed, raises her hands at both of us. “Okay, both of you just chill, okay?”
I pick up a skewer of meat and basically suck it from the wooden stick, thinking how easy it would be to use this as a weapon if I had a mind to. But I’m not going to use it on Jamie, and even if I got Garret, I wouldn’t be able to get out of here without the code … which Garret doesn’t even know because of their code-changing system. Plus, I can tell that Garret and Jamie have a paternal relationship, that he respects and cares about her. For some reason, I find myself liking him for that.
“Good enough?” Jamie asks, still smiling.
“Beautiful,” I tell her with a wink.
“Let me guess: and the food’s not bad, either?” She rolls her eyes.
I grin. “You read my mind, printsessa.”
“Why do you keep calling her that?” Garret barks. “Show her some respect!”
“It means princess,” I explain good-naturedly, picking up another skewer. My body cries out for the meat, my blood running hot, new energy infusing me. “Is she not that to you, my friend?”
I’m talking to Garret, but looking at Jamie, enjoying the conflict in her expression. Like she wants to look back into my eyes, but is wary of giving me that power over her. That’s what it always is with us: a tug-of-war of control.
“Shut up,” Garret grumbles.
I devour two more skewers and then pick up the steak-and-cheese pastries. I bite down, cheeks flaming hot as the melted cheese fills my mouth. Truth be told, I’m in heaven right now.
But all too soon, the food is gone. I stare down at the plates as it settles in my belly. Then I look up at Jamie and realize that I’m still hungry … for more than food.
She’s killing me in those yoga pants, the fabric hugging every delectable inch of her, the sort of pants that make me want to tear a hole where her sex is and push her underwear aside, sliding my length inside of her as she gasps and begs for more.
“Fair’s fair,” she says. “I hope you’re ready to do your part.”
“And if I said no?”
Garret looks around my cell: bare and stone, but with a living room area and clean walls and a shower. “We can find much worse places for you than this, Russian. Show her some goddamn respect. I’m sick and tired of your fucking attitude.”
I smile at him disarmingly. “You know, Garret, it truly does touch my soul, seeing how much you care about Jamie. My guess is you were her guardian when she was growing up: there for her when Cormac was too busy … being Cormac.”
Garret flinches, and I know I’ve hit the mark. Not for the first time today, I’m glad that part of being an effective Bratva boss is a knife-sharp ability to read people.
“Let’s just get this shit cleared,” he mutters. “Fucking Russian pig.”
Jamie flinches. We exchange a look and, for a moment, it’s like she’s silently apologizing for what Garret just said. Like she doesn’t want to offend me, or something. I grin back at her, basically saying, I’ve had worse.
Ronan and Jerry enter the room to cuff me—I let them—and start clearing away the table and plates. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but they search me anyway, making sure I didn’t slip any weapons like I did with the letter opener. Not that Ronan and Jerry know about that. I’m guessing if they did, I wouldn’t be here.
Finally, they leave, riding the elevator up. There must be somebody up there punching the code in. Fucking flawless system.
“Can you leave us alone, please?” Jamie asks, nodding at the duffel bag which I’m guessing has all her gear in. Strange that she’s not using her regular camera bag, though.
“I don’t see why I can’t be here,” Garret argues.
Jamie fumes silently. There’s something cute about that, her civilized rage so at odds with my primal fury. “Because it’s embarrassing, kind of, posing for a photo? We need to make our subjects comfortable. Or we won’t get the best out of them.”
Garret flinches. “He could take you hostage. Rape you—”
“Rape her?” I laugh in disbelief. “If you’ve heard even a single story about a Bratva man raping a woman, you’ve been lied to, my friend. I keep my soldiers in check. I can’t say the same for the Irish, however …”
He grimaces, knowing that I’m referring to the myriad cases of Irishmen overstepping the mark. Cormac is never too vigilant about those sorts of things.
Garret grumbles under his breath. “How long are you gonna twist my arm like this?”
“I’m not in any danger,” Jamie reassures him. “I promise.”
Eventually, Garret relents, leaving the room. Jamie closes the door and walks over to the duffel bag. I see n
ow why she has such a big bag, and why she was wincing slightly as she carried it in … she lifts out a weighty chain with a padlock, hooking it around the lock on the door and securing it to a light fixture on the wall, and then locking the padlock.
Wanting to remind her of the reality of her situation, I glide silently across the room. She turns with a start, but bites down before letting out a sound of shock. I press myself against her. Moving closer and closer, I only stop when she’s shoved up against the wall, her body hot against mine. It’s the heat that does it, like she’s burning up from the inside. My manhood floods with tension.
“Does that seem like a good idea?” I demand. “Locking yourself in a Beast’s cage?”
She places her hand on my chest. “We had a deal,” she whispers. “Don’t fuck me over now.”
“I wasn’t planning on fucking you over.”
Looking up at me—I love how goddamn petite she is—she bites her lip, letting out a quiet moan. “I heard you were a man of your word,” she says, trying to get hold of herself. “I guess I heard wrong.”
I trace my forefinger over the curve of her jaw, and then across her lips. A shiver moves through her that just makes my manhood even more solid. I’m thinking about how that shiver is affecting her sex, wondering if it’s making her core flutter in anticipation, if she’ll gush with wetness to let me slide inside of her, only to tighten like a fist at the moment of our mutual release.
“Back up. I mean it.”
I step back, hands raised. I respect the hell out of her for how little fear she’s showing. As far as she’s concerned, we’re enemies, Russian and Irish—or perhaps that was the old paradigm. Perhaps we have entered a new facet of our … our what?
Relationship?
I wonder if they spiked my food. These thoughts are ridiculous.
Jamie starts collecting stuff out of her bag as I move to the other side of the room. She puts the Minotaur mask on the floor, raising an eyebrow at me. “I think it’s better for you this way, right? Your face won’t be in the photo.”
I nod. “I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise.”
Even now, part of me regrets agreeing to this at all. But I was as hungry as a wolf who’s spent all week hunting and foraging to no avail. Now, with my belly full, the whole thing seems absurd. But Jamie called me a man of my word, and that’s the truth. For better or worse.
She tinkers with her camera. I pick up the mask, studying it. The texture is rough, it’s hefty, and I wonder how much it cost her. I wonder, too, why she’s so obsessed with this. As she messes with the camera, she has this concentrated look I’ve never seen in her before.
I want to fuck her until she’s quivering and her slick juices are sliding down her thighs … and I want to watch her work, biting her lip in concentration. I shake my head, clearing it.
Calm yourself.
“I still think the whole one-photo thing is just blah,” she says.
“I still think we had a deal,” I reply.
She scowls. “Okay, fine. Can you put on the mask, please? Wait—take off your shirt first. But keep the shorts on.”
I let my eyes roam over her tight-as-fuck body, and I get an idea. “If you want this shirt off, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
“Stop messing around,” she murmurs.
“I am deadly serious,” I counter.
“Such a fucking jerk,” she says, but she does a poor job at masking her underlying emotion. She walks across the room and grips my shirt, pulling it slowly up. I only lift my arms after several long moments of staring into her eyes.
I pull the mask over my head, my vision blurry now, but surprisingly good otherwise. My voice sounds deep and intimidating from inside it. “Let’s get this over with,” I rasp.
“Can you stand against the wall, please? I want it for the backdrop … you know, I wish this wall had some gouges and stuff. Like you’d been tearing at it with your teeth and nails.”
I just shrug in response.
She sighs, and then says, “Can you stand up like—sort of like a bear on its hind legs, intimidating.”
I only do as she says because, once she takes this photo, I’m going to show her who’s really in charge. She takes her sweet time arranging the best shot. I’m almost tempted to tell her to take more than one when I see how much it clearly means to her. But I’m not about to crumble in that regard just because she’s getting all pouty.
After what feels like several long years, she takes the photo.
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“I’m sure,” I say at once, immediately moving across the room. I don’t take the mask off. I can tell she likes it.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
I grab her by the shoulders and push her softly against the wall. Softly, yes, but there is a strength underlying my movements that tells her who has the power here. She lets out a gasp that goes directly to my cock, shivering and hungry. I stroke my hand down her body, bringing my face—well, the mask—close to hers.
“I have needs, Jamie.”
I lay one arm across her chest, pinning her to the wall. But, truly, it’s all a game. She lets me pin her, sighing in pleasure as her eyes get wide with arousal. I don’t mess around teasing her with my other hand. I need to feel her, to see how wet she is, to caress her desirable heat.
I’m not disappointed as I jam my hand down her yoga pants, finding her slit. It’s as tempting as I expected it to be. I slide my middle finger inside of her, stroking her clit with my thumb. She bites down. She would collapse against me if it not for my arm holding her up.
I finger her hard, and fast, drawing the pleasure out of her. I play her like an instrument, and I love the sound. Her moans are almost surprised, as though she can’t believe she’s doing this. Neither can I; the circumstances are so strange. But, mostly, I just want to draw her release from her.
I slip another finger inside of her, pumping harder. “There,” she moans. “Right where you just were—ah, there, there!”
I find the spot that’s making her whole body tremble like an earthquake is moving through her. Then she stops—panting, moaning, trembling—and it’s like time has stopped with her. She stares at me with watery eyes and then, all at once, collapses against me and bites down like a feral woman on my chest. I tense my muscles, letting her bite as deep as she wants.
She comes for me, drenching my hand in her liquid. I remember the taste of it, sweet and tangy, something I would gladly taste again.
“I want to fight this,” she says, looking frankly at me. “So bad. But I don’t think I can.”
I palm her ass, and then lift her off the ground with one hand, the other playing with her breasts. “Then don’t.”
There’s a moment where we might go back, where she just stares at me, debating internally. But then she lets out another pleasure-filled moan and hooks her legs around my waist.
We both know there’s no turning back.
11
Jamie
I run my hands down his body, gouging with my fingernails. Neither of us tries to take off the mask. I can feel how hard he is, my heels hooked behind his back, driving my hips down onto his crotch and grinding with the yoga pants. I’m so wet, I can feel it spreading onto his shorts through the thin fabric. He’s not wearing underwear.
“Wait,” I whisper, just about coming to my senses. “Let’s go into the next room. And, Andrei, we have to be quiet.”
He stares at me blankly in that Minotaur mask. I can just about make out his eyes, glinting with amusement. “If you want me in that room, you’re going to have to tempt me.” He lowers me to the ground and steps back, hands twitching like he can barely restrain himself. “Strip naked and crawl there.”
I wheel on him, a hot flush moving all over my body. “Crawl? You’re fucking kidding, right?”
“I want to see your ass shifting back and forth as you crawl for me. I need it. I need to see you beckoning me.”
A
hhh shit.
Lord almighty, how can he make that sound so appealing? His voice is so throaty and deep from inside the mask, and I can hear how horny the thought makes him. It won’t be degrading, like it might with other, lesser men. No—with Andrei, it will be a sign of mutual pleasure, a way to coax his hunger for me even higher. I could lie to myself and say I don’t care how badly he wants me, but we’re past that point now.
So I bend over and I slowly peel down my yoga pants, noting the cords of tension moving through his scarred, muscled body. His fists are clenched and he’s panting, like he just almost drowned and is coming up for air.
I step out of my pants and underwear and then pull my shirt over my head. No bra. Did part of me know, or hope, that this was going to happen?
“You have to do something for me first,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, the Minotaur regarding me coldly. “Yes?”
“I need to see you … all of you.”
“The mask,” he growls, “or the shorts?”
“The shorts. Keep the mask on.”
It’s so difficult to keep my composure, standing here naked, oddly comfortable in front of him. I’m reassured by how much he’s losing himself, too.
He tugs down his shorts. I gasp, biting my lip.
“Your turn,” he snarls.
I slide to my hands and knees and then crawl into the next room, watching him over my shoulder. Naked except for the mask, he stalks over me, growling hungrily. As soon as we’re in the room, he falls to his knees and brings his length to my wetness. We’re both so full of desire, there’s no warming up needed.
When he slides inside of me, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care that he’s Russian. I don’t care that we could get into serious trouble for this. I don’t care that this is the start of a road that might end up with me getting my heart broken again.
I just push back, sliding down every tantalizing inch until I feel my ass flatten against his hips. There’s a few long seconds where my pussy clutches onto him tightly, as though he’s going to be too big for me. But he eases in and out of me slowly. Soon, my lips shift with gorgeous friction to accommodate him.