by Nicole Fox
“Fuck,” he snarls. “Jamie, I can’t look away. I’d rather die than look away. Don’t stop.”
“Don’t stop … this?” I say, bucking my hips. I’m shifting right up to the tip of him, and then falling back all the way to his base. His balls slap against my clit and his hands are on my shoulders, pulling himself into me.
We thrust in perfect, wet, synchronized movements. Heat consumes us.
Harder, faster, we fuck.
“Yes,” Andrei growls. “Yes, yes, yes. Come on my cock, Jamie. I will hold myself back, for you, but it’s getting—so—fucking—hard.”
“Ah!” I cry, when he grinds into me with fresh power.
I would fall forwards if it wasn’t for his hands constantly tugging me upright. The room fills with the smell of pre-come and sweat and my wetness, and I love it. I love the sound our flesh makes, slick and hot. I love the tight, intense tension deep inside of me, moments from release.
“So … close,” I just about whisper. “Harder, faster.”
I didn’t think it was possible for him to go harder, but now his cock pummels into me. I want to turn my head and look at him, but I can’t, we’re going so hard. All I can do is grip his hands on my shoulders and grind backwards. But then I can’t even do that. He’s rag-dolling me, and I find myself wondering, amidst the euphoria, if I’ve ever even been properly fucked before.
I cry out again, but somehow keep it below a scream. Garret is outside; I have to remember that.
“You’re coming all over me,” Andrei growls, throat catching with his own release. “Come, Jamie, fucking come.”
I squeeze my legs together, trapping him, as he arches his back one final time. His grip tightens on my shoulders as he empties himself inside of me. Just as he begins to wilt, my orgasm fades. I slide forward onto the floor, panting … but we’re not done yet.
He tears the Minotaur mask off and grabs my hips, flipping me over and going down between my legs. “No, you don’t have to—”
But he just growls and tugs me even closer, lifting my thighs off the floor so that I have to brace my hands either side of me. He growls again, this time deeper, and I feel his hot breath moving over my lips and my wet pussy. His tongue strokes up and down my lips, coming close to my clit.
I think he’s going to tease me, but instead, after that first lick, he absolutely devours my pussy.
He grips hard onto my thighs, marking my flesh with his irresistible touch, and opens his mouth wide so that he can suck on everything: my lips, my clit, the skin around my entrance. He slurps on my wetness and sucks on my clit until it’s engorged and throbbing.
I grab the back of his head, angling him, and hungrily he consumes more of me. His tongue slips in and out of me, and it’s that, as much as his attack on my clit, that drives my second stunning orgasm from me.
“Oh. My. God.”
I really can’t understand how my body can shake this much and I don’t pass out. I have to bite down to stop from screaming. I can’t feel his tongue, his lips, or any particular movement, just the general searing heat of him. He makes these sexy-as-hell snarling noises, like this is way better than the Russian food he feasted on earlier. His beard tickles, but I don’t care. His lips and tongue always find the spot.
Lashings of pleasure move through me, my orgasm making his mouth wet as he leans back to stare up at me.
I swivel, crawling over to him, and start leaning down toward his cock. It’s semi-hard now, so soon after, and when I bend at the hip, it twitches, getting harder. He swallows and his throat shifts. I can tell how badly he wants this, even if there’s some twisted fear in him, too.
Because I’m in control now.
Oh God, I love this tug-of-war we’ve got going on.
I push his belly—hard as hell—and lean over him, stroking his shaft as I lick the come from his cock. I can taste him, myself, our lust mixed together. He bites down, trying and failing to suppress his moan. I have him enthralled as I taste the length of him, sucking more and more.
He leans up, stroking my hair out my face so that he can look at me better.
“Look at me,” he snarls. “With your eyes wide like that.”
I open my eyes wide and I know I have him in the way his jaws get tight. He can’t look away. His throat is fluttering; his whole being is utterly attuned to me. He can’t hide how badly I’m captivating him right now, as I suck deeper, feeling his throbbing head at the back of my throat. But there’s no way I can suck all of him, so I work his shaft with my hand.
“Oh God,” he snarls. “Jesus, Jamie. Fuck, like that … you’re killing me here.”
When I cup his balls with my other hand, massaging them, his whole body goes tense. His cock is rock-hard again now. It’s difficult to believe that, only a few minutes ago, he completely emptied himself.
“Jamie, if you keep doing that, I won’t be able to stop myself.”
I relent and crawl on top of him, putting my hands on his chest when he tries to lean up. “No. This time, I take the lead.”
The corner of his lips twitches in excitement, almost playfully … or as close to playful as this six-five giant can get. He slides his hands up my thighs, gripping my hips as I lean up and guide his cock to my pussy. I’m still sore from when he had me bent over, but I don’t care. I crave more.
When I feel him grinding right up inside of me, it’s worth it. There’s a brief moment of pain but then my pussy welcomes him, the wetness seeping into each friction-tense movement, his hips moving up and down as I dig my fingernails into his bulging pectorals. I rock back and forth on him. This time, we go slower, moving into the pleasure together.
His eyes are locked on my breasts, bouncing freely, and then, after a moment, he leans up and takes my nipple in his mouth, wrapping his arms around my back. I wrap my hands around his shoulders and hug him, oddly intimate, feeling raised places on the skin from old scars. He sucks my nipple deeply into his mouth.
His cock gets deeper inside of me. That, combined with the tingling closeness of his lips on my nipples, causes another orgasm to rise up inside of me. It’s like a wave moving through me … and it breaks wide open in my center, wetly, intensely.
“Oh, keep going like that …”
He growls, sucking my nipple harder. At the same time, he fucks me faster, and as I bounce up and down on him, I’m not sure who’s leading the way anymore.
Both of us, maybe.
He grips me even tighter, growling loudly into my breasts. I move my hand through his hair, bringing my lips to his face. He looks up at me. Our lips meet, and my orgasm doubles, trebles.
I can’t take it.
We kiss passionately as we ride the last surges of our pleasure, our tongues clashing. He groans through the kiss as he reaches his crescendo, and then I collapse forward, sliding away from him.
If you’d told me a few hours ago that I’d find myself lying sex-sore and satisfied on the floor with Andrei Bakhtin, would I have believed you?
Here’s the thing: yeah, maybe.
It feels so natural as we just lie here, as I listen to his heartbeat pounding. We don’t talk for a long time. At least, without a clock, I’m guessing it’s a long time because his sweat dries, leaving his skin sticky, and his come dries on my thighs, leaving mine sticky, too.
“So are you gonna talk first, or am I?”
He laughs easily. “I think you just answered your own question.”
I catch myself just as I’m about to casually peck his chest. Like a girlfriend would do. What has gotten into me? I need to remember who we are. Sex, fine. Well, not fine, but yeah. Kissing, though? Intimacy? Hell no.
I move away from him and go into the next room, picking up my clothes.
“That was a one-time deal, okay?” I say weakly when I feel him walk in behind me. I slide into my yoga pants and pull my shirt over my head. When I turn, Andrei is standing there in his shorts. “Okay?”
“Whatever you say, Jamie.”
“I
mean it.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“What—you don’t care?”
His smile is infuriating and sexy in equal measure. “Do you want me to care?”
I’m about to answer when I trail off, studying him. His body is covered in welts from where I grabbed him during the sex, his muscles are tensed, he looks so … so fricking alive, so hot.
“Andrei,” I say, unable to hide the eagerness from my voice. “I need to take another photo of you. Like, now.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m fairly certain we had a deal.”
“I know we did!” My mind is doing somersaults as I think about what this photo could become. The basis for the whole project, maybe. I’m still in the experimentation phase, so I can’t be sure, but it’s a possibility. “But I need it.”
He folds his arms, leaning against the wall. “So, we are negotiating, then?”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve already had your food.”
“And you’ve already had your photo,” he smiles, loving every second of my discomfort. Jerk. And yet I’m smiling, too, maybe just because he is. This banter is so much more fun than anything I’ve ever experienced with another man. I guess that makes me pretty fucked up that it took a giant Bratva prisoner to bring that out of me.
“What do you want?”
He pauses, considering. Finally, he says, “I want you in a red dress and heels, like we discussed, bent over and with the dress hiked up around your hips and the heels still on as I pound into you again and again—and you take every inch of me, gasping beautifully like you did just now. Otherwise? I want quarters befitting a Bratva boss. A decent bed. Somewhere I can workout properly. And no more gruel.”
“Big demands for one photo!” I point out.
“Take it or leave it.”
I glare at him, but with photography, well, sometimes I just need the photo. It’s sort of like this instinct takes me over and I can’t control it. I guess it’s like the art has a mind of its own. I know how pretentious that sounds to some people, and I really don’t mean to be. It’s just how I feel.
But I won’t let him win that easily.
“That’s worth more than one photo,” I say. “And we both know it.”
“Like I said, aren’t we negotiating?”
I think quickly. “Three photos for every day you get decent food and a decent place to sleep.”
“Done,” he says right away, leaving me to wonder if I should’ve asked for more.
But it’s too late now. Andrei casually goes and collects the mask, and then pulls it over his head as I hurry to set up my camera gear. Fortunately, the lighting is damn near perfect, against all odds.
“Let’s get this over,” he barks. “And, Jamie, my face will never appear in these photos.”
I take the photo and Andrei removes the mask, regarding me suddenly coldly.
“One more thing, Jamie,” he says. “If you don’t make good on your promise—if I continue to be fed shit food and am forced to sleep here—you will be in my debt.”
“And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do?”
Dark intensity creeps into his eyes. “Whatever the hell I want.”
His voice sends a shiver down my spine.
I gather up my things and unlock the chain from the door, and then go outside. Garret is at the end of the hallway, messing with his gun impatiently. He narrows his eyes as I approach, seeming annoyed.
“That took longer than expected,” he mutters.
“I had a few camera problems,” I say, shocked by how easily the lie comes to me.
Garret runs a hand through his graying hair, letting out a sigh. “I know you’re your own person, Jamie. As much as I wish you were the little girl who used to sit on my knee and let me tell you silly stories, I know you’re not.” His expression softens. “I just hope you know what you’re getting into. I was there, remember, when you finally broke up with that piece of shit.”
I feel a pang in my chest. I put my hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how much Garret cares about me. “I know,” I whisper.
“I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “It’s just work stuff.”
He sighs as if to wordlessly tell me he knows I’m lying but he isn’t going to press the issue—yep, all that in one little sigh—and then calls up to the guard to let us into the elevator. When we’re inside and the doors are closing, I look down the hallway to Andrei’s cell, wondering if that really just happened.
Did I really just have the best, steamiest sex of my life with a Russian? A Russian prisoner? The leader of the Bratva?
This can’t possibly end well.
12
Andrei
There is nothing to do in a goddamn cell. I workout for a long time, but even I have my limits. My muscles are roaring at me for a rest. Plus, I want to keep myself relatively fresh just in case an escape opportunity presents itself.
I try not to let my mind wander, but it’s hard. I think about how gorgeous Jamie looked yesterday, how sweet she sounded when she whimpered and came. But, strangely, I also find myself thinking about how concentrated and capable she looked when she was tinkering with her camera gear.
I respect hard work and skill, and she has plenty of both.
But why should I care, just because we share a bit of banter? I’m not some teenager who’s going to get his head turned by a pretty girl with a sharp tongue.
Predictably, the night of the fire returns to me. I remember Osip’s wife, Lada, putting a blanket over my shoulders and pressing a hot chocolate into my hands. I sat there like a useless statue for hours, the cocoa cooling in my hands, until, finally, Osip appeared at the door.
“An accident,” he growled in Russian, addressing Lada, not me. “I checked with the detective and the fire department. Life is cruel, Lada. A fucking joke.”
Then he walked over to me, knelt down, pried the cold mug from my hands, and clapped his hand on my shoulder. “It’s time to be strong,” he growled in Russian. His words felt more meaningful, more significant, because of how thick and old country his accent was. “Your boyhood is behind you, Andrei.”
“Osip, he’s just a child—”
Osip cut Lada off with a look, respectful but stern, and then turned back to me. “I am going to be running the Bratva until you come of age, but then you’re going to take the lead. And the men need strength, now more than ever. Kill the boy inside of you. Kill whatever softness and weakness remains. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly, oddly comforted by his words. If I did as he said, I wouldn’t have to feel these horrible emotions, this stabbing grief. I could just shut it all out, forget about it.
“Good,” Osip said, scratching idly at his scarred bald head. “First thing tomorrow, we are taking you to the gym. It’s about time that a scrawny thing like you learned how to fight. You will need to be able to defend yourself.”
I grin when I think about Osip calling me scrawny. That was before we knew that I’d shoot up and pack on muscle until, now, I’m almost three hundred pounds.
I shake my head, pacing around the cell, bored and restless.
I think about all the ways I’m going to torture Timofey before I kill him. I can only hope that, during his coup, no civilians or women or children were caught in the crossfire. I always thought Timofey was a good man, but now I have no idea what kind of man he is at all. Who’s to say he didn’t roll up on my loyal men’s homes and shoot up their dining rooms while they were eating dinner with their families?
He has another thing coming if he thinks he’s going to take out Egor, though.
Egor is one of the fiercest bastards I’ve ever met. I once saw him take out two Italians with a pencil. People thought it was a made-up story afterward, one of those legends that get embellished, but it wasn’t. I was there. We were in their office and one of them made a move for his gun. I was still pulling my gun ou
t when Egor stabbed the pencil into the man’s eye, snapped it loose, and leaped across the room at the second.
I grind my teeth, bored out of my skull, almost glad when the cell door opens to reveal Ronan, Jerry, Rafferty, and Cormac. Rafferty, as usual, stands back respectfully. The two guards glower.
Cormac smiles triumphantly, looking around my cell. “What a lovely apartment,” he sneers.
I incline my head, pretending to take the compliment seriously. “Thank you, Cormac.”
He flinches in annoyance, as I knew he would. He’s so damn predictable. “Turn around, Russian. We’re cuffing you.”
I smile. “Why would I do that?”
Cormac growls out a sigh. “We’re shooting a video for your little friend, Egor, to show him that if he doesn’t stop his pathetic attacks, we’re going to cut you up piece by piece. You’re a big man. Lots of pieces to chop. I’m sure we can make it last a long, long time.”
I lean against the wall, arms folded. Mostly, I just want to fight, because at least that would be more interesting than mundane waiting and pacing. Plus, watching Cormac get flustered is hilarious. The man has no sense of composure.
“Do what you think you need to do,” I tell him. “But you’re not cuffing me and you’re not shooting that video.”
Cormac bites down, hand flashing to his hip, where I’m guessing his gun is hidden underneath his blue sports jacket. The guards are shifting. Jerry especially looks livid, his face twisted into a scowl. Rafferty could be a sculpture, he reacts so little.
But then Cormac grins. “Have it your way, Russian.”
They leave, shutting the cell behind them, and I go back to pacing. But I can’t help but wonder where they’re going, what they’re doing. Cormac had a sadistic glint in his eye when he left.
I don’t have to wait for long, though.
When the door opens again, Cormac is holding a bunch of paper. News articles, I see when I look closer. He hands them to Jerry, who, aiming his pistol at me, carries them across the cell and tosses them at my feet.