His Queen of Clubs

by Rose, Renee

  I sit up straighter, wiping my eyes as Vlad sits beside me and holds the screen in front of us.

  “What did you do to her?” Junior explodes, noting my tears.

  I shake my head. “He didn’t hurt me.” I wipe the rest of the moisture from my eyes. “I’m just being a baby. It’s good to see you guys.”

  “Lessie,” Stefano says softly, with so much sympathy in his voice, I tear up again.

  “I’m fine.” I sniff. “Just homesick. Tell Ma I’m okay. And send the money. It goes to the boy Junior orphaned when he shot all the Russians.”

  Junior goes still.

  Vlad takes the tablet and stands up. “Da. Send the money. You have four hours.” He ends the video call and regards me. The planes of his face fall in harsh lines. He’s irritated, maybe even angry, it’s hard to tell. Even though he’s been decent to me, I see the danger in him—coiled potential right there below the surface.

  I grip the edge of the bed with both hands. Butterflies flit in my tummy.

  Now you lose privileges.

  Which ones? Clothing privileges? What will my punishment be? Will he strip me naked and tie me to the bed again? Spank me?

  The memory of the last spanking he gave me, holding me in place with his thumb against my anus floods my mind.

  My pussy clenches even as my palms sweat.

  But “It’s hard to stay angry with you,” is all he says as he walks to the door. “There are clothes in the dresser. Basics. Tomorrow we can buy whatever you need.” He shuts the door and I hear a key turn in the lock.

  I run for it and try the handle. Bang on the wood. “Vlad!” I shout.

  I don’t know why I’m so panicky—I should be happy I’m not tied up. I’m just locked in a bedroom. And a very luxurious one at that. But I don’t like it. Loneliness claws at my chest like desperation.

  “Vlad!” I scream.

  “Easy, zaika.” The key scrapes in the lock again and the door opens a few inches. Vlad leans against the doorframe, his face close to mine. “You lost your freedom for tonight. You have to stay in the room. Tomorrow we can try again—if you’re a good girl, I’ll let you out.”

  My throat bobs, but I can’t quite swallow. “Are you coming back?” I quaver.

  It’s pathetic. Am I really begging for his company?

  Yes, I am.

  I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m in a foreign country, thousands of miles from my big, noisy Italian family. With no hope of seeing them any time soon.

  I’m desperate for human interaction of any kind. And I’m growing used to—if not fond of—his company, in particular.

  His expression softens and he studies me for a moment.

  I try to wipe the vulnerability from my face, but I doubt I’m successful.

  “It’s my room, zaika,” he says mildly. “I’ll be back.”

  It sounds more like a warning than a comfort, but I’m relieved anyway. When he closes the door, I sit down on the bed and indulge in a good cry.

  * * *

  Vlad

  I send Zoya to Alessia with a tray of food and pace around the mansion. Mika is settled in his room, already eating from a tray. Good. Zoya will take good care of him. I had a feeling. She may look dour, but underneath the rough exterior is a soft heart.

  Blyat, it nearly killed me to walk away when I could hear Alessia crying behind the door. I only left in the first place because I doubted she wanted me around. Because I didn’t dare punish her by removing her clothes. Or smacking that beautiful ass of hers. Because seriously—another round of her coming from my punishment and I won’t be able to hold back. I will hold her down and fuck her raw.

  But then she asked if I was coming back—like she didn’t want me to go.

  Fuck.

  Now I can’t stay away. Leaving her alone is an impossibility.

  I check my accounts and find the money has already been wired from Alessia's brothers. I expected them to comply, but seeing how quickly they responded satisfies me. It's good to know she is as cherished by them as she should be. They are taking no chances with her safety.

  I make a round of the estate, making a mental list of updates and maintenance that need to be done, then go back to the room.

  The tray of food is gone and Alessia’s moving around in the bathroom. I hear the bathtub drain and a few minutes later she walks out wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of the panties I had Zoya buy, along with other basic clothing items..

  It would be night in the U.S. even though it’s only mid-day here. She must be getting ready for bed.

  My cock thickens. She smells fresh, like cucumbers and fruit.

  She looks ripe enough to eat.

  All afternoon long.

  She stops when she sees me, breath catching. “We’re not consummating the marriage.”

  “Eventually, zaika, you’ll beg me for it.”

  She scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that.” But her fingers tangle with one another like she’s nervous.

  “Come”—I pat the bed—“I need to check your blood sugar.”

  She advances, wariness in her step.

  I test her blood sugar and it looks good. I’m half disappointed, half relieved I don’t get to lift that t-shirt and see what she looks like in a different pair of panties when I administer her shot.

  She yawns.

  “You’re ready for sleep? You should really wait until it’s dark out. Reset your internal clock. Or so they say.”

  She walks to the windows and closes the shades. “There. It’s dark.”

  I try and fail at withholding a smile. There’s something so fresh and easy about her. She pushes but it’s not bratty. Not bitchy. Apart from her meltdown after the call with her brothers, she’s rolled with her abduction remarkably well.

  She’s one in a million, for sure.

  I want to kiss her. The thoughts surprises me, because I’m not the kissing type. I’m more of the type to pound a woman from behind and never ask her name. But she has those full, shapely lips. I want to taste them. Savagely.

  And slowly.

  And every manner in between.

  She pulls the covers back on the bed and climbs in.

  I’m suddenly fuck-all tired myself. I haven’t slept more than a few hours in days now, not wanting to let my guard down. But now that I’m in Russia, with bratva soldiers all around to guard my kingdom, I can sleep.

  I get up and brush my teeth, then strip down to my boxer briefs.

  Alessia watches from the bed, her eyes on the wound she gave me. I touch it. It’s healing fine. Still tender, but not infected.

  I climb in under the covers with her and listen to her breath go shallow. She’s afraid of me, of course. Or maybe excited. A little of both, probably.

  After five minutes of silence, she says, “You could touch my head if you wanted.”

  I smile and push myself up to my elbow. She’s facing away from me, curled on her side. “You want me to massage your head again?”

  “Yes?” she says in a small voice. It sounds like a question. Like she’s not sure about what she’s asking. Maybe she knows she shouldn’t invite me to touch her.

  “Say please. Pozhaluysta.” I give the word in Russian.

  “You have a thing about me begging, don’t you?”

  I burrow my fingers in her hair.

  She makes a soft whimper in reply.

  “Pozhaluysta,” I direct her again.

  “Mmm. Fine. Pozhaluysta.” Her pronunciation is not half bad.

  I reward her with steady strokes. I find the sutures of her skull and rub gentle circles along them, fist my hand in her hair and pull from the roots.

  She makes soft noises of contentment for a few minutes and then, judging by her slowing breathing, falls into slumber.

  Chapter 9

  Alessia

  I wake up at 10 p.m. Vlad was right; I should’ve waited for dark to go to sleep, but after the emotional drain of seeing my brothers and getting homesick, I didn’
t have it in me to stay up another minute.

  He’s asleep beside me. First time I’ve seen him sleep.

  I study him. Examine the tattoos up close. They’re crude and ugly, but he’s beautiful. The need to touch him, to trace those defined muscles, feel his ripped abs is overwhelming.

  I do want to have sex with him. I want to straddle his waist right now and see what it’s like to feel him inside me.

  But there’s no way I’m letting him know that. He’s taken everything else from me—I’m not going to hand over the one thing he lets me keep.

  I get out of bed and search the room. I was in too much of a fog when I arrived, but now I look for any electronic—his phone, tablet—anything I could use to contact my brothers.

  Of course, I find nothing.

  He’s thorough, my Russian. Smarter than he appears to be. But then, he’d have to be smart to be the money guy for the entire Russian bratva.

  I go through his things, looking for clues about him, but there’s nothing of a personal nature. No photos, so papers, not even an ID.

  “Stop snooping, little bunny.” Vlad’s voice, thickened with sleep, comes from the bed.

  I jump and turn around. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but I’m not really sorry, so I save it.

  “Are you hungry? Let me check your blood sugar.”

  I am getting shaky. “It’s low,” I tell him.

  He curses and swoops out of bed, picking up the testing kit and coming at me.

  He has a killer case of morning wood. At least I think it’s a killer case. I wouldn’t really know. I stare at the flagpole filling his boxer briefs.

  “Beg for it, zaika, and it’s yours,” he rumbles as he bends over my finger.

  “Go to hell, Vladimir.”

  His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take his attention away from the syringe.

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Da.” He lifts me by the waist to sit on his dresser, then hikes up the t-shirt I used as a nightshirt and injects my belly.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Putin.” He’s leaning over me, so close I can feel his heat.

  “Very funny.”

  He drops his gaze down to my panties. “These are pretty.”

  My knees are open and before I can slap them closed, he runs one knuckle down my panty-clad slit.

  My internal muscles seize in pleasure, but I squeeze my thighs together, shooing his hand away.

  One corner of his lips lift, but he doesn’t try anything else. “What are you hungry for?”

  “Honestly? Pancakes. But they’re too carb-y. So spinach and mushroom omelette.”

  “I’ll get Zoya.”

  “Isn’t she asleep now?”

  He shrugs. “She works when I need her to.”

  “That’s kind of an asshole thing to say.”

  “Da. I’m asshole. You should know this by now.” He pulls a t-shirt over his head and steps into a pair of jeans. “Come.” He holds his hand out to me.

  I don’t want to take it, but I also don’t want to refuse—not when it seems he’s offering me a chance to get out of the room.

  I offer my hand and he leads me through his enormous mansion to a beautiful kitchen. Everything is contemporary and new. Sleek and European styled appliances and granite countertops.

  I walk to the refrigerator and open it. There’s a carton of eggs, which I grab.

  I stiffen when I feel Vlad right behind me, but he doesn’t try anything. Just reaches past me and pulls out butter, cheese and milk and some kind of fresh greens—I don’t recognize the leaves.

  “Omelette.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Despite saying he was going to get Zoya up, he pulls a frying pan out and makes quick work of preparing and cooking two perfect cheese omelettes with greens.

  When he serves it to me—complete with a smattering of sliced green onion on top—I sit at the barstool and wolf it down.

  “You were hungry,” he observes, sitting beside me and forking his own food. “Did you eat anything before you went to bed?”

  “Not much,” I admit. I’d been too overwrought emotionally to want to eat.

  I carry my plate to the sink, rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher. “How long have you lived here?”

  “I bought the place six years ago. But I’ve been in the U.S. for the last thirteen months.”

  “Yes, obviously. But why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you leave this beautiful place to live in Chicago? I mean, you’re obviously doing quite well for yourself here.”

  His brows draw together. Expression tightens. “I was ordered to leave. By Victor, the papa.”

  “The papa?”

  “That’s what we call the head of the bratva.” He scrapes his fork on his plate, scooping up the last of the eggs.

  There’s something there. The energy in the room changed from relaxed to charged.

  “Was it a punishment?” I ask.

  He slides a glance at me, then shrugs. “In a way.” He stands and walks to the sink. “Too many questions, printsessa.”

  “What else am I going to do? I’m wide awake at 10 p.m. with no one but you for company.”

  His gaze drops to my breasts, bare beneath the thin t-shirt and his expression turns feral. “I can think of a few things we could do.”

  “I’ll bet.” I’m doing my best to sound put off, but the truth is, my heart’s racing. My nipples got hard. My pussy’s tingling.

  “Soon, printsessa—”

  “I know, I’ll beg. Keep dreaming, Russian.” I saunter toward the door. “Are you going to show me around?” I admit, I put a little lilt in my voice. An invitation.

  Vlad’s gaze is hooded, his eyes on my bare legs. I should’ve put more clothing on before coming out of the bedroom. “Keep flirting, zaika, and it won’t end well for you.”

  I cock a hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He adjusts his package, and I no longer require an answer. The tent in his jeans is impressive, to say the least. “My self-control is running out.”

  My cheeks grow warm. My panties dampen.

  He walks toward me like a lion stalking his prey.

  I smirk and take off running.

  “Blyat,” Vlad swears. He catches up five steps later, banding an arm around my waist and lifting me from the ground.

  “Vlad,” I giggle, breathless.

  “You must want my punishment,” he growls in my ear. His breath is hot against my neck as he carries me toward the bedroom.

  “No.” I giggle, squirming in his arms.

  It’s one of those nos that definitely means yes.

  I’m dying for his punishment.

  And at the same time I know this is a bad idea. The wrong game to play. I shouldn’t invite his touch. Give the wrong idea. Not when my intention was to refuse sex with him.

  But it’s like my body doesn’t care. My flesh is on fire, craving his dominating touch.

  And he gives it to me.

  He carries me into his bedroom and uses one of his ties to bind my wrists to the headboard.

  “No, wait,” I pant, swishing my legs up and down over the expensive bedspread.

  “Too late, printsessa. You ran. Now you have to be tied up.” His normally pale blue eyes glitter dark as he stares hungrily at my body. He drops to his hands and knees over me and I catch my breath, my hips rocking up.

  He palms both my thighs and pulls my knees apart. Lowering between my legs, he nips at my pussy, his teeth sliding over the silk gusset of the panties I found in the drawer here along with other clothes in my size.

  “You choose your punishment.” His voice is thick and deep. “My hand on your ass or my mouth on your pussy.”

  “Mouth.” I barely get the word out. It’s more like a squeak.

  What I really want is both. All of it. The whole shebang. But mouth sounds positively delicious.

  I’m rewarded by a li
onine grin. He rips my panties down my legs and tosses them over his shoulder. Then he slides up between my legs with bald intent.

  I shiver before he even touches me, and when he licks up my slit, my hips jack off the bed. He licks again. The strangled sound must be coming from me.

  I’m so freaking sensitive—like every nerve is firing down there. He could just breathe on my pussy and I think I’d come.

  I’ve been eaten out before, but it was nothing like this. That was a few swipes of the tongue to prepare me. This? This is like being zapped with a pleasure taser. It’s too much, yet not enough. It’s ecstasy with the pain of need mixed in.

  Especially when Vlad begins to circle my clit with his tongue, to suck on it.

  He screws a finger inside me and I writhe, ready to explode.

  He backs off, removing his mouth and shoving my t-shirt up to expose my breasts. I think he’s going to suck one of my nipples now, but instead, he reaches up and slaps my breast from the side.

  I give a little mewl of alarm.

  He slaps it again.

  I moan.

  He pinches my nipple as he rubs his lubricated fingers up along my slit and back down again. I wriggle beneath him in pleasure, moan and croon and hum.

  He slaps my breast. Now he moves up and sucks my nipple, teasing the taut bud with his teeth. Then he’s back to working my clit with his tongue as he strokes my inner walls with two fingers deep inside me.

  I choke. Cry out. Come.

  Vlad doesn’t stop the whole time I come, just strokes and sucks until I’m through grinding on his face, squeezing his fingers with the flutters of my release.

  As soon as I finish, he rises up to stand on his knees and unbuttons his pants.

  “No,” I shake my head.

  I know I’m a bitch, but I don’t want to give him this. He stole me from my family. He doesn’t deserve to consummate this unhappy marriage.

  But he just smirks and pulls out his cock. I watch, breath rasping in short, panicked gulps as he fists his erection and jacks it with his hand.

  Oh.

  He’s not going to rape me.

  Relief becomes excitement as I watch his hand fly, the purpled head of his cock swollen and glistening with pre-cum.

  It doesn’t take him long until he spews, coating my belly with ribbons of his hot cum.