Maybe I’m as kinky as she is.
Yeah, I definitely am. Because now that I’ve had the taste of playing dominant, it’s hard to imagine sex ever being satisfying without this dynamic.
Or is it just hard to imagine sex with another woman now? Like Kat broke the mold on sex partners for me.
“I know what you are,” she says between bites.
I don’t answer.
“Russian mafiya.”
I offer another bite, still turned on by this simple act.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Some of her animation has returned. The performer side of Kat. Now I’m seeing glimpses of the girl who danced up on the boxes for attention.
“Da. The bratva.”
“What does that mean? Brotherhood?”
“Da.”
“And that’s what these tattoos are for. They signify your crimes?”
“Crimes and the organization. The name of our cell.”
“What is the name of it?”
I shouldn’t tell her but for some reason, the words just come out. “Chicago Bratva.”
She makes a scoffing sound. “That’s not really a name. That’s a geographical description.”
“My pakhan doesn’t have a flair for the dramatic. He keeps things simple.”
“What is pakhan? The leader?”
“Da.”
She chews slowly, shifting on her bare feet. I have to distract myself every time I look at her legs. Knowing she’s bare under the hem of my shirt, remembering how it felt to be intimately acquainted with that sweetest part of her flesh, sends a fresh kick of lust straight to my dick.
Also, I don’t have a foot fetish, but if I did, hers would be cum-worthy. They’re dainty and cute, with perfectly painted toenails in Barbie pink.
“Did he send you here? To capture me?”
“No.” I thumb a drip of pasta sauce from her lip and lick it. Her gaze tracks my movements, and I want to plunge my thumb into her mouth and see how hard she sucks it.
“So this isn’t bratva business?”
I shake my head.
“This is personal. Because of your sister?”
“That’s right.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” She holds up both her bound hands. “I thought Russian bratva members had to cut all ties to their family.”
“That’s true. That was supposed to happen. But my pakhan doesn’t enforce that rule. Things are different in America, away from the old country’s ways.”
Again, I’m way oversharing. I need to shut up. To stop interacting with her. I’m losing my edge in so many ways. But then I lost my edge the moment I decided to grab her from the rave instead of sticking to my original plan.
At least by tomorrow, we’ll be on the ship.
“You live in Chicago.” She says it like a musing not a question. “For how long?”
“Enough questions, dietka.” I feed her another bite.
“I want to go to America. The whole time my father was there, I begged him to let me visit, but he never did.”
“He was protecting you.” I don’t like defending her father, but she seems hurt by it. “His operation in America was nasty. Nothing he’d want his little girl to be touched by.”
She flicks her tongue out to lick some sauce off her lips, and it makes me want to kiss her senseless. Strange to think that I’ve been between her legs–twice–but haven’t kissed that pretty mouth yet. But that’s because we’re not on a date. We’re not even lovers, even though we’ve had sex. We’re captor and his prisoner who happened to share a few interludes.
“No. He just doesn’t like me much.”
“That cannot be true,” I tell her although the fact that she said it creates a wobble in my world. Not because I’m worried that Poval won’t respond to my message about her. I know he will. But it bothers me that she believes that. “He paid a fortune for you to go to that private school you went to. And you can’t tell me you ever want for anything. He’s kept you sheltered and protected. He cares–that’s just the way he shows it.”
Jesus, now I’m really defending him. Definitely not a stance I want to take.
“He sent me here as punishment.” She shakes her head when I offer another bite. “I’m finished, thank you.”
She’s thanking me for feeding her because I’ve immobilized her own hands. She’s so damn sweet. I scoop the remaining pasta into my mouth in a few large spoonfuls.
“What was the punishment for?” I ask with my mouth full.
She watches me with a challenge in her gaze like she wants to see how I’ll react. “For giving a boy a handjob when I was thirteen.”
Maybe she thought I’d be shocked. I’m not. It’s totally in character for her, and I have no judgement whatsoever about her hypersexualness now that I’m used to it. I just want to throat-punch any assholes who take advantage of her. She deserves to be treated like a goddamn princess, but I fear she’s attracting the opposite.
I let my lips quirk slightly. “Of course you did.”
She returns the smile, an uncharacteristic shyness stealing over her.