Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“Mmm.” I sucked the sweet liquid up as I moved my mouth, greedy for more. Stiff, it jerked. I reached up, wrapped my hand around the base, and lapped at the tip.

Kaz moaned and then come hit my tongue. I swallowed, taking him in. Champagne dripped down my chin. The bottle shook in one hand as he wielded his cock in the other. “Damn you, mysh.”

“You love it.” It turned me on knowing how I could make him lose control.

He pulled his cock away. My sex throbbed. I’d done this to him. He wanted me so badly, his cock dripped for my mouth and my sex began to throb.

Minutes later, we changed, and the plane landed in Paris. We walked off. The pilot and staff waved goodbye as we left.

As we headed to the limo, I licked my lips and could still taste him on my tongue. Kaz’s flavor branded my mouth. But then, he’d already branded my heart and seeped into my skin. There would be no getting free of him. Even crazier, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

Is this what falling in love is?

Disrupting my thoughts, Kazimir took my hand and led me to an orange Bugatti parked on the airport’s private sector runway.

“And I promise to take my time and keep everything simple.”

I shook my head.

Clearly, we both have different definitions of the word “simple.”

Kazimir squeezed my hand. “Impressed?”

“I’ve been impressed since I’ve met you.”

“I figured we needed something else besides a limo.”

“Why?”

“Too cliché for Paris. This car is perfect to drive around here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s French made.”

“I thought the name Bugatti was an Italian term.”

“Good catch. The car was founded by an Italian man named Ettore Bugatti. He moved to France before jumping into the car-making business.” Kazimir opened the door on my side. “And I love to drive his creations.”

“I see.” I climbed in.

Kaz got in next and started the car.

“Mysh.” He revved up the engine and smiled at the melodic hum. “Do you hear that?”

I laughed.

Licking his lips, he lovingly ran his hands along the steering wheel. “The only thing better than an expensive and very, very fast car is…your pussy.”

“I’m glad I beat fast cars.”

“You beat everything.”

We sped off, because…

Kazimir.

We zoomed through the runway as if it was his own massive parking lot. I was shocked he didn’t do a few wheelies near Air France’s traffic control as they focused on landing planes. No fool, I buckled my seat and held on.

It took us time to leave the airport, zoom down a long highway, and then enter the city limits.

Intrigued, I asked, “What’s the name of the restaurant?”

Somehow, Kazimir switched to a pretty damn good French accent. “La Cuisine Perdue.”

“You sound like you’re from France.”

“Only because you’re not from France but thank you. I worked at getting rid of my thick Russian accent to speak the fluffier languages.”

I smirked. “Your Russian is very present in English.”

“I don’t consider English fluffy at all. It’s a criminal language.”

“No.”

“In order to make it in any sector of the crime world, one needs to know English. There’s nothing dirtier and more based on blood than the US and UK.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Either way, you’ll love La Cuisine Perdue.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“The Lost Kitchen. Recently, they’ve had some scandal, but I’m ignoring it for this evening.”

“What happened?”

“The owner was accused of aesthetic snobbery as only the French could be. He had his hosts allegedly seat guests according to attractiveness. Good-looking diners were automatically upgraded to the best tables in the house. The ugly ones sat near the bathroom or in the far back.”

“That sucks. What one person thinks is beautiful is another person’s ugly.”

“That being said, his food is amazing enough for me to ignore his stupidity.”

I’d heard Paris was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I had to agree. Even the streetlights glittered like diamonds, painting the blocks in a gorgeous glow. Large elegant fountains and manicured trees shaped to perfection. Ancient structures towered over us as we sped by. Some were green, marbled, and some had gold lettering at the bottom. Some appeared to be hundreds of years old. Among large streets, I saw small lanes, cobbled roads, and even grand boulevards. I couldn’t wait to stroll around the city.

Sidewalk cafés stood here and there. Many lovers strolled hand-in-hand. Each block resembled a picturesque postcard about love. There was a modern feel among the timeless structures, and I instantly understood how this place had inspired poets and artists for centuries.

“So…” I scanned the pretty city. “If I had said I wanted to eat Italian or even Chinese, we would’ve gone to those countries?”

“Of course.”

Of course.

I held in my laughter.

“I’m glad you chose Paris.” He rounded one corner. “Valentina always talks about how romantic it is. I’ve been here many times and never agreed, but now…”