Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“I’m lucky to have you.”

“I feel the same way, but let’s get back to the dress.”

I waited for the elevator.

The two guards surrounded me.

Anxiety over my newfound stardom in ballet had been trying to take root inside of me, but it vanished as I heard his voice. It all drifted away.

“Thank you for the necklace.”

Misha’s voice touched me, reaching out like a hand to caress me. “When people see that diamond, everyone will know you are mine.”

“How will they know?” I joked. “Your name’s not on it.”

“Damn it.” Humor laced his next words. “My name is not on this diamond?”

I giggled. “No.”

“I demanded my name be written on it. Perhaps. . .”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps, I’ll have to get you another diamond, but this one will definitely have my name on it.”

I turned away and lowered my voice so the guards wouldn’t hear me. “You don’t need to put jewelry on me, for people to know that I’m yours. My body will say it as soon as you stand next to me.”

“Is that right, Ava?”

“Yes.”

The truth was there between us. There was no room for pretense.

“Tonight, Ava,” he groaned. “I want to fuck you with only that diamond bouncing between your breasts. Can you do that for me?”

A hot spike of arousal fired my blood. “Yes, Misha.”

“Then, I will see you tonight.”

My breath left me as he hung up.

The elevator arrived.

The doors opened.

I stepped on. In my mind, flashes of last night played in my head—the smooth thrusts of his cock, those lips sucking me away, the whispers of his filthy poetry in my ears, the moans, the groans.

I cleared my throat as my bodyguards walked onto the elevator with me. One of them pressed the lobby button.

The elevator lowered.

I took a few glances at each. One resembled a body builder in a nice suit. However, the second one right next to me, was scary. He had an intimidating size. His body was large and massive. His face scarred. A dark shadow of stubble covered his chin.

He turned my way.

I moved my view back to the elevator.

And then the wrong thoughts hit me. Misha naked and fucking me. Misha lifting me up and pumping that huge cock into me.

I cleared my throat and shut those thoughts away.

Still his sexy voice played in my head.

“You taste so good. I could lick you some more.”

My body shivered.

I squeezed my thighs together.

“I heard that a beautiful woman was the best thing for nightmares.”

“Really?” I’d landed a kiss on the back of his neck. “Who told you that?”

Fast, he’d turned around, planted me on the bed, and hovered over me. “Are you questioning my sources, Ava?”

“I’m simply wondering how a beautiful woman could help with nightmares.”

“Let me show you.”

Getting back to reality, I sighed in ecstasy.

The diamond hung heavy between my breasts.

The elevator stopped on the bottom floor.

I was sure arousal had ruined the new silk panties Misha had bought me.

This is a perfect day.

That thought changed, when the doors opened.

A sea of reporters greeted my guards and me.

What the hell?

The guards moved fast, bulldozing through them. One grabbed my arm probably to not lose me. We moved quickly, never stopping as we left the lobby.

What do they want?

The reporters didn’t back up or take a hint to leave me alone. Most yelled out their questions in Russian. A few spoke in English. Even more screamed in French. I caught some of the questions in Russian.

“Are you worried about your role as principal having a negative impact on the company?”

“What do you think will be your next role?”

We made it outside.

Even more reporters crowded ahead. Everyone continued to yell out questions. The majority of them dealt with race.

“Ava, how does it feel to possibly be the first black prima ballerina in Russia?”

“Do you think you deserve the position, after the death of the prior one?”

“Do you feel safe?”

“Do you think your skin color helps or does it ruin the performance?”

Cringing, I pushed through, ignoring them as much as possible.

I forgot how much my success would cause a ripple among some. The most visible evidence of racism in Russia was soccer matches. Scattered Russian fans from nationalist groups loved to yell slurs at the opposing teams’ black players.

Day to day, I experienced the casual racist acts in Russian society, which I was never really sure was racism at all. The odd stares. The touching of my hair. The gripping of pocketbooks or moving from the seat, if I sat next to them. Who knew if my perfume had been smelly that day, or they didn’t like me for the color of my skin? Sometimes I wondered if I made these moments up in my head. Other moments, I knew it was my own insecurity about being an oddity in a sea of pale complexions.

Another reporter jumped in front of me and asked in Russian, “Do you believe Russia is ready for a black prima ballerina?”