You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘Nope.’

‘Oh good. It’s very important that us nurses keep our reputations pure. If not, every Tom, Dick and Harry will be wanting a little extra, if you know what I mean.’

‘Don’t worry. I totally understand,’ he says.

He walks over to the bed and lies down on it.

I get on the bed and start unzipping his pants.

‘I thought you were going to take my temperature,’ he says with just a hint of amusement in his voice.

I look at him sternly. ‘Give me a minute. I’m just about to.’

His cock is as hard as a rock and it springs up when I release it. Wrapping my fingers around it, they look very feminine and white against the blood engorged hardness of his shaft. I smile mischievously at him. ‘Hot and hard, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m glad you figured that one out, Nurse Evanoff.’

‘Are you being unnecessarily cheeky, Mr. Abramovich?’

He shakes his head.

I touch his balls. ‘Do they feel tight and achy?’

‘They do,’ he agrees solemnly.

‘I thought so.’

I bend down and plant a gentle kiss on his cockhead. His cock twitches in response. I take him in my mouth and slide my lips slowly down the smooth, hot shaft while he groans with pleasure. Sucking him hard I pull my mouth away with a slurping sound. Then I lift my head.

‘Mr. Abramovich, have you ever done it with a nurse before?’ I ask, my voice all sultry and breathy.

‘No,’ he admits.

‘Have you ever wanted to?’

‘Mmmm … it wasn’t a great priority … until today.’

I yank my dress until it is bunched up around my waist. Then I spread open my legs and watch him stare at my freshly shaven pussy, with my clit poking out of its wet slit, and begging, just begging, to be fucked. Sitting down in his lap, I slide my pussy lips against his thick shaft.

‘Do our bits joined together look like a hotdog, Mr. Abramovich?’ I ask cheekily as I carry on running my crack up and down his hard dick.

‘Oh fuck,’ he swears, and tries to catch my waist and put me on his cock, but I slap his hands away.

‘Patience, Mr. Abramovich. We have to be careful how we go about this.’

Soon my slit begins to slop against him and I can tell by his face that he is getting to the end of his tolerance. I rise up over him and inch by inch I impale myself on his shaft. Just a few days without him has been like forever to my body. I feel him stretch me and fill me completely. It feels so damn good I lay my palms on either side of him, and throwing my head back, ride him hard and deep, working up a sweat. I don’t stop until my whole body starts to shake with my impending climax.

Sensing how close I am, he grabs hold of my bottom and pulls me more tightly against him, and more violently than can be good for his wound, thrusts upwards to squirt his seed as deeply inside me as he can. It seems as if it is ages that his cock spurts and spits inside me.

Panting, I grin at him. ‘Do you feel any better, Mr. Abramovich?’

‘Miles,’ he murmurs and, pulling my body closer, he kisses me deeply.

‘I love you, Nurse Evanoff. I really, really, really fucking love you.’

‘Well,’ I breathe. ‘I have to say, you are my best patient, Mr. Abramovich.’

‘There better not be any other or you’ll be dressing up as a morgue attendant soon.’

‘It was always you for me,’ I whisper.

Then I curl up against the unhurt side of his body and we talk. I tell him everything that has happened from the devastating moment I found Sergei, and he tells me about the doctor who found him on the street half dead. About the favor that Jake Eden’s brother owed to Alexander Malenkov. Finally, he tells me what his men have heard on the streets about my father’s disappearance.

‘What are they saying?’

‘That Evanoff’s daughter was seen at Dimitri Semenov’s nightclub the day before he disappeared, but they have nothing else. No one knows anything.’

Then it is time for me to get dressed again.

Forty-three

Jack Irish

One Week Later

I look out of my window to the street below and I see the man dressed in a black leather jacket and black pants leaning against the lamppost across the street, smoking a cigarette.

The ground at his feet is littered with cigarette butts. I shrug into my jacket, stick my knife into the back of my jeans, and I go back to the window. He is still there looking as if he hasn’t a care in the world, but his eyes are sharp and alert.

I go down to the foyer, out into the crisp morning air, and cross the street. He straightens from his leaning position and flicks his cigarette away. He smiles showing nicotine stained teeth. His hands are full of tattoos. He opens his box of Marlboro red and offers it to me.