Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. I abruptly had the image of my cock buried between her lips and halfway down her throat. Would she stare at me the way she did now? I scowled and pushed the thought away. So not the time.
“How come you speak English so well?” I said, hissing in her face.
Her voice was weak and tight, but my grip probably had a lot to do with it. “I watch a lot of American movies.”
She gasped for breath as I released her, and I shifted back into my seat on the other side of the car.
“Your name,” I spat out. “I already asked you once.” If she didn’t answer me a second time, I’d take her name away. I’d change it to ‘whore’ like my brother Luka had done to our stepmother years ago.
The girl hesitated, but then smartened up. “Oksana.”
Her gaze drifted down and traced each strap of the under-arm holster I wore, and then lingered on my gun. Was she thinking about making a play for it? That wouldn’t end well for her—or the resale value of the Lexus.
“Where’d you come from?” I asked.
“The airport.”
Smart-ass bitch. I had my hand wrapped around her throat again, and this time I leaned into her so my lips were right by her ear. “People don’t talk to me like that, especially not whores.”
Oksana shivered and closed her eyes. Her sweater was thin and wet from the rain, and she was obviously cold. Her nipples stood out beneath the fabric. But I pretended her reaction was from the power I was exerting over her, or my proximity. I was a good-looking guy, and girls lost their shit when I paid attention to them. She gasped for breath against the squeeze of my fingers on her windpipe. I was certainly paying attention to her now, wasn’t I?
“Kazan,” she choked out. “I am from Kazan.”
Her eyes fluttered open as I released the tension from my grip, but I kept my hand in place, making sure she understood who was in charge. She seemed to get it. Her heartbeat hammered away under my touch.
“Okay, Oksana from Kazan who likes American movies,” I slid my palm down her throat until it rested threateningly at the base, “tell me how old you are.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “Twenty.”
The SUV went around a curve to merge onto the highway, and it forced my weight into her. She wasn’t as bony as most girls, and I used the opportunity to get closer. I put my left hand up on the window behind her, trapping her in.
I’d thought she was mildly attractive back at the warehouse, but now I was seeing her up close and saw how wrong I’d been. Her skin was pale and smooth. Her dusty pink lips were lush and sexy, even as she parted them and took in a stuttering, nervous breath. Icy blue eyes were surrounded by long, thick lashes.
In another setting, after a shower and better clothes, she might even be a knockout.
Oksana was so far out of Alek’s league, it was a good idea I’d taken her away from him. He’d come to expect this caliber of girl, and . . . forget it. It was just dumb luck a girl this attractive was in the batch tonight. It wouldn’t happen again.
Her chest rose and fell with her hurried breath, and I slipped my hand further down until my palm was pressed in the center of her chest. She turned to look at me, wide-eyed, and her breath hitched. My fingers were dangerously close to her breasts, and I tugged on a smile.
She wasn’t afraid of my gun, but my touch? It looked like it scared the hell out of her.
2
Oksana’s crystal-clear eyes studied me with fascinated horror. The girl needed to relax; I was barely touching her. Although, I was curious how she’d react if I actually did. If I slid my hand down another few inches and gripped her, if I pinched her nipple that was poking through her shirt, what would she do?
Would she fight?
Would she submit?
I didn’t want an audience when I found out and eased away, giving her space. She shuddered with what I assumed was relief, and I grinned. Anticipation tightened inside me. I’d never broken in one of the girls before. Never had a desire to put my favorite thing—my cock—anywhere near the whores, but Oksana looked clean, and the idea of her on her knees before me was really fucking appealing.
“Open your bag,” I said. “Dump it out. I want to see everything you’ve got inside.”
She bit down on her bottom lip and reluctantly moved to do as ordered. She flipped open the canvas bag and turned it upside down, dropping clothes and books on the seat between us. I rifled through the ugly, cheap clothes and unsexy underwear, and shook out the three paperback books she had. There were ticket stubs from her flights, her visa paperwork, and sixty-two US dollars in cash. I pocketed it and her Russian passport, and her expression crumbled.