The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

But the tip of his tongue takes a turn around my clit, and I moan again.

Ravil grips both my thighs and swirls again but then pulls away, dropping my skirt and standing up, my juices glossing his lips. He licks them. “You taste even better than I remembered.”

His words worm under my defenses. Maybe it’s just something he says to everyone, but I like hearing he might have spent as much time remembering me as I remembered him. I’d doubted he did. I was a bumbling newbie just discovering what she likes, and he was obviously an experienced dominant, comfortable with his skill and sexuality.

But then, he told me that night he felt differently about me. You’re something special, he said. And I wanted to believe him. Not enough to pursue anything beyond that night. Just to preserve the memories of the man who gave me the gift of this child.

What I’d so desperately wanted from Jeffrey, but he would never give me.

But now sexual frustration is getting on top of me. I want to kick Ravil for teasing me like this. It seems downright cruel considering my pregnancy hormones have me almost feverish for satisfaction.

I jam my feet into the flip flops and toss my long hair as I walk to the elevator. Oleg has already gone down, so it takes a moment to return, and I stand there, staring at the steel doors rather than look at the man at my elbow.

“You can’t keep me prisoner,” I say finally, even though it’s only wishful thinking.

“Not prisoner,” he says mildly. “Special guest. I must keep you close, so I can protect you and be sure you are very well cared for. You carry precious cargo, of course.”

Now I cut a look at him. “I go unwillingly. Under protest.”

His lips twitch. “Noted.”

Dammit. I shouldn’t find sparring with him so sexy.

It must be the hormones talking.

Because my worst nightmare about having a baby with a member of the Russian bratva is coming true.

And I seem to be incapable of stopping it.

Chapter 4

Ravil

We take the back elevator up to the top floor. I own this entire downtown building—the Kremlin, as it’s known in the neighborhood. Everyone in it is Russian.

And I put the word out before I left to break into her apartment. Everyone speaks Russian in front of Lucy. No English.

If she wants something, she’ll have to rely on me.

Lucy told me she already ate dinner, so I called on the way over and canceled the order for a full meal, asking instead for a variety of snacks and amenities to be prepared.

I keep my hand on her lower back as we go. I don’t like the pinched quality in her face nor her general pallor.

It’s a very fine line I walk here—making sure she takes my threat seriously enough not to disobey me yet making her relaxed and comfortable, so she stays healthy and can rest at ease.

Already I’m questioning my plan. I’m not one to hold onto anger. I remember it, I file it away to use as a reason for whatever revenge I’m enacting, but I don’t keep the emotion.

Still, I didn’t expect to find myself quite so eager to see her under my thrall, legs parted, body surrendered for my plundering.

I don’t think she even wanted to surrender to me back at her apartment. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Her brain revolted, but her body said yes.

Said more.

Said please.

And now I’m already planning our night together. Her punishment.

Possibly even a reward.

Blyat. She will have me wrapped around her finger if I’m not careful. Simply by being Lucy.

I don’t know what it is about her, but I felt it from the very start. The moment I saw her at Black Light, I wanted her. Perhaps I recognize something similar in her that’s also in me.

That drive for perfection. Excellence. Like she has something to prove, and she wants to get it right.

It makes me want to help her get there. Protect her from failure.

At Black Light, it made me want to draw out her surrender. Show her she could trust me not to humiliate her or degrade her, yet still to own her every response, every quiver, every orgasm.

And I still have that urge, despite the very disrespectful ideas running through my mind.

She’s definitely getting a flogging.

I’ll probably tie her up—but with something soft and forgiving like a silk tie. My hand creeps lower on her ass. Knowing she’s not wearing panties makes me sprout a semi.

We enter the top floor—my headquarters.

After I bought it five years ago, I had the entire building remodeled, a little every year, using only Russian laborers. Many of them live here, too, on the lower floors. They do their best for me because I take good care of them. I pay well, help them when there’s a problem, and provide protection from the American law and larger world. Plus, they live in prime real estate for a fraction of the price they’d normally pay.