You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

He carries me past the forest of pillars towards a large round green divan covered with many pillows, and throws me onto it as if I am no more than a rag doll. He stands over the bed and watches my breasts jiggling as I bounce. I stare up at him as he crouches down and spreads my supine body out. Pulling my legs apart he impales me, his hard shaft ramming into me so suddenly that there isn’t time for me to adjust to his size. It shocks me into a long whimper of submission.

That drags a rumbling animal growl from his throat.

Every inch of me feels like I am on fire. My hips thrash upwards as my hands grab the firm, strong buttocks and shove him towards me, our bodies crash together and he is in, balls deep. I scratch my nails down his spine like a wildcat and wrap him so tightly to me it feels as if we are melded together. I know exactly what I want. I want every last inch of him inside me. I need to feel him in the depths of my belly.

‘Make yourself come,’ he orders.

His voice fucks my ear. I stare up at him angrily. His cock swells and jerks inside me.

‘Do it,’ he growls.

I arch my back, press into him, and grind myself against him until I feel a knot forming in my stomach. At that moment he slips his hands under me, lifts me up and, for his pleasure begins to slam into me. He fucks me like a feral beast, the veins in his throat bulging. The burn inside me turns into raging flames.

‘Zane,’ I cry lustily, my whole body jerking under his.

I claw at the sheets, the cushions, his skin. It feels as if my body is shattering into a million pieces. I thrash. I cry. I scream. His hot seed spills deep inside me.

I watch his face, contorted and transformed, his eyes darkened. For the first time since I have known him he is reachable. He catches me watching him and the switch back to the cold, unreadable man totally in control of himself is instantaneous and effortless.

Breathing hard I stare up at him. He is still lodged inside me. There is a whole frozen world hidden behind those eyes. Another woman might have thought she could thaw that world and live in it. I don’t.

‘Come to my study in an hour’s time. I will require you again then,’ he says and withdraws from my body.

My heart goes cold. I watch him stand, his cock still half erect and shining with our juices. He turns from me and begins to walk away. He stops at a low stool and picks up a dressing gown. He shrugs into it and leaves without ever looking back.

Eleven

Dahlia Fury

I listen to the doors click shut before I sit up on my elbows and look at the steam rising from the pool. It beckons to me. I have never been in such a pool. His milk flows out of me and stains my thighs as I get off the divan and walk to the water.

I lower myself into its silkiness, lie back where I had found him, and let my limbs sway in the water.

Ah …

He has declared war.

I duck underwater. Even the bottom of the pool is gorgeous. A naked Adonis type hero wearing laurel leaves is fighting mythical snake-like monsters. It is made of thousands of tiny pieces of mosaic.

I emerge a few seconds later and slick my hair back away from my face. I swim back to the side and notice what I had been too strung up to see before; a bucket of ice with an unopened bottle of champagne inside it, two flute glasses, a shallow dish full of ice, and two silver bowls, one smaller and covered, and the other much bigger and uncovered There are large strawberries inside the uncovered bowl. I lift the lid of the smaller bowl and find a mound of shiny black caviar.

I grasp the neck of the bottle, fish it out of the bucket and look at the label. My eyebrows rise. Well, well, Dom Perignon. Never had that before. I pop its cork and pour myself a glass. I raise the glass of fizzing liquid in a silent toast to me. Here’s to me. I take a sip.

‘Mmmm. Lovely.’

I eye the caviar, but reach for a strawberry and bite into it. It is so ripe and ready sweet juice runs down my fingers. For some strange reason it reminds me of the time I was four maybe five years old and I found a half-eaten bright pink lollipop in our garden. I remember watching my mom yelling at me from the window not to eat it, and me defiantly licking the dirt encrusted sweet anyway, finding it rough and delicious on my tongue. By the time my mom ran out I had not only chewed it up, but swallowed it all, so there was no chance she would put her finger in my mouth and hook it out. She smacked the backs of my legs, but I refused to cry. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong.