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

Mark’s apartment is in a really good part of St. John’s Wood. It is tranquil and civilized. We go up to his apartment without speaking and he closes the door.

‘I have an excellent bottle of Sancerre. 2009. Up for a glass?’ he asks.

‘Bring it on,’ I say with a grin.

‘Look who’s so full of surprises tonight,’ he says, tossing his keys onto a sideboard. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in there?’ he suggests, nodding towards the living room.

‘OK,’ I say, and start moving towards it.

He has a nice flat. The décor is a bit dull with dark wood and paintings of fox hunting on the walls, but nothing I couldn’t eventually fix. A sliding door leads to a balcony that has a great view of the park. I know because I have been here once before. The door to the master bedroom is open and I glance at the giant bed with its fluffy white throw. My first and instinctive reaction is to avert my eyes. The response irritates and annoys me. Come on, Dahlia. This is simply the next step in your relationship. One that has been a long time coming.

I hear him opening the fridge, the cork popping, and the clink of glasses. I am standing at the glass door looking down at the park when the lights in the room dim. I turn around and he advances holding a wine bottle by the neck in one hand and two glasses in the other.

‘Awesome view.’ Shit, I said that the last time too.

‘Yes, I rather like it,’ he says casually, and moves towards a long, chocolate leather couch. I follow him and sit beside him, quite close, but not touching. He hands me my drink. I take a sip and put it down on the glass table. He picks up one of the remote controls lying on the table and presses one of the buttons. Soft unrecognizable music fills the air.

I clear my throat.

‘Just relax. There’s no pressure to do anything,’ he reassures gently.

I’m not actually nervous. I’m just not turned on. I take another sip of my wine.

He trails his finger along my wrist. Inside me nothing happens. There is no desire to do anything to him or with him. This is not a good sign, so I put the glass back on the coffee table, lean forward and lay my hand on his thigh.

‘Oh Dahlia,’ he mutters, and grabs me quite masterfully as he swoops down on my mouth.

Good start, Mark.

As it turns out he’s a good kisser. Just enough of everything. He doesn’t force his tongue into my mouth either. His hand slides under my top and goes around to my back looking for my bra’s clasp. Finding none, he returns to the front where he defeats it in one efficient movement.

OK, he’s done this before.

He breaks the kiss and looking deeply into my eyes starts unbuttoning my top. He pulls the material aside to expose my breasts.

‘God, you have fabulous breasts,’ he says thickly.

‘Wait till you see my ass,’ I quip, but he is in no mood for jokes.

He bends his head and takes a nipple in his mouth. It feels pretty good and I give him a small encouraging moan. He begins to suck harder, but not enough to cause pain. He has technique, I have to give him that. My brain doesn’t feel like it is exploding in my head or anything like that, but I start to enjoy the sensation. Maybe people shouldn’t knock comfortable sex so much.

My mobile rings suddenly. The sound is jarring and I freeze.

He lifts his head. His warm, brown eyes are dark with passion. ‘Don’t take it,’ he orders throatily.

‘Um … it could be an emergency. I’ll just be two secs,’ I say apologetically.

‘All right. Go ahead,’ he sighs.

I pull the edges of my top together and scratch around inside my bag. I can’t imagine who could be calling me at this time of the night. I look at the screen and it is my mother. Mom never calls on my mobile. She thinks it’s a waste of money. We communicate almost exclusively via Skype.

With a frown I accept the call.

Five

Dahlia Fury

She’s my sister. Break her heart and I’ll break your face.

-Dahlia Fury

‘Dahlia,’ my mother says urgently.

‘What is it, Mom?’ I shoot back, my stomach contracting with dread.

‘Has your sister been in contact?’ she demands anxiously without answering my question.

Thrown by the unexpected question, I blurt out, ‘Daisy? No. Why?’

‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’ she goes on.

‘Uh … four days ago. Mom, what are you panicking about?’

‘She hasn’t called me, she hasn’t updated her Facebook, and her phone is switched off.’

The dread becomes a cold clamp of fear deep inside me. ‘When did you speak to her last?’

‘She hasn’t called for two days.’ My mother’s voice has become high and screechy. ‘You know how she promised me that she will call me every single day. Day before yesterday she stopped. I was a bit worried, but I let it go because she warned me that some of those remote places she was going to would have bad Internet connection. But nothing again today. That’s two days, Dahlia. She’d never not call for two days.’