10

Ravil
Lucy doesn’t wake up when the food is delivered, so I send Pavel to bring it to the kitchen refrigerator, strip down to my boxer briefs, and climb under the sheets with her.
And then I lie awake, my hands behind my head. Thinking.
I didn’t get to my position at the top of the bratva by changing my mind once I’d made a decision. That doesn’t mean I don’t modify a plan in motion. Just that when I set my sights on something, I don’t stop until I get what I’m after.
In this case, I might not have been totally clear on what I am after.
Is it Lucy? Or only the child? Or is it mostly to punish Lucy for the offense? A good pakhan is capable of seeing his own weakness. Knowing his motives.
Blyat. I wanted to punish her.
Some sliver of that hungry boy from Leningrad still exists in me and believes that people like Lucy Lawrence are better than me. That when they decide I’m not worthy of respect and decency, they must be right.
And then the older me, the one who proved himself with knuckles and knives, has to smash those people into the ground to prove it’s not true.
And Lucy disrespected the hell out of me.
An hour passes. Then another. I ran every angle of every possibility again and again just to know my options. Decisions still don’t come.
Lucy stirs, then sits up.
“Hungry, kitten?”
She pads to the bathroom with one hand on her belly. “Um, yes.”
“Do you want those hot wings now?”
“No,” she groans. She closes the door, and I hear her pee on the other side.
I get out of bed. “What are you hungry for?”
“I don’t know. Food.”
“Very helpful, Counselor. Come. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”
“Ooh, my very own escort. I guess I should be thanking you for letting me out of my cell.”
“After the water throwing incident? Yes,” I say although it’s not true. I bear no grudge over that. I threatened her. She retaliated in her small way. I like her feistiness. Now we can move forward.
If only I was sure what forward should look like.
I take her elbow and lead her to the giant kitchen, praying none of the guys are up and around because I don’t want anyone seeing her in miniscule pajamas.
“Please tell me you have more than just Russian food,” she whispers as I flick on the low lighting over the stove. It’s a dream kitchen, or so I’m told.
I don’t cook. The kitchen is adjacent to the living room, open on one side, with a breakfast bar and center island, all in pink and black granite. The appliances are stainless steel. The cupboards are solid maple with the soft-close feature and built in lighting underneath. I flip the switch to turn that on, too. If I turned on the overhead light, we’d both go blind.
The soft glow lights up Lucy’s pale skin and hair. She looks beautifully rumpled. I want to caress the hell out of that swollen belly of hers, but we’re not really on those terms at the moment.
I open the refrigerator and peer inside. “You have something against Russian food?”
“Well, your culture isn’t exactly known for its culinary finesse.”
“Be careful or you’ll get nothing but borscht and perogies for the rest of the week.”
She blinks at me, and I expect another insult, but she says, “Do you have perogies?”
I smile, indulgently. “Does that sound good to you, kitten?”
“Maybe.”
I pull out a container. “You have to at least try these. They are the best perogies I’ve ever tasted. Made by Mrs. Kuznetzov on the fourth floor.” I pop the lid and drop them onto the tray for the toaster oven. I’ve learned the outer pastry gets soggy if you try to microwave them. “Just a few minutes.” I return my attention to the refrigerator. “What else sounds good? Some berries?” I pull out a container of organic blueberries.
“Mmm. Yes.” She reaches for it and brings it to the sink, rinsing the berries under a stream of water. I watch her ass. From the back, you wouldn’t know she’s pregnant. She carries in front, so it still looks like she has a waist. Her ass is fuller than it was Valentine’s day-round and fuckable. Very hot.
It’s been a couple hours, and I’m ready to tap that ass again.
All night long.
Too bad she needs her rest.
Of course, an orgasm might help her sleep.
The toaster oven dings, and I check the perogies, making sure they got warmed all the way through.
Lucy pops a few blueberries in her mouth. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Russian food?”
She nods, chewing on a plump berry.
I shake my head. “I don’t like Russian food.”
“See?” she says, then claps a hand over her mouth because it was too loud.
I smile because I love seeing her unbuttoned a little. I want more of it.
She looks at me, her eyes dipping from my face to my bare chest, over my tattoos. Her gaze continues down my abs to my boxer briefs, where my dick salutes her interest.
Her expression is hard to read, but the way her nipples tent her thin camisole, I know she likes what she sees.
“You want more?” I ask, giving my cock a rough squeeze.
She swallows, lifting her gaze once more to my face. I see indecision there. Her body wants it. Her mind rebels. She had the same dilemma at Black Light although now I think it’s more about not wanting to give anything to me than about surrendering to her desires.
I make it easier for her, stepping into her space and lightly resting my hands on her waist. I turn her around to face the counter. “I won’t even spank you this time,” I murmur.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t refuse me, either. With her, I take it as a yes. She’s not going to ask me for it, even if she knows it’s what she wants.
I slide my hand down between her legs. “I’ll make you a bet.” I brush my lips across her neck, the silky strands of her blonde hair sliding across my stubbled face. “I’ll bet I can get you off before the toaster dings.”
She glances at the toaster oven. There’s two minutes left.
“I thought men were supposed to be proud about taking a long time… not a short time.” Her voice is thick.
I slide my fingers under the little pajama shorts and brush over her folds. She’s already wet.
Dripping wet.
“That would be me lasting a long time. We’re talking about you getting off.” I sink one finger into her. “I won’t even use my dick. Deal?”
She braces her hands on the slick countertop. “Actually” she looks over her shoulder at me, an imperious expression on her face. “I want your dick.”
I smirk. “Is that so?” I grind my erection against her cushy backside.
“Fingers don’t always work for me,” she confesses.
I flick her shorts down with a swift movement, and they drop to the kitchen floor. In the next second, I have the head of my cock rubbing over her entrance. “Your fingers or mine?”
She draws in a breath as I breach her entrance, gently nudging inside. “Mine,” she confesses.
“I assure you mine are more skilled,” I boast, which may or may not be true. I did manage to coax many orgasms out of her the first time we were together. I push forward until I’m fully seated, then slowly draw back, almost all the way out. She shivers in response. “But I will let you call the shots tonight.”
I pump in and out again slowly, then grip her hips for a series of short, shallow thrusts.
Her breath quickens, fingers flatten on the counter.
I wrap an arm around her waist, so I know her belly is protected and slam in harder and deeper.
She moans, and I cover her mouth with my hand, not that I give a shit if the guys hear us, but she might. I’m not going to embarrass her. I ride her with my hand over her mouth then loosen my hold and slide it down her throat, lightly caging her there.
“I think, though, kotyonok, that you prefer when I’m in charge.”
She pussy squeezes my cock, even as she shakes her head no.
I slide my hand down lower, to her breast, where I pluck her nipple.
Her breaths become sobs. I keep traveling lower, settling the pad of my index finger over the little nubbin of her clit.
“You like my fingers now, kitten?”
“Ung.” She makes a needy sound.
I glance at the timer on the toaster oven. I’m running out of time. I rub a little harder.
She cries out.
“You want it harder, prekrasnyy?”
She arches more, pushing back at me. I take it as a yes.
I abandon her clit to the fingers of both hands around her hips and fuck her hard, my loins slapping against her pale ass, filling the kitchen with the sound of sex.
My balls tighten. Thighs shake. I could come.
The timer’s almost on zero. “Come for me, kitten.” I close my eyes and let myself succumb to the pleasure of being inside her-how incredibly juicy and snug the fit is, how forbidden it feels with her hating me, here as my prisoner. How right.
I lose control and plunge deep to come. The moment I do, she spasms around my dick, milking it for my cum, orgasming in perfect concert with me, like our bodies were meant for each other. Like we can only come together.
“That’s it, beautiful.” I rub her clit again, slowly now.
The timer dings.
I kiss her neck and ease out, grabbing a couple napkins to clean us up.
She sobs out her breath, dropping to her forearms on the counter, like she’s not capable of standing.
“Are you light-headed, kotyonok?” I clean her with the napkin.
She draws in a long slow breath. “I’m okay.”
I throw away the napkins and pick up her pajama shorts from the floor, crouching down to help her step into them.
She steadies herself with a hand on my head. After the shorts are up, I nip, then plant a kiss between her legs, lifting my gaze to hers.
She releases my head and takes a step back. She might let me satisfy her, but post-coital intimacy is still not on the table.
I get up and wash my hands then pull the tray out of the toaster oven and slide the warm perogies onto a plate. “If I had to pick a favorite Russian food, it would be these.” I tell her, offering the plate. “Try one.”
She reaches for it then stops herself. “With my fingers or a fork?”
I pick it up with my fingers and hold it to her lips. “Who cares?” I murmur, as she opens for it. “You’re in a dark kitchen in the middle of the night. There’s nothing to get right or wrong, kitten.” I already know she’s the type who wants to get everything right. There’s too much nervous control in her life. I had to blindfold her at the club to get her to tune into her me and her body.
She bites into the meat pie and moans. “Oh my God, this is good,” she says with her mouth full, catching the flakes of pastry on her lips with her fingertips. “What is that spice?”
“Dill.”
“Dill?” She asks incredulously, holding the pie eye-level and looking at its innards.
“Beef. Potato. Cheese. And dill. It’s perfect, yes?”
She takes another bite like she’s suddenly ravenous. “So good,” she murmurs.
“Come here.” I lead her by the elbow to one of the barstools on the other side of the breakfast bar. “You’re allowed to sit when you eat.”
“I’m allowed? What else will you allow, master?” Her words are tart, but there’s no edge to them. She darts a quick glance at me like she remembered too late that she has called me Master before.
And enjoyed it.
I pour a glass of milk and set it in front of her then lean on the counter, watching her eat. She polishes off three perogies and drinks her milk.
When she looks up, she holds my gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to contact you, Ravil.” I sense the sincerity in her voice, and I almost believe her, until I hear her pitch. “But you’ve found me now. I won’t try to keep our baby from you. Just let me go. We’ll work out a custody arrangement. Fifty-fifty if that’s what you want.”
I know it’s a huge concession. She doesn’t want me in our child’s life at all. But I’m not biting. I shake my head. “We’re not negotiating, Counselor. You missed the window for that. I’m driving now, and you’re going to be a good girl and do everything I ask.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t-”
“Ah, but I can. I am, kitten. Get used to it.”
She gets up from the stool and stalks away, straight to the front door.
Cute.
She reaches for the handle.
She wouldn’t make it out. Even if I let her walk through this door, I have a man at the elevator and another street-level. She’d never get out of the building unless I let her. Still, I snap, “Don’t” with every ounce of authority I have.
She freezes, hand wrapped around the knob.
“This is your only warning.”
I see the shiver run through her.
To help her save face, I go and collect her, grasping her elbow and guiding her back to my room. She doesn’t say anything, but I sense a storm brewing inside her.
Not good for the baby.
Or her.
I don’t mind her frustrated, but I can’t have her stressed. Kidnapping a woman pregnant with my child might not have been my smartest move.
I close the door softly behind us, and she shakes free of my grasp. “Calm yourself, kitten. It’s not so bad. What’s making you panic?”
I flip on a lamp to see her face. It’s flushed with anger, and she’s breathing quickly.
“My life!” she throws her arms up in the air.
“You will work remotely.”
She shakes her head. “My parents.”
I nod. “You visit them on Saturdays.”
She goes still. “You’ve done your homework.”
I shrug. “I like to be prepared. Your father is a partner at the firm where you work. He had a stroke recently.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “If I don’t go to see him Saturday, my mom will know something is wrong. If I tell her I’m on bed rest, she’ll come to the apartment.”
I give my head a small shake. “You’re a very smart woman. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to tell her.”
Lucy’s lips thin. “You don’t strike me as insane, Ravil. You strike me as a very reasonable, perceptive man. Why are you doing this?”
I climb in the bed. “You’re a perceptive woman, yourself. Figure it out.” I flick off the light.
She stands still in the darkness for several seconds then pads to the bathroom.
I gaze at the ceiling or where I’d see the ceiling if it wasn’t dark.
Funny. I want her to figure it out when I’m not even sure myself.