Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (26 page)

I can hear his moaning from below as he tastes me, the powerful muscle stroking my labia and making its way towards what it really desires, what it’s searching for as though it was trained to seek it out.

The strokes of his tongue make me want to recoil at first, to hide from such sensations that I haven't felt in so long, but the more I wriggle, the stronger I realize his grip is on me. He can do whatever he wants with me.

I let out a sharp, short cry when the tongue brushes my clit.

Like a hunter, he dives in and attacks relentlessly, tormenting my sensitive nub with short, powerful lashes that send warmth through my body.

It isn't a sensation I could get by masturbating, I realize. He's so irreverent of the restraints I put on myself, as though he knows just the right motions to send me spiraling toward orgasm when I'm ready to push myself over that crest, but he has none of the hesitation that forces me to draw it out longer.

It isn't long before I feel myself getting wet by my own accord, and my breathing gives away how close I am to coming. This is all happening so fast, and in such an exposed place, that my body utterly surrenders itself to Ivan's whims. I can't help but be obedient to him.

"Just a little more, just like that," I beg him, and as soon as I do, I feel my thighs drop and his tongue retreat. My heart skips a beat, thinking I've done something wrong, and I almost want to lift the blindfold, but Ivan's fingers are already gripping my chin. His hot breath washes over my face as he speaks in a low, growling tone.

"You will come when I allow it,
moya zvezda
."

His lips press against mine, his tongue invading my mouth and making me taste my own honey. I press my body up into him, my hands starting to wrap around his sides and feel his bare skin, but he presses me back down and begins to suck on my exposed nipples, pinning my arms up against the arm of the couch as he does.

Every part of me is electrified with sensation, and my body is dizzy with the stimulation.

He wants that
.

"Please," I beg him, "please, Ivan, I want you to fill me so badly, I'll do anything."

"Yes, you will," he states, and before I can react, he's gripping me by the hips and hoisting me up. The next moment, my hands and knees are being pressed upon on the surface of the coffee table in the middle of the room.

I know what's about to happen, and as I brace myself on the hard surface, it dawns on me that he didn't set the drinks on the table when I walked in. He planned on this, on using me. I hear the tearing of a condom wrapper from behind me.

A cry escapes my lips as his hard, condom-covered cock slides into me from behind, and almost instantaneously I want to collapse on the table, barely able to hold myself up with my hands.

He starts to pull me further onto him, rocking back and forth until my pussy envelops his cock entirely, tight and absolutely wet.

My knees are already starting to hurt as he begins to pound into me mercilessly. I feel something on my hair, and my head is tugged back as he grips it like a leash.

He's blocked out my vision, put me on a hard surface, and now he's holding onto my hair, putting me all the more under his power, but God, the way his cock is hitting the inside of my needy cunt makes me want to open myself all the more to him, to arch my back and shove myself onto him more.

"God, oh God," I gasp as the bulging crown within rams the inner walls of my womanhood, "Ivan, please...!" I can't even articulate my plea, but there's no denial in my voice: I want what he's giving me. I need it.

Ivan is silent, bucking harder and faster into me. I can hear some kind of commotion loud enough to penetrate into the VIP lounge, and suddenly my heart turns over. Is someone coming in? Now, of all times?
No!

"Is — ah! Is someone coming?!" I hiss, but Ivan tightens his grip on my hair by way of silencing me.

"Come," he commands simply through his fast-paced bucking and grunts, and warmth fills my body as the excitement starts to become too much to bear. The feeling of restraint, the thought of random passers-by barging in, my needy cunt being denied what I so badly desire, I can't bear it any longer as the noise from the crowd outside becomes louder and louder.

A harsh groan bursts from Ivan as he comes, filling up the condom inside of me with hard pulses, and his wild thrusts send me toppling over my own orgasm, my arms buckling and letting my face press against the hard wood surface, mouth gaping and eyes clenching beneath the cloth as my whole body shakes.

Ivan is still hard and merciless. Even as jets of his seed fill up the rubber inside me, he torments my wildly ecstatic body, disorienting me with the sensation as I melt into a shaking pile of pleasure on the table, my knees slumping to the side as he withdraws his cock at last.

Finally, I'm able to make out the sounds from outside.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Ivan had made us come into the New Year.

As the cheering and music outside resumes, I hear Ivan's footsteps moving around the room, and I nearly have a heart attack when a loud POP makes me withdraw my limbs again, even as my fluids mar my table. I feel a hand taking off the blindfold and turn my helpless body over on the table.

My eyes adjust to see Ivan, smiling and shirtless, looking down at me affectionately with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other.

He sets the glasses down and pours the liquid, then pulls the couch up closer to the table where I'm sprawled. Still regaining my senses, I feel his strong arms lift me up as though I were made of paper, carrying me over to the couch as he sits down with me in his lap.

I blink blearily, a smile crossing my face as I wrap my arms around his neck and let myself hang there, utterly fucked silly. His warm arms are wrapped around me, comforting my naked body as it tries to come down from the high of the orgasm.

I smell champagne as he brings a glass close to me, stroking my back with the other, and his mouth comes close to my ear.

"Happy New Year, Katy."

I
t’s surprisingly chilly
when I wake up on Valentine’s Day. There’s frost on the windows lining the wall of my apartment, and my toes are almost numb. Shivering, I draw up my legs and slide out of bed, finding a pair of slippers and a fuzzy robe to wrap myself in. I look at the clock to see that it’s just after ten o'clock in the morning. I’ll have to start getting ready for work soon.

But first, I need my coffee.

I shuffle into the kitchen, yawning as I start the coffee maker and slump back against the counter. I squint across the room out the window and stare long enough to notice tiny, delicate snowflakes drifting downward. It’s been unseasonably warm and rainy this winter until now. I ponder what the snowy weather will do for my business. It could keep everyone bundled up inside. Or they might possibly head out to the clubs and bars in droves, looking to warm up with a drink and a hot stranger. I hope it’s the latter — business has been pretty good, but I’m not out of the woods yet. There are still debts my father left me, even if the protection fee from the mafia isn’t an issue anymore.

Right on cue, my phone lights up with a text. “Natalie, that better not be you calling out of work to take some starry-eyed girl on a Valentine’s date,” I mumble to myself. Blinking in the low light, I read the name on the screen. It’s Ivan.

As always, at any sight or mention of him, my heart skips a beat. I don’t know what it is, whether it’s nerves or fear or excitement… or something else.

I slide my phone open to read the text.

“Good morning. You’re taking the day off.”

I furrow my brows in confusion. Taking the day off of what? Work? Being a sex slave?

After a moment of thought, I reply with just a simple question mark. Almost instantly I get a response from him, and I can’t help but crack a smile.

“It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Who would have expected that a gun-toting, heavily-muscled mafia hit man was a sucker for made-up romantic holidays? Stranger things have happened, I remind myself. And besides, he has been surprisingly tender and sweet to me these past few months. The sex is often hard and fast and rough — not that I’m complaining in the least — but in our regular interactions, Ivan is a lot gentler and more sensitive than any guy I dated in the past.

Not that I’m sure you can call what Ivan and I do
dating
.

Just at that moment, my phone goes off again with another text from Ivan, who has written, “You have a date.”

“Do I?” is my coquettish response. I can’t help but bite my lip and grin down at my phone like an infatuated teenage girl. This is ridiculous.

“
Da
,
printsessa
. I will pick you up at noon.”

I don’t know Russian, but I’m fairly certain Ivan has just called me
princess
. Part of me wants to be indignant, tell him off and inform him that I’m nobody’s little princess. But the bigger, more dominant part of me is just flattered. After another minute of staring at my phone with my thumb hovering over the keyboard, I finally sigh and set the phone down on the counter.

After all, I have a hot date to prepare for.

Totally neglecting my freshly-made coffee, I all but skip to my bathroom to take a shower. As I shampoo my hair, I imagine the inevitable conversation I will have to have with Natalie and the crew about why I’m not at work today. I can already tell she’s going to give me hell for it. And I can’t really blame her. I was all prepared to bite her head off if she dared ask me for the day off! But, I reason with myself, if she really is dating Ashton, then at least being at work will also allow her to hang out with her girlfriend.

So, really, I have nothing to feel bad about!

I blow-dry and curl my hair to create subtle waves, and then I stand looking at my naked body in the mirror, the fog slowly clearing away from the mirror’s surface. I turn and look at myself from every angle, wondering what exactly Ivan sees in me. Sure, I’m decent-looking enough, I suppose. But I’m boring. Or, at least I must be in comparison to the kind of lifestyle Ivan leads. With his sharp good looks, money, and dangerous charm, I’m sure he can get any woman he wants.

Why me?

I put on some soft pink lipstick and smoky eye makeup before standing in front of my closet staring pensively at the clothes hanging there. I’m realizing that I have no clue what kind of date Ivan is taking me on.

“What the hell should I wear?” I wonder aloud. Finally, I decide on a knee-length, flouncy lavender dress, thick leggings, a khaki pea coat, and a purple woolen scarf. I check the time and realize it’s now almost noon! So I tug on a pair of brown boots, grab my purse, and head downstairs to the lobby to wait for my rugged, Russian mobster date.

I stand near the entrance, looking out the window at the snowy scene outside. There isn’t a whole lot of snow on the ground yet, but the people walking by are bundled up in light sweaters and scarves. I can see puffs of air when they breathe. Finally, a chilly New York winter day, after months of dreary rain! My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down at the text.

“Come outside.”

I walk through the doors to stand on the sidewalk looking around for Ivan.

My phone buzzes again. “Look left.”

I glance to my left to see a big white taxi cab pulling up to the pavement. I start walking over to it when the back passenger door opens and Ivan steps out, dressed the most casually I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing dark, neatly-pressed jeans, a grey sweater, a perfectly-tailored black jacket, a steel-blue scarf, and black oxfords. He looks absolutely delicious. Ivan reaches out a hand to me and I take it, meeting his dark-blue gaze a little nervously.

“You look radiant,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. I give him a smile.

“Thank you.”

Something from my childhood, my mother warning me not to get into strange cars with bad boys, flutters in the back of my mind. I brush it aside and let Ivan help me into the taxi. I’ve already done a thousand things my parents told me not to do — might as well add another one.

“So, where are we going?” I ask brightly.

Ivan reaches over and places a hand on my thigh. “A beautiful place.”

“That’s not very helpful,” I reply teasingly.

“Just wait and see.”

We ride along for about an hour, and I’m wondering how expensive this taxi ride is going to end up. With my financial struggles, I try to avoid cabs unless absolutely necessary, resigning myself to the buses and subways. But glancing at the fancy clothes Ivan is wearing, I am reminded that he can absolutely afford it.

We drive up through Brooklyn and Manhattan, occasionally getting stuck in traffic for a few minutes here and there. It’s a mostly silent drive, except for the small talk Ivan makes with me, asking about the club, about the burgeoning romance between Ashton and Natalie.

“I love that you’ve noticed that, too,” I laugh.

“It’s incredibly obvious. They aren’t exactly trying to hide it, are they? If so, they aren’t doing a very good job of it,” Ivan replies, a smile warming his face. It’s remarkable how drastically a simple smile can change his countenance. When his lips are in that hard, resolved line, he certainly looks the part of a hit man. But as soon as he smiles, he looks like Prince Charming. It’s a bizarre and intoxicating dichotomy, and I can’t help but want more.

“I hope they aren’t mad at me for not coming in today,” I admit, the guilt weighing on me. After all, I am the owner. If I can’t show up to work, how can I expect anyone else to?

“I spoke to Natalie about it last week,” Ivan says breezily.

“You what?” I retort. Ivan gives me a raised eyebrow.

“I knew it would burden you, but you need this day off. So I told Natalie you would be out today. She took it very well. In fact, I think she enjoys getting to be the boss when you’re not around. Might want to watch out for that one,” he jokes with a wink.

I sit stewing for a couple moments. I’m pretty independent and private, and the last thing I need is some guy to swoop in and make my decisions for me. I like my freedom. And like he said, I
am
the boss. I shouldn’t need a man to come in and talk to my employees for me!

Still, I can’t pretend it isn’t kind of nice that I don’t have to worry about it. I do so much, and I am in control of so many things. Sometimes it really does feel good to have someone else take the reins…

“You’re angry,” Ivan remarks astutely.

“Not angry, exactly.”

“Offended?” he pushes. I wish he would just drop it.

“It’s just that I like being in control,” I admit quietly. Ivan squeezes my thigh.

“And I certainly do not want to take that control from you against your will, Katy,” he explains in an undertone. “But I think you like it more than you say.”

Again, there’s that mingled sensation of irritation and arousal. What does it say about me, a strong woman with a hold of her own destiny, that I enjoy being bossed around and dominated by a bigger, stronger man?

“You may be right,” I reply softly. The car finally slows as the driver parallel parks on the street. I look out the window to see that we are at the American Museum of Natural History.

“Well, here is our destination,” Ivan says, smiling again as he pays the driver and takes my hand to assist me out of the cab. “We’re going to see the butterflies.”

All my previous annoyance dissipates instantly. I can’t help but laugh out loud. This has got to be a joke — going to the Butterfly Conservatory with my Russian mafia hit man master.

“Don’t you like it?” Ivan asks, and the twinge of slight insecurity in his tone almost makes me melt right there on the icy sidewalk. He actually cares if I like his date idea or not.

“I love it,” I reply genuinely.

We spend the next hour or so wandering through the bright flowers and butterflies, shedding our cold weather layers in the near-80 degree temperature of the conservatory. It feels like a tropical paradise, a slice of warm, colorful heaven smack dab in the middle of snowy New York City. I feel like an ethereal being, floating around surrounded by such beauty. It’s truly a magical place, and I find myself feeling a little dreamy as Ivan guides me by the hand, excitedly pointing out different moths and butterflies.

But my stomach is rumbling by now, and Ivan suggests that we go to a sweet little café down the street for lunch. It feels exhilarating to walk down the street hand-in-hand with such a powerful man. Despite the precarious, transactional nature of our relationship, and despite knowing exactly what Ivan has done with these hands, I still feel safer than I’ve ever felt.

And yet that underlying current of danger remains, and I like that, too.

When we get to the restaurant, he firmly informs the hostess that we want to sit in the front corner. She takes one look at him and immediately acquiesces. It doesn’t take much for Ivan to get whatever he wants. All he has to do is fix you with that cold, forceful gaze.

He orders a sandwich and a vodka tonic, while I eat a bowl of pasta and sip my peach martini. I keep wondering when the cutesy-date portion of our day will end and my Prince Charming transforms back into my domineering sex master.

As lovely as the past few hours have been, I have to admit that I am starting to really anticipate the inevitable second part. He’s staring out the window wistfully at the snow, looking as though his mind is a thousand miles away. I wonder if it really is.

“You like the snow?” I ask conversationally. There’s a moment’s delay before he replies.

“
Da
. It reminds me of home.”

I feel a little blindsided by this sudden glimpse of Ivan’s inner thoughts. He’s usually so closed-off and cold, it’s hard to imagine what goes on inside his head. I wonder if he will mind if I push him for more information…

“Russia?”

He nods. “Balakovo.”

“I imagine it’s a lot colder there, though,” I add.

“Yes. Much colder. And quieter. Much smaller than New York. It is where I grew up, and sometimes I still miss it.”

“How did you end up here in the Big Apple?” I prod. Ivan stops and looks at me sideways, causing me to freeze up instinctively. I hope I haven’t asked too much.

“It is a very long story, and not a happy one. I am sure you don’t want to hear it.”

I nod, looking at him expectantly. I am sure that he is about to tell me no, that it’s time to leave. But instead, after a few moments he waves over the waitress and orders another martini for me and a vodka on the rocks for himself. Once the new drinks appear, he takes a long sip and then leans in closer.

“I was just a small boy when my mother and my older sister Anya were killed,” he begins, swirling the vodka gently in its glass. I prop my chin on my hand to show that I’m listening.

“I don’t remember it at all because I was only three, but the witnesses say that four men on motorbikes forced my mother’s van off the road and into a ditch. My mama, she was killed instantly, and poor Anya bled out before the policemen and the doctors came. She was eleven. We were driving to visit my father at work.”

“I am so sorry,” I murmur to him, a little breathless. His story sounds so similar to mine — the way that my mother and brother died. He continues.

“My father came to take me home from the scene. You see, he was a member of the
Spetznaz
— the special forces in Russia. He was a very tough man, a well-trained soldier who could kill a man as easily as look at him. But he was also fair and gentle, and he lived his whole life in the light. He was a good man, Katy, working within the law.”

“Who were the motorcyclists? Did they do it on purpose?” I ask.

Ivan nods gravely, a dark look crossing his face. “They were very bad men. My mother and Anya did nothing to provoke them. Their deaths came as revenge for something my father did. He was part of a unit trying to take down the mafia.”

The confusion must be obvious on my face, because he immediately adds, “Yes. My father opposed the mafia. He was instrumental in capturing and dismantling the mafia’s hold on a small town on the Siberian border, for which they never forgave him. It was just a minor village, and my father was just doing his job, but they could not accept the loss.”