Page 38 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin pauses for a moment, and I take the opportunity to work out yet another twisted bunch of muscle fiber in his back. He’s full of them.

“One time - years ago when my brother was in charge - there was this guy who walked into the headquarters. I suppose everyone just thought he belonged there, but he ended up killing ten people before we could stop him.”

“Jesus, that’s brutal,” I say, shocked by that level of violence. “Did it make the news?”

He chuckles. “Nobody knew but us, and whoever the fuck sent the guy. To this day, nobody knows why he was sent, or by whom, but we’re a lot more careful about letting people in.”

“Crazy,” I say, thinking about what I would do if someone just walked in here and started killing people. I’d probably just freeze, like a moron, and become another victim.

“My brother handled it pretty well, but he was pissed.”

“I can imagine,” I say, shaking my head. “Your brother, is he still… alive?”

“He’d better be,” Kostin says with a laugh. “That motherfucker ran off with his girl to the Cayman Islands for a few months. He probably wants to knock her up and put a bunch for Markov babies out into the streets.”

“So, you’re in charge temporarily?”

“No,” he says sharply, growing serious in an instant. “I’m in charge forever, because he stepped down. He wanted to focus on family matters. I think he just wanted to bone his bitch.”

“Okay, and family is okay in the Mafia?” I ask, attempting to gather any bit of information that could possibly make me feel better about having his babies.

“Sort of,” Kostin answers.

That wasn’t the response I was hoping for, but it’s better than a flat no.

“Family is fine, when you’re ready for it. But we’re at war now, and I wouldn’t be starting anything with the amount of blood that’s going to be painting the streets outside.”

“At war?” I ask, surprised by his use of such a hefty term. “Over what?”

“Stuff,” he replies. “Why don’t you focus on what you’re good at, and I’ll focus on what I’m good at.”

I wish I could pry more information out of him, but he falls silent. I take it that he’s finished talking about the Mafia. To me, it’s fascinating, but to him it must be a chore to explain everything.

I lean into his back more, pressing my hands into his hot flesh, working it and feeling the energy that his body possesses. It feels good to touch him, more than I’d like to admit. I’ve not had a man like Kostin since, well, Kostin. It’s nice to be close to him, even with all the issues it brings.

“Come closer,” Kostin grumbles, his face still pressed into the table.

I shuffle closer to him, my legs pressing against the edge of the black leather.

Kostin’s hand rises from the table and his fingers find the inside of my thigh. I freeze, my heart tripling in speed, as he runs his fingertips up toward the edge of my panties. I should stop him, but something inside of me longs for his touch, and I can’t step away.

My body has missed him, and now it’s telling me that I can’t say no. It’s telling me that I’m going to let him do things to me that I really shouldn’t allow. The first time, it was a silly mistake. Now, it’s intentional and incredibly stupid.

“Your skin is so soft,” Kostin mumbles into the headrest. If he were to raise his head and look at me, maybe I could find it in myself to break away… but for some reason, the privacy of having him buried in the massage table makes me brave enough to act up.

“You’re wet,” Kostin says, his voice deepening even before he finds the moistness between my legs. He states it like he can predict the future, as though he already knows what his hand will find between my shaking legs.

“Not only are you an excellent masseuse,” he says, running his fingers up against the edge of my panties. “But you’re also going to make a terrific slut for me.”

“What?” I gasp, but my confusion is drowned out by pleasure as Kostin’s fingers press up against my pussy with firm authority.

“Tell me to stop,” he challenges, as he rubs between my legs.

I bite my lip and let out a whimper, but that’s the only sound I can get out. Truthfully, I don’t want him to stop, and he knows that. He’s proving to me that I’m weak, and that he’s the one with all the power.

“Relax,” Kostin murmurs, continuing with the steady rhythm of his skill fingers. “You’ve been working hard. Let me make you feel good.”

Shit. I feel like I’m about to collapse in the middle of the room. My head is spinning, and my body is producing so much serotonin that my brain is little more than putty in Kostin’s hands. He could do anything to me right now, and I’d allow it.

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