Page 10 of Owned By The Bratva King

My tongue snakes from between my lips as though it has a mind of its own, and as I lick the warm skin of her neck, uncontrollable images of eating her out assail my senses. Would it be just as delicious? Would she scream and writhe on my mouth as I tasted her juicy pussy?

The scene crashes through my thoughts, and I bury my face in the mattress, biting down to stifle a groan of ecstasy as my climax surges through me. My come flows onto my hand and drips on the carpet, and I stay still until the aftershocks die down.

I can’t remember when I last came so hard. No woman ever inspired an orgasm like that, not even close.

Jesus fucking Christ. I have to get a grip on my sanity, not my cock. Someone is out for my blood; I may have a traitor amongst my associates, and here I am, jerking off like a teenager over a sleeping woman who gets my heart racing with the simplest gesture, the quietest word, or a fleeting glance.

Quinn sleeps on, blissfully ignorant of what happened. Although that should be a good thing, I find myself mildly annoyed by it.

She rolls onto her back, and for a moment, I think she’s awake. Her eyelids flutter, and she arches her back, mumbling.

“No, don’t,” she says, her words coming from far away. “Don’t do this to me. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt—” Her voice fades out, and she frowns.

I have to risk waking her. She’s having a nightmare, and I can’t watch her suffer.

“Shhh.” I sit beside her, placing my palm on her collarbone, and she stills. “Easy, rusalka. You’re alright. I won’t hurt you.”

Her breathing eases down, settling into a deep rhythm, and her brow smooths as the lousy dream ebbs away. I look at her parted lips and can’t resist.

There’s still some come on the back of my hand. I gather it on the tip of my finger and rub it over Quinn’s lower lip. She licks it away, and although I’m only a couple of minutes out from my orgasm, the sight makes my cock twitch.

I give her a quick, light kiss. If this were a fairytale, she’d awaken, but even if she’s a princess, I am no prince.

“Sleep easy, beautiful,” I murmur.

8

Quinn

For a horrible few moments, the darkness in the room reminds me of home—the perpetually closed drapes that hid the filth and degradation of our house from the outside world. There was light, but it hurts to think of those times, and once my father was deep into his addiction, we lived under dead lightbulbs.

I dreamed of Uncle Julian again. I’d do anything to banish those nightmares, but they always come to me; memories of his beatings and, worse, his apologies. The cloying lies stung the way cuts and bruises never could. Why can’t I dream of Mom and Dad and the before times when my future was full of sunshine?

So how does someone like me find herself in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel as an actual guest? Oh, right, that’s it. Because a sexy, scary guy abducted me and brought me here to his suite.

I dreamed about him, too. His breath was on my skin, close enough to kiss. Or kill. Both are so intimate.

I shift my legs and sigh in dismay. My panties are wet at the crotch. It’s probably for the best that I can’t remember much of my dirty dream. How else could I look Roman in the eye?

It’s around midday. I’m unsure of the exact hour, but I feel it in my bones, like an animal. Jeanette hasn’t texted me yet. If I want a shot at keeping my job, I must open the bakery, but that seems ludicrous. How will I get out of here?

I get up and head for the shower, rinsing yesterday’s stickiness off my skin. I never thought I’d be a prisoner in a place as luxurious as this, but that’s the Big Apple for you; full of surprises.

I came to New York because I’d seen it in movies, the city dreams were made of. What a shock it was to realize that a fifteen-year-old girl, alone and afraid, was easy pickings on these mean streets. I sometimes wonder where I’d be now if it weren’t for Carrie.

She was in her sixties but strong as an ox. When she saw me getting mugged, she didn’t hesitate to swing her purse into my attacker’s face and send him scurrying. She took me to her apartment in a faded Garment District brownstone, fixed me some coffee and a sandwich, and the rest was history.

We were inseparable. Carrie was long since widowed, but she knew many people and got me a job washing dishes in a restaurant. I stayed with her and moved on to better jobs in time. I paid my way, but she refused to take much from me.

As I was beginning to think I’d be able to stand on my own two feet and get out from under hers, Carrie started having pains. She tried to hide them from me, but it got too tricky, and I made her go to the ER. She wasn’t surprised by what the doctor said, but I cried until I threw up.

The oncologist outlined Carrie’s plan and laid out the odds. To my horror, she had no insurance, and the apartment became a prison of steep stairs and humid air that set off her cough. She refused to have the treatment—too stubborn and too ready for it to be over. But I knew about the dream she held in her heart.

Years ago, she met her beloved husband Winston at Rockaway Beach. When she walked by in the rain, he darted out of his house with an umbrella for her. She wanted to go back and listen to the ocean as she slipped away.

Hospice is free, but without funds to access better care, Carrie had to make do with dedicated but harassed nurses who visited her daily and checked her medications. They asked her to go into a residential setting, get her out of the noise, and away from the small apartment. She wouldn’t go.

“What about you, my Quinn?” she’d ask, wringing her birdlike hands. “You have nowhere to go and can’t afford this place. It’s my tenancy. The rent would go straight up.”

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