Page 16 of Owned By The Bratva King

Krelborn is still behind me, muttering half to himself. “How does some fat girl land on her feet while I get screwed over? I worked hard for this place. I’m a businessman.”

“Maybe you should have treated people better, Mr. K,” I say, shocked at my boldness. Where am I getting the gall to speak this way?

My ex-landlord splutters and gesticulates but runs out of steam in seconds. He storms out, slamming the door, and I’m finally alone.

The few boxes containing my meager possessions are jumbled but still all present and correct. I heave my stand mixer onto the kitchen counter and unpack my baking supplies into the cabinets, pausing to retrieve Mom’s precious cookbook from my backpack and tuck it on the shelf with the others.

What happened to the tenants, I wonder? There’s no doubt in my mind who did all this, and despite the gazillion red flags, I’m also undeniably impressed. A powerful and dynamic man is a whole new vibe for someone like me, who feels so stagnant in her life.

“Roman.” I say his name aloud and can’t help myself: it comes out like a purr. Heat creeps up my neck, and although I’m alone, I blush.

I’m glad to see my old bed still in my room; it’s one of the few things I paid good money for, and it’s soft and comfortable, with too many pillows. I rummage out my notepad from one of the boxes and settle down, pen in hand.

My secret hobby is also my shame: I’m a virgin who’s made it to twenty-five with zero experience, and I write explicit sexual fantasies.

The worst thing is that the men in them had no face to me, no characteristics for me to latch onto. I’d never met anyone who moved me to imagine them in my romantic scenes.

Except… it’s different now. I don’t want to write a story about a sweet girl who meets a kind, boring man and lets him make polite love to her. I want something rough. Hot words, heavy breathing, firm hands?—

The letter. The red envelope.

I leap off the bed and bolt for the kitchen, skidding on the wooden floor. I crash into the counter, snatch the letter, and open it, extracting a sheet of cream silk woven writing paper.

Quinn,

You are free to use the money, your apartment, and the bakery as you please. This is what my personal security is worth to me.

As you have no doubt inferred, my lifestyle is unorthodox. It is in your best interests not to seek me out or provoke me in any way. The business side of our transaction ends here.

It is not for me to say whether the same applies to pleasure, which has been all mine so far. It doesn’t strike me as fair, and given the opportunity, I’d be delighted to redress the balance, but I will do you a favor and keep my distance.

You’re bewitching, rusalka.

I stare at the scrawl of Roman’s signature, aware of a hollow ache I’ve never felt before.

Roman Kazanov wants to ruin me.

He looked at me like a coyote might look at a limping baby deer, but it was more than that. Like a predator, no means nothing to him; he clearly doesn’t hear the word often. I didn’t escape him; he let me go. He was toying with his prey and savoring the rich meal to come.

Having someone to fantasize about has awakened a more profound need, something elemental. I’m ripening, knowing a man out there wants to pluck my never-tasted fruit and revel in the sweetness.

I take off all my clothes and enjoy the feel of my bedsheets on my bare skin. It’s one of my few sensual vices, and my blood is already heated by my fevered imagination. I part my legs and find my pussy is dewy, a slick of wetness warm on my fingertips. My clit is desperate for attention, and I apply gentle pressure to the swollen bud.

As I massage myself, stroking my clit in sweeping, slow circles, the images become more vivid. I can almost feel Roman’s presence; the air feels thick with anticipation as if he might walk in the door at any moment.

It’s my secret. I can imagine it if I want to; it’s not a crime.

No one will ever know.

13

Quinn

In the deepest recesses of my mind, Roman looms in the darkness, the moonlight casting long, twisted shadows on his lean form. I tremble as he speaks my name, that sultry accent rolling off his tongue as he draws out the syllables.

I’m aware of the soft rustle of fabric as he peels off his clothes, revealing a hard, muscled body etched with ink. He saunters towards me, the silhouette of his cock swinging with each step, its swollen head brushing against his belly, and I balk with fear. I’m confident he knows how to use it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and conjure up the image of Roman above me, naked and aroused. My pussy sends forth a gush of juice, and my clit throbs beneath my fingertip. I could come already, and I’ve barely begun.

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