Page 22 of Owned By The Bratva King

She’s a virgin?!

That fucking does it. Okay, so Quinn didn’t know I would read this, but now that I have, I can’t let it go. The prospect of being the first to plunder that tight pink cunt is too exquisite to pass up, and I’ll be damned if anyone else will ever get a taste.

Whether she wants to or not, this woman belongs to me, but I need to make arrangements to convey that to her. For now, I have to bail. She might be back soon.

Reluctantly, I tuck my burgeoning erection away. I shut the book and put it exactly where I found it, then hesitate.

I whip out my cell phone and use the camera to take photos of the pages I just read. Something tells me I’ll want to reread them. I arrange the book, open and face up, on her bedspread. As I close the apartment door behind me, I wonder whether it's cruel to mess with her like this.

Nah, fuck it. Let her think she’s going crazy. That’d make two of us.

17

Quinn

Iclamber out of the cab and overpay the driver. As I run inside, I pass under a board over the front door—newly acquired by RKR. My illicit purchases are weighing me down, and I stash them furtively beneath my coffee table as though they were illegal.

What came over me, going into that kinky shop? And the lingerie? That’s not the kind of thing I wear. I go in for a big fluffy robe and a gigantic t-shirt bearing the legend ‘sleep is my jam’ with an image of a kawaii jelly jar. Cute, yes. Sexy? Hell no.

At the threshold of my bedroom, something stops me in my tracks. It’s a pronounced aroma and unmistakably Roman—so masculine, so subtle, so him.

I picture the moment when he pressed his body to mine. His aftershave must be caught in my clothes. There’s no other explanation.

Would it be fucked up if I tracked down the garment and bagged it to hold on to the fragrance as long as possible? Well, obviously, it would. But who’s gonna know?

I sniff the air, feeling vaguely ridiculous, and take a few steps forward. My laundry basket is beside me with the lid on, but when I remove it, the luscious smell does not increase in intensity; if anything, the place smells kind of musty. I wrinkle my nose and grab the basket, hurrying it into the corridor.

Back in the bedroom, I spot something—my notebook, open on the last entry, plain as day in the middle of the bedspread. Weird. I never leave it out, but I must have this time.

I lie down, and now he’s everywhere. Roman’s distinctive scent assails my senses, and I shudder, wrapping my arms around my body.

It’s okay. I’m just going nuts, and I never had far to go. Am I so hot for this man that I’m hallucinating his smell? I’m sure he wouldn’t think that was creepy at all.

Still, though. The air crackles with an undeniable sense of transition. It could be the storm, but it feels symbolic, even if that’s all it is.

I’m different. The woman who bought sexy underwear and a dildo today was not the same as the one who, only yesterday, could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Am I worried about what Roman Kazanov might want from me? Definitely, but I’m also intrigued. If that makes me stupid, fair enough. Maybe Uncle Julian was right all along about me.

I roll over and breathe deeply. There he is. There’s no denying it. Could he have been here?

I plug in my laptop and set about digging into the dealings of the mighty Roman Kazanov: logistics, import and export, international trading, futures markets, brokering, and property,

Then I see it. Roman Kazanov is the CEO and owner of Roman Kazanov (Rokaz) Asset Management, a conglomerate specializing in small business acquisition and growth. The company prefers an NYC retail portfolio but has recently invested in residential property.

Rokaz lists several subsidiaries, and I scan the list, looking for a familiar name. It seems inevitable, but I’m still shocked to see it. RKR is the residential management arm of what I’ve decided to think of as the Roman Empire.

He’s the boss. He can do whatever he wants. Could he have keys to this place?

My head whips around to look at my notebook, still nestled in my bedsheets.

My imagination has to be running away with me. There’s no way he let himself in here and read the story I wrote; the one with him in it. It’s impossible.

No, it isn’t. And he could do it again anytime.

I rush to the door and slide the bolt closed before securing the heavy chain. It wouldn’t keep a determined interloper at bay for long, but it’ll ensure nobody can sneak up on me. I’d have time to raise the alarm, use the fire escape, whatever.

I feel less vulnerable but still wobbly, so I pour a large glass of wine and take a hefty swig to steady my nerves. By the time I’ve finished the glass, I’m feeling better, if a little fuzzy. New thoughts are swirling through my mind, the kind that could get me in trouble.

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