Page 3 of Nurse for the Russian Mafia

I want to kiss her full cheeks, and feel how soft they are. I need to hear her moans, submitting to her alpha, craning her neck, silently begging me to make my way down her neck and to her full, life-giving breasts. I’ll suck one nipple and watch the blood rush to it, and then…

I clamp down my teeth, forcibly ejecting the fantasy from my mind.

There’s a problem.

I can’t let myself go down this road, the road I have to go down now that I’ve seen her, until I’ve told Virgil how I feel.

I decide to march over there and tell him right now. There’s no point in delaying. The sooner he knows the situation, the sooner I can take Samantha and make her mine.

My manhood throbs so urgently I’m surprised it doesn’t break loose of these tight-fitting trousers. All ten-some inches of it, slick with precome and desire just at the thought of gripping onto those round orbs of her ass. Just thinking about them shifting in those nurse’s scrubs is getting me even harder.

I’ve been in Moscow these past two years, but I still remember the way to my childhood friend’s house. Virgil and I would often ride our bikes down these streets when we were very young, before I found the Bratva, before I thrust myself into the life and made it my own.

I pass a park and listen to the creaks of the swings, remembering a time where I accompanied Virgil and Samantha there. I’m still struggling to believe that the nerdy girl with the gap in her teeth has turned into a goddess.

Finally, I reach the house. It’s a three-bedroom building of red brick, sitting alone and surrounded by a white fence. I push through the gate and walk quickly up to the door.

I hear music from the rear of the house. I wonder if it’s my Samantha. I imagine her dancing around her bedroom, jumping up and down, her breasts bouncing. I want to loop my arms around her and squeeze her tight, pulling her into my lap, palming her breasts and …

Soon, I tell myself.

But first, I need to take care of business.

Chapter Three

Samantha

I lie in bed after my shift and stare up at the ceiling, listening to pop music blare from the corner of my room. My mind is like an unruly animal tonight, constantly bucking my attempts to control it and galloping back to that moment with Alexander.

I roll over and grab the high school notebook from my bedside table. I found it when I got back from my shift. I leaf through it, my cheeks flickering with heat and then reddening as I read the words. It’s all about how much I love Alexander Lyadov. I try to tell myself that these are just the notes of a silly little girl. But that electric tension I felt when we touched… for a second, it was the realest thing I’d ever experienced.

I close my eyes and picture him, the blood from his fight making his shirt stick tightly to his body. His muscles broadcasted power, but then so did his expression. He was like a warlord kicking down the door, unconcerned about his injuries. And he only had eyes for me…his prize.

“Silly girl,” I mutter under my breath.

I have never been with a man in my life. Men my age, well, they’re not even men. Boys my age are just so immature and douchetastic, if that’s even a word. Boys my age are all about dating apps and quick hookups and frat-boy culture, as if anybody ever found real passion between the stinky sheets of some jock asshole’s bed.

I want a real man, with passion and experience pumping hotly through his veins.

I want…

Alexander.

I can’t lie to myself. But just because these silly thoughts are flying like arrows through my mind, it doesn’t mean I have to listen to them. I’m sure that touch meant so much more to me than it did to him.

Anyway, it’s not hard to picture the scene that Alexander is a part of. I envision him in a low-lit club, sitting in a large chair as a steady procession of women glide over to him in their glittering designer dresses, each one of them telegraphing with her tiny hips and her simpering smile what she’s willing to do for him. I’m just the frumpy girl, the one he’d never look twice at.

He’s probably forgotten about me already.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll forget about him. Already, in my mind, I’ve had him strip me naked and explore every inch of my body. In my fantasies, he doesn’t care that I’m a woman who likes to eat, who doesn’t care to starve myself to strive for some unrealistic, absurd standard of beauty. Just because I happen to like dessert, it doesn’t mean I don’t deserve lust. And even if society is catching up, it’s moving pretty freaking slowly, really.

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