Chapter 11
JENNA
The angry buzz of my phone slices through my dream, yanking me awake so harshly I nearly roll straight off the mattress. I blink groggily at the dark ceiling, disoriented and frustrated. The room is still pitch-black, shadows looming around the edges.
My alarm is set for early, but definitely not this early. Squinting against the darkness, I roll over and grab my phone, fumbling as the harsh light from the screen blinds me momentarily.
It's not the alarm. It's worse.
A text message from Abram time stamped 5:37 a.m.
Be in the office by 6:45. I need your help preparing for an important meeting.
I stare at the screen, incredulous and still half-asleep.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" My voice is a raspy croak in the quiet bedroom.
I flop back against the pillows, tossing my phone toward the far edge of my mattress in protest. For a brief, rebellious moment, I seriously consider ignoring it. Letting the text slip into oblivion and claiming I overslept when my actual alarm goes off in an hour.
It's tempting, deliciously tempting.
But I know it would never fly. Abram’s built-in bullshit detector is practically military-grade—he'd spot the lie the second I stepped through the office doors. There's not enough concealer in Vegas to hide how I'd blush under his scrutiny.
Besides, as much as Abram is a certified pain in the ass, he’s the best-paying pain in the ass I've ever worked for. Amazing salary, full benefits, bonuses that are practically scandalous. I can't afford to lose this job because I'm cranky from being dragged out of bed before sunrise.
Groaning in defeat, I roll out of bed, feet hitting the floor reluctantly.
Goosebumps race across my thighs, exposed beneath my long, oversized sleep shirt.
I shuffle toward the kitchen, yawning, already mentally calculating how little time I'll have for anything other than getting clean and dressed.
Coffee first. Always.
I punch the button on my Keurig, the comforting hiss and gurgle of water filtering through the otherwise silent apartment. The smell of French roast begins to trickle through the air, waking me enough to remember I should already be showering. Dammit.
As I step out of my clothes, the cool air sends another shiver racing down my spine. I glance toward the bathroom mirror, frowning slightly at my disheveled hair and sleepy expression. Turning on the shower, I let the hot water run, waiting for the bathroom to fill with steam before stepping in.
Waiting in the chilly air, my traitorous mind drifts—as it has obsessively all weekend—to Friday night.
It was amazing. More than amazing, actually. More like transformative. Heat rises to my cheeks, flooding my skin with a blush. I've relived every moment a thousand times since Friday—every touch, every sigh, every electrifying thrust.
I've had good sex before, but nothing like that. Nothing that intense or wild. Nothing so... overwhelming. That man, with his strong hands, sinful tongue, and perfect command of my body made every other man I've been with seem like amateurs fumbling in the dark.
Even now, days later, my body clenches at the memory of his mouth on me, his voice rasping that Russian word against my skin as he drove inside me, deep and mercilessly satisfying.
My stomach flips uneasily as the realization slams into me yet again. The details line up too well: tall, muscular, shaved head, meticulously groomed beard, a Russian accent slipping through when he lost control.
No. Absolutely not. It couldn’t have been.
I shake my head, stepping into the hot spray, gasping softly as the heat floods over my shoulders, washing away the chill from my skin but not the uncertainty in my mind.
Abram can't possibly be the only sexy, shaven-head, bearded man in Vegas who occasionally slips into Russian during sex. The odds seem slim, but this is Vegas. Weird coincidences happen here all the time.
I scrub shampoo into my hair a bit too aggressively, as if I can physically wash away my unsettling suspicions.
Because if that masked man was Abram, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I freeze momentarily, the spray hitting my back as the implications crash through me again.
It means my boss—the man I spend every day trying not to throttle—knows exactly how I sound when I climax.
Knows how I taste. Knows exactly what kind of filthy, needy, desperate sounds I make when I'm on the edge.
Fuck.
Heat spreads lower, pooling between my thighs, and I curse myself for being so susceptible to him. Even the suspicion of it being Abram is enough to make me squirm in the shower.
Forcing the thoughts aside, I rinse quickly, wanting to get on my way ASAP. Work, I remind myself. Abram wanted me there early for something important. This isn't the day to be distracted by a spectacular one-night stand.
But the more I think about it, the harder it is to believe it wasn't him. I stand still, letting my thoughts get carried away.
The hot water streams down my back, soothing tired muscles but doing absolutely nothing to calm the fire still burning between my thighs. My mind drifts right back to Friday night. To that room.
To him.
I close my eyes, tipping my head back beneath the spray. In an instant, he's with me. Not a fantasy exactly, but more like a vivid memory that refuses to fade.
It feels so real.
I imagine him showing up at my apartment unannounced, uninvited, yet completely welcome. My pulse quickens, breath coming in shallow little pants as the fantasy unfolds.
He’s behind me now, stepping silently into the shower. I feel the brush of his fingertips on my hips before I even see him. His big, strong hands grip me possessively, sliding smoothly over wet skin.
“You thought you could run away from me, kotenok?” he murmurs darkly, his voice a sensual rasp. I’d come across the word when finding a translation for the other one.
Kitten.
"I–I didn't run," I stammer, feeling heat flood through me. "I left."
He chuckles, low and dangerous, mouth against my ear. "You can’t leave when I’m not done with you."
My heart thunders, knees trembling slightly. In reality, I trail my fingertips along my collarbone, slipping downward, brushing over my breasts as I picture his hands following the same path. In my mind, he cups them, pinching my nipples until I gasp.
“Tell me,” he growls softly, his accent thick, almost punishing. “Did you spend all weekend thinking about how I fucked you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My hand slips lower, teasing gently between my legs, mirroring what I imagine he'd do.
His imaginary hands slip down my body, calloused palms tracing curves he's already claimed once.
"Then show me how much you missed it. Touch yourself. Let me see."
I groan softly as my fingers slide between my thighs, finding myself slick and swollen. It's been torture not doing this all weekend, denying myself this release. I rub small, firm circles over my clit, matching the intensity of the imagined pressure of his hand.
In my fantasy, he's pressed hard against me, his cock thick and heavy between us. My fingers glide against my clit, and I can hear his imagined grunt of approval.
"Just like that, Jenna. Fuck, you're so wet for me already."
Imagining hearing those words nearly pushes me over the edge. I lean against the shower wall, one hand steadying myself as my other hand works faster, aching. I picture him dropping to his knees, spreading my thighs further apart, demanding access.
The feel of his tongue is vivid, scorching, licking slow circles, his beard scratching deliciously against my legs. He eats me like he can't get enough, strong hands gripping my hips, holding me exactly where he wants me.
"Oh God," I whisper aloud, hips bucking into my hand as my body strains toward release.
In my mind, he's relentless, growling against my pussy. "You taste so fucking good, Jenna. You belong to me now. Every inch of this beautiful body is mine."
My breath catches sharply as I rub faster, tension winding impossibly tighter. My fantasy shifts suddenly, vividly. He stands, turning me around roughly, pressing the front of my body against the cool tile, his cock thick and hard, rubbing between my ass cheeks. I tremble beneath his touch.
He grips my wet hair, tugging gently but insistently. "Spread your legs wider for me."
I obey, breath hitching. He positions himself against my entrance, teasing me, sliding just the head inside before withdrawing.
"Say it," he commands, voice dark and rough. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."
"I want you," I gasp out loud, fingers frantically working myself toward climax. "Abram, please, fuck me."
With one savage thrust, he's deep inside, thick and stretching, claiming me again. My mind and body synchronize completely, and I swear I can feel him in that moment, feel him thrusting roughly, hands bruising my hips as he drives into me, again and again.
"You feel how perfect you are around me, Jenna? How tight and fucking perfect?" He snarls against my ear, accent thick and ragged. "This pussy was made for my cock."
His filthy, possessive words ignite something deep within me. My hand moves rapidly, perfectly matching the rhythm of my imagined lover.
I'm so close.
In the fantasy, he wraps one powerful hand around my throat, squeezing just enough to heighten every sensation. His voice is commanding, fierce, yet edged with raw need. "Come for me, kotenok. Now."
His words snap me like a rubber band stretched too far and I shatter, moaning his name, the orgasm washing over me in wave after wave of pleasure. My knees buckle, and I lean heavily against the shower wall, panting, trembling, utterly spent.
The orgasm dissolves slowly, replaced by the warm rush of reality and the pounding of water on my flushed skin. Shame creeps in just a bit, mingled with satisfaction.
I force myself upright, rinsing my body clean as I feel the delicious aftershocks of release rippling through me. I can't believe how easily, how vividly, he took over my imagination. It feels dangerous, but God help me, it feels so damn good, too.
I finish quickly, stepping out and wrapping myself in a fluffy towel. As I catch my reflection in the mirror, cheeks still flushed, I shake my head at myself.
I don't know how I'm supposed to look Abram in the eye today without blushing furiously and betraying every filthy thought I just had.
But I'm going to have to figure it out, and soon. Because after this morning, I'm not sure how much longer I can pretend Abram Vasiliev hasn't completely, irreversibly, gotten under my skin.
I slip into my professional armor—pencil skirt, silky blouse, heels—and twist my unruly red curls into submission, forcing myself back into the careful, controlled version of Jenna Ridley that Abram expects to see every morning.
But beneath the polished surface I'm still burning. Still wondering. Still remembering the way those hands felt, the way that voice sounded, thick with accent and lust.
Fuck, how am I supposed to get through today without picturing Abram naked, taking me exactly how he wanted? Without picturing myself on his desk, him pushing my skirt up, growling filthy Russian phrases into my ear?
My cheeks burn hot. I'm so screwed.
I shake my head, grabbing my travel mug of coffee and keys as I head out the door, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell Abram Vasiliev has planned for today.
As I lock the door behind me, one last shiver races down my spine, one of half excitement, half dread. Because if that masked man was Abram, it means I've seen his most intimate side, and he's seen mine.
It might already be too late to forget.