17. Alina
17
Alina
It’s 8:00.
I sit on the white sectional, my hair loose around my shoulders, hanging down my back. No makeup. I’m wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a ratty, oversized sweatshirt with sleeves that fall all the way to my fingertips. There is absolutely nothing sexy about me at this moment, but from the look on Damian’s face, he doesn’t agree.
“You are not naked in the bed,” he says as he stalks toward me, his tone making it clear that he is not pleased. He’s wearing a suit tonight, single breasted, the bottom button of the jacket undone. White shirt. Dark tie. Just thinking about sliding his jacket off his broad shoulders, undoing his white shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his pants…
I exhale slowly, watching him warily as he pours himself a whiskey from the well-stocked bar and takes a sip, studying me over the rim of the glass.
“I am also not out for a walk with Luca,” I point out.
“Clearly. So instead of choosing one of the options I gave you, you created one of your own.” He takes another swallow of his drink. “The answer was either yes or no, Alina. I didn’t give you the option to choose maybe.”
“We need to talk,” I say.
His gaze flicks over me. “Barefaced and dressed in near-rags, you still make my cock hard,” he says, his voice a rough rasp. The way he looks at me just confirms his words.
I shake my head. “We need to talk.”
“We need to fuck,” he says, setting his unfinished drink aside.
“Not until we talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about. I don’t trust you, but I still crave you. You’re like a fucking drug. I ought to stay away, but I can’t.”
I don’t know what to do with his words, what to think. I don’t know what to do with the fact that they send a thrill zinging through me.
“I wasn’t looking for information. I swear it, Damian. I just wanted to talk to my—”
“You do not make the decisions here, Alina. We are not talking. We are fucking or I am leaving.”
I wet my lips. His expression is hard, dangerous. He prowls closer until he looms over me. He lifts his hand. I flinch away before I realize that he only intended to sweep a strand of hair from my cheek.
His expression grows even harder, colder. I shiver and shrink away from him.
With a hiss, he takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. He presses his mouth to mine, not in the hard, punishing kiss I expect, but softly, gently.
Then he pulls back and drops my hands, his gaze locked on mine. He stands inches away, not touching me.
“Let me make something perfectly clear. I will pull your hair while I take you from behind because it turns us both on. I will smack that gorgeous ass until it’s red and stinging because it turns us both on,” he says, his voice like smoke, like gravel. “I will put my finger or my cock in your ass because it turns us both on. I will tie you up, make you beg because it turns us both on. I’ll shove my cock in your mouth, down your throat, make you gag, make you cry, because it turns us both on. I’ll throw you on the bed or the floor and fuck you senseless, because it turns us both on.”
He pauses, his black-eyed gaze intense. “But I will never fucking raise a hand to you in anger. That’s twice you’ve flinched from me in fear, Alina. Don’t do it again.”
I stare at him, my whole body shaking, every breath a panting rasp. Those things he said… I want him to do all that and more. I want his cock down my throat, his finger in my ass, his hand rough and strong as he spanks me. He is my drug as much as I am his.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
“Yes.” I believe this man who is a criminal, a killer, the villain of the story when he says he will not raise his hand to me in anger.
“Good.” He runs the pad of his thumb along my lower lip. “Now get in the bedroom, get these clothes off, and wait for me on your fucking knees.”
Panting, I stare at him, my thoughts whirling. Then I turn and do as he ordered.
He doesn’t follow me, not right away. He takes his time, letting me wait on my knees beside the bed, my clothes in a pile on the floor. My nipples are hard. My pussy is wet. I’m so turned on that it hurts.
I imagine him in the living room, looking out at the lights, taking his time as he finishes his drink. And every second that ticks past just makes me want him more.
Finally, finally, he walks through the door. He takes his time, carefully hanging up his suit jacket after he slides it off. Pulling his shirt from his waistband then unbuttoning it as he stares down at me, baring his perfectly muscled, perfectly tattooed torso. My breathing is fast and shallow as he undoes his belt, his button, his zipper then skims his pants down his muscled thighs. His black boxers follow. Naked, he is unbelievably beautiful, his muscles long and corded, his shoulders wide, his waist and hips narrow. His cock juts forward, thick and hard.
In this moment, there is nothing I want more in this world than to take him in my mouth.
He comes to stand in front of me, towering over me.
“Open,” he orders, and even that turns me on.
I open and he pushes the head of his cock into my mouth. He takes his time, sliding along my tongue, grabbing my hair and pulling so my head tips back as his cock moves deeper. I lick him and suck, greedy, wanting only to please him. He groans and the sound weaves through me. I am doing that to him. I am making him groan and pump his hips and suck in his breath.
Angling my head, I take him deeper. He’s so big, so hard.
He moves, fucking my mouth, his cock stretching my lips, sliding to the back of my throat. I wrap my arms around his thighs as I take him as deep as I can. He groans, the sound twisting my lust even tighter. I want to touch myself, rub my clit, but I don’t dare unless he tells me to. I hum against his cock and I can tell he approves.
“Fuck,” he groans, pulling free of my mouth. “Get on the bed.”
I do, crawling on all fours, looking back at him over my shoulder. His gaze is locked on my ass.
He grabs me around the waist and flips me face up, then kisses me, rough and hungry.
He slides on a condom, bends my knees and pushes them up, then shoves his cock inside me in a long, hard thrust. I’m tight, but so wet. I feel every inch of that thrust, every inch of his cock sinking into me.
He moves, pumping a rhythm that makes me writhe and moan.
His fingers dig into my thigh. My nails claw at his ass. This isn’t sweet or gentle or soft. It’s rough and hard and fast and I feel myself spiraling as his thrusts come faster.
“Come for me, Alina.” The command combined with the sound of his voice drives me closer to the edge. His cock glides against my clit as he slides out, in. I break apart, my orgasm hard and fast, making me jerk and scream as he goes rigid above me, body taut, head thrown back as he comes.
I don’t know how long I float, but I think it’s a while before I finally come back to myself. When I do, Damian lies on his side beside me, watching me as he plays with my hair.
“You thirsty?” he asks.
I realize that I am and nod.
He gets up and comes back a minute later with two glasses of ice water. Pushing up to a sitting position, I take the glass from him and gulp half of it down then set it on the bedside table.
“You like boats?” he asks.
I blink, confused. “Boats? Like a sailboat?”
He tips his head to the side, studying me. “More of a motor boat.”
“I’ve never been on a motorboat, but I like the beach and the ocean…”
He nods. “My brother wants you on the family boat.”
“Your brother…the family boat…” I’m confused. Is he asking me? No, I think he’s telling me. Unease skitters through me, though I can’t say why. “Um, okay.”
“Okay,” he says, then gets up, gets dressed, and leaves.
And every evening at 8:00, he comes back and fucks me till I scream.
We don’t talk that first night. He’s too angry with me. But each night, his anger eases a little. He still won’t talk about the night I called Markus, but we talk about other things. Our childhoods. High school. College. Politics. He tells me funny stories and I laugh until I cry. And I won’t pretend I’m not secretly thrilled that he laughs at my stories, too.
“How did you get this scar?” I ask one night, tracing my fingers along the pale line on his lower back.
“Knife,” he says. “Guy was aiming for my kidney. He wasn’t fast enough.”
I stare at him. “And this one?” I ask, touching the curved mark on his shoulder. The marks are old, healed, just thin white lines now.
“Also a knife,” he says. “Different guy. Different fight.”
I lean in and press my lips to the scar on his shoulder. Then I kiss the scar on his lower back. I kiss the one on his thigh.
He shifts so that my lips hover over his hard cock.
So I kiss that too.
Each night, he leaves me sated, exhausted. And each night, he leaves.
The fact that I crave his touch each day while he is gone is bad enough. The fact that I crave his company, his laughter, the way he looks at me when I talk, the way he shares little pieces of himself with me is even worse. I tell myself that sex with Damian is something I can walk away from when this is all over. It’s harder to convince myself that I’ll be able to walk away from his friendship.
Is that what it is? Friendship?
No. It isn’t even a temporary friends with benefits arrangement. I am his captive, his collateral.
I know that. And I’m too smart to fall for Damian Russo, Mafia prince, criminal, killer.
Aren’t I?