Chapter 5 Amara
AMARA
Footsteps hit the tile. Heavy, wing-tipped footsteps. Footsteps I could recognize even in the middle of the wildebeest stampede from The Lion King.
“Shit.” I’m not even sure if I say it out loud or not, but I find myself looking around before doing the only obviously practical thing to do in a situation where someone is snooping through their boss’s personal office.
I hide in the closet.
The doors are maple and slatted. One of those I-can-see-out-but-he-can’t-see-in sort of doors. I hold my breath listening as his shoes tap slowly through the house.
Foyer.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Pause.
Why did he pause?
SHIT.
My heart drops through a trap door into my stomach. I put away that glass, right? I cleaned it and wiped down the counter and the sink? There’s no way he’d see a stray droplet of water somewhere and know, right?
Maybe he would. But maybe… maybe he won’t know it was me. Maybe he will think it was something he left out and he forgot to put it away. Although, who am I fucking kidding? Ransome forgets no detail ever. So what if he knew it was me? Would he care?
The steps continue into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open. A glass touches the counter. Highball? And then the distinct, squeaky pop of a waxed cork. Whiskey, I’m sure. Expensive.
A moment later—more footsteps. He’s headed down the hallway. Will he go to his room? Will he undress again? Will he shower?!
My fucking God—if I can hear that man shower, I will be dead. Certified deceased. Put me in a coffin and feed me to the worms, because life after that will not be worth living.
But the footsteps stop. Right next to the office.
Shit.
The door was ajar when I came in. I shift my body ever so slightly to the side just to see if I left it that way and I almost let out a breath when I see that it is. But then… it shoves open. Slowly, intentionally, curiously.
Ransome is now in sight in his full glory. He’s taken off his tie but he’s still in his button-down shirt. He looks around, checking the desk casually, drink in hand. He looks at the burner phone and I hold my breath. Picks it up.
Then he sets it back down. Looks around again and slowly heads for the door. Relief floods through my body…
… until he stops in the doorway.
His shoulders square off and his body is tense. Then slowly, his head turns and he looks back. With his eyes narrowed into slits, he mumbles, “Ty, dolzhno byt’, shutish…”
I have no idea what he said, but I’m pretty damn sure it translates to I’m toast.
Ransome slowly strides back to his desk. He looks around and I swear to God he looks right at me. My heart is pounding so hard in my ears I am surprised it doesn’t blow my cover. But he looks away, takes a sip of his whiskey, and then shakes his head.
“Plokhaya devochka.”
I make a mental note to invest in a Russian-to-English translator. I knew he could speak Russian—I mean, his last name gives that away. But he doesn’t usually speak this much of it.
Suddenly, he sets his glass down. Then he undoes his belt.
What… is… he… doing?!
Ransome pulls the belt loose and then unclasps the button and drags down his zipper. But he doesn’t fully drop trou, even though I swear that’s where I thought this was going.
No. What he does next is even more provocative. Even more unbelievable. And it’s enough to make my pants wet.
He reaches beneath the elastic band of his boxer briefs…
Oh my God…
He takes hold of his cock…
Oh. My. GOD…
And he pulls it out. Erect. And rock fucking hard.
Ransome Rozanov is standing in front of me, less than five feet away, with his fully exposed, fully north-pointing cock in his hand.
This is not real. It can’t be. And yet, no matter how many times I blink, no matter how hard I pinch my thigh, it doesn’t go away. Ransome Rozanov is in front of me and he is stroking his own dick.
After two long strides over his shaft with his hand, Ransome groans, gripping the desk with his other hand. His head tips to the ceiling and his eyes close and I have to squeeze my legs shut so that I don’t burst into a waterfall all over the closet floor.
“Fuck me,” he grits out as his hand slides up and down, slow, then fast, hard, then with more ease.
The man is edging himself and it is the most erotic, gorgeous thing I have ever seen.
With each stroke, his jaw goes more and more slack.
It’s the most relaxed yet simultaneously tense I’ve ever seen him.
His temples begin to glisten with beads of sweat and his hand grips the desk harder, flexing the muscles in his forearms and making his veins bulge.
And that’s not the only thing that’s bulging.
With each stroke, his cock gets harder and wetter, the pre-cum trailing down the shaft, creating a natural lube.
How I wish my tongue was there to catch it…
“Fuck me, devochka, fuck me…”
Okay, I really need to look up what that word means. He’s said it twice now while jerking himself into a sweaty fit, so it has to mean something.
Suddenly, his hand starts to pump faster and his body tenses.
Ransome groans, a sound I only ever imagined in my wet dreams. It’s similar to what I pictured but better.
Throatier, deeper, more intense. Like sandpaper rising from somewhere deep inside of him, scratching over my nerves, making my nipples hard and my center ache.
I am so tempted to touch myself. To join him in the orgasm to come. But I know for a fact it would be one of the strongest orgasms I’ve ever had and I am not… for lack of better description… a quiet girl. So I cross my legs and bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed.
“Fuck… That’s it… Yes, devochka, yes, just like that. Just like… oh my God…”
His words melt into a mumble of half Russian and half English and I am too busy trying not to moan myself that I don’t catch any of it—except for one word.
I stop.
Did he just… say my name?!
I shake my head, refusing to believe it. There’s no way. He’s speaking in a foreign tongue. Some Russian word must just sound like my name. And yet…
Ransome reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, covering his cock and hand just as he unravels. His body shutters as he unloads discreetly and I have to admit, I am a little disappointed I can’t see it.
After that, he is Ransome again. He straightens up, tucks himself away, bundles the tissue in his hand and grabs his whiskey glass, tossing back the rest of the honey-colored liquid before walking out the door and down the hall.
I wait until I hear the shower turn on before making a run for it, bolting out of the office and through the foyer, stopping for nothing as I run out the front door.
I don’t slow down until I reach my car, and even then, I do everything as fast as I can, screeching back onto the street and hiding amongst traffic. Only when I can’t see his building anymore do I let myself breathe.
Holy fucking shit…
… he said my name.