Chapter 10
“We’ll plan to offer a discounted rate on shipping in the northern part of the state to increase utilization of that market—”
“That’ll undercut the take from the families in the west.”
“The household team here will be more highly trained, but a smaller crew at any given time. This will allow re-distribution of men on a rotational basis, as I have no interest in living the lifestyle that Pavel did—”
“If you aren’t willing to play the game and host receptions for investors, you aren’t going to get nearly as far as you think you are with your grand plans.”
“Finally, our budget for extravagances will be decreased incrementally—”
“She wants us to live like paupers because that’s what she’s used to in her hovel in Florida.”
“That’s enough!” Barely resisting the urge to slam my hands on the mahogany conference table, I stay calm and collected, just as I was taught.
Any reaction would be seen as fire in a man, but these misogynists would accuse me of being an emotional woman in a heartbeat.
Never mind the fact that it’s men who yell, shoot, and beat women, and suffer from a complete inability to do anything but aggressively protect their egos.
The smug bastard mumbling a rebuttal to every statement I made smirks at me as I stand calmly and lean at the head of the table.
Fucking Zakhar Zadorov. After the impromptu board meeting, Ivan warned me that he would be the main opposition to my takeover in New York.
While the Thunder Bay contingent hid behind legal paperwork during my ousting, Zadorov has no reason other than his own prejudices to want me out. That, and his own ambition.
He turns now to the man next to him and speaks as if I had given him the outburst he tried to provoke. This fucking bastard…
“I cannot believe dear Ivan thinks that a woman can come up here and—”
“My final point of discussion for today is the enhancement of the widow and family funding. We’ll be utilizing the resources freed up from the aforementioned extravagances.
Mr. Zadorov, if you don’t believe in my leadership or initiatives, you are more than welcome to leave.
As is any other man here who questions my ability to lead this Bratva. ”
He slowly stands, gathering his papers into his briefcase lazily.
“Your father knew that it takes a man’s control and testosterone to hold the reins of an outfit this size.
That’s why he went behind your back and wrote you out of everything while still allowing you to peacock around down there and act like you were training to take over. ”
He waits for me to give him a reaction, any reaction, to show that he’s under my skin. But my breathing is calm, there’s no hint of the blush of rage on my cheeks, and I revel in the tiny tells of his frustration: the squint of his eyes, the clench of his fist…Sure. I’m the emotional one.
As he leaves the room, without a single man following him, he calls back over his shoulder for one last parting shot to try to rile me.
“You know, you could marry my son. He’s around your age.
I don’t think he’ll settle down, necessarily, but at least you could stay on as a consultant.
With a man by your side, you might actually be able to get something done around here. ”
With that, he’s gone, and the men who remain turn back to me. They see nothing but a calm, controlled visage that I’ve perfected over the years. Years I spent training for situations like these as my father plotted behind my back, just like Zadorov said.
“These changes, the financial forecasts, and the updated training programs for each of you to take back to your regions are all in the packets that you were handed upon arrival. I’ll take questions and comments after a twenty-four-hour period to allow you time to read it thoroughly and consider the information carefully.
Does anyone have anything I need to know right now? ”
Silence.
“Great. You all know how to contact me if you need anything.”
Sparring with Misha in the gym didn’t help.
Throwing knives until the target board split in half didn’t help.
And Misha’s raised eyebrow before he left me alone, which managed to say “I told you that you need to get laid and you didn’t listen to me, now look at you,” didn’t help.
My last-ditch effort for tonight was a long, steamy soak in the bathtub, but not even lavender epsom salt is enough to put a dent in my rage.
Braiding my wet hair and wrapping myself in a fluffy robe, I reach for a bottle before realizing it’s almost empty.
Fuck, I’m drinking way too much these days.
Suddenly, every ounce of rage that I’ve so carefully kept dampened today, all the fire that I tried, really tried, to get rid of through all my stupid fucking healthy channels, surges to the surface.
With an animalistic, guttural scream, I launch the bottle at the wall, and the euphoria that floods my veins as it shatters is exhilarating.
Destruction. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
Before I can unplug the glass lamp on my nightstand and damn it to the same fate as the bottle, the shared door I had hoped would never open again does so with a creak.
“Uh, Mila? Is everything okay?” The concern in Thatcher’s voice would be touching if it wasn’t accompanied by his shirtless torso coming through the cracked door. Who just barges into someone’s room like that?
“I’m fine, please go.”
Even facing the opposite direction, I can tell he’s not going. No, the aura of his presence that seems to have infiltrated more and more of my life lately is still present in this room. I can feel him.
“You don’t seem fine. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
When I turn around, this little shit has made his way closer and is leaning against the back of the red leather couch that sits in front of the fireplace. He has the same flirty eyes he’s had for the past week, and his abs flex in a way I’m sure he thinks is appealing.
“I don’t know what you think you can provide for me that I can’t obtain myself, but—”
“Maybe something only a man could do for you? Are you sure what you need isn’t a man?”
He’s trying to flirt, but every painful, grating memory of today’s multitude of misogynies erupts from the mental box I tried so hard to keep locked.
In a flash, I’m across the room and on him, bending him over the back of the couch and leaning into his face so that we’re eye to eye.
With three of my fingers in his mouth, depressing his tongue, he’s finally unable to try to sweet-talk me, and I know he can feel the sharp points of my stiletto nails threatening the back of his throat.
Misha always made fun of me for choosing to keep long nails in our line of work, and there have certainly been times when they made a fight harder. But the fear mixed with lust in Thatcher’s eyes reminds me exactly why I like my claws. So I can dig into any men who get too close.
“The last thing I need is a fucking man.” Even I can hear the venom in my voice, and he doesn’t deserve to reap what other men have sown in my life, but he’s a captive audience.
“You’ve been invading my space, my home, as godforsaken as it is, for the past week.
While I’ve been trying to prove to hundreds of strangers that I’m as worthy as anyone with a dick to lead their business and improve their lives, you’ve been trying to feed me egg whites and flexing your biceps for me.
I have biceps of my own, haven’t you seen them?
And still, you push your luck. I know you’ve seen me put Misha on his back on the sparring mat, so what can you—”
He whimpers, and I feel what can’t possibly be…God. If that’s his cock hardening against me…it’s fucking substantial. And if my degradation and manhandling are what have him so excited, maybe he and Misha are both right. Maybe he’s exactly what I need. Only if he can be good.
“Is that what you came to offer me?” I purr, digging my nails harder into his tongue.
He’s drooling nicely for me, not fighting or trying to swallow, and he’s smart enough to keep his hands firmly on the couch instead of attempting to touch me.
Briefly, the thought that someone else might have trained him as a submissive flashes across my mind, and the jealousy I feel is unwelcome and unexpected.
I brush it off and grant myself one long grind on what’s definitely more than enough to fulfill my needs.
“Mmmprh,” he gargles, eyes rolling back into his head. I have to agree with him. We might be onto something here.
“If you really want to impress me, you can kneel at my feet quietly like a good boy while I finish sending emails tonight.”
He nods pathetically, eyes begging to please me. How sweet.
“I don’t want to hear a peep. If you’re still and quiet, you might earn the privilege of resting your head on my thigh. Might. And only if you’re very, very good. Do you understand?”
He nods again, and I remove my hand from his mouth, granting him the favor of wiping his spit on my robe instead of his face. This is a one-night release, after all. It’s not like I’m actually training him to keep him.
Moving to the desk that, while smaller than the one in the main office, is still tall enough for my purpose tonight, I grab a pillow off the bed and toss it underneath, in front of the chair.
“Kneel. Get comfortable and keep your eyes down. You can shift as you need to, but no noise, and don’t touch me. If you need something, you may ask respectfully. Is that clear?”
He nods and scrunches himself into position under the desk, eyes down and shoulder muscles taut as he rests his hands on his thighs.
I pull the desk chair forward, realizing that with nothing under my robe, his face is about ten inches away from my bare pussy.
It’s been too long, and the thought of how easy it would be to force his head between my legs is intoxicating.
A few things must be handled this evening, though, so I send several emails over the course of fifteen minutes. Thatcher has made it without a peep or movement from under the desk, so it’s time for his reward. Rolling back my chair, I find him still kneeling, posture perfect.
“Thatcher, look at me.” His pupils are blown wide with lust, and his eyes are glazed, as if he’s found himself close to subspace, even if he doesn’t realize that’s what it’s called.
I have a feeling that few people ever force him to sit still and do as he’s told, but maybe that’s exactly what he needs. “You’re doing well. Do you feel okay?”
He nods.
“Lean forward and get comfortable with your cheek resting on my thigh. I want to see if your hair is as soft as it looks while I read these last few reports.”
Thatcher leans forward, widening his knees and hinging at his waist to place his right cheek on my left thigh. As we arrange ourselves, though, there’s a problem. I didn’t account for how broad his shoulders are. Unless I want him with his cheek on my knee…
I open my legs, but even as my robe rides up higher and higher, Thatcher focuses on settling in. My pussy is exposed now, and I’m sure he caught a glimpse of my dark curls, but he’s either too blissed out to try to sneak another peek or he’s still trying very hard to be good.
As I scratch my nails into his scalp for the first time, his entire body melts. His hair is just as soft as I expected, and the thick waves mixed with more defined curls are the perfect sensory play to keep me calm as I read the increasingly incendiary emails from Zadorov’s secretary.
I’m so mad at the demands he dares to make of me in the last email, dated just after he left the meeting today, that it takes far too long to realize that Thatcher has moved.
Instead of sitting still, he’s turned his head to trail tiny, hot kisses up and down my inner thigh.
His range of motion is limited by how we’re sitting, but he’s covering as much ground as he can.
I want to be mad at him for disobeying, but I also really, really like his initiative.
He’s been a ball of energy since the moment he arrived on my doorstep, and if that energy is directed toward my pleasure… at my command, well...
“Thatcher,” I scold, and he freezes like a child caught with a hand in the candy jar. “It’s naughty of you to move, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t answer, instinctively knowing that there’s no correct reply. Not trying to train him…let him get you off…The animal corner of my brain wins, and I bask in the lust filling his eyes as I spread my legs over the arms of the desk chair.
“If you want your mouth on me, I decide where it goes. Is this what you wanted?”
Nodding, he flicks his gaze between my core and my eyes.
“Do you think it was very nice of you to touch me before I told you to?”
This pulls his attention immediately, and contrition is evident in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Not without your consent.”
“Hmm. You’re forgiven. But since you’re so eager, I have very high expectations for you. Starting with your words. You’ve been so chatty all week, wanting my attention. I promise you, you’ve got it now. So tell me. What do you think of my pussy?”
Reaching down, I spread myself for him, delighting in the way his gaze darkens as he notices how wet I already am. Gathering a bit of myself on a finger, I offer it to him, pulling back just before he can lick it off.
“Ah, ah, ah. Tell me what you think first. Then I’ll let you taste. If you’re going to be good, you need to learn to listen.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, and he’s looking at my face instead of the glistening center I’m offering him. After a long moment, with a minute shake of his head, he looks back down. “You’re beautiful, and you look delicious.”
One deep breath, and he’s looking at me again, like he wants to see into my soul and wouldn’t mind what he found.
“Please let me taste you? I promise, I’ll be good.”