Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Laurel
I hurl the phone onto the couch like it’s on fire. My stomach lurches so violently I think I might be sick.
That’s it. Any slim chance I had of salvaging this is gone. I walked into his house uninvited, gawked at him naked, blurted out that his cock was huge like some brain-dead horny teenager, and now, I’ve sexted him a full-blown fantasy about how badly I want him to ruin me with it.
He’s going to forward every single screenshot to Dr. Ellis first thing tomorrow. I can already picture the subject line: “Inappropriate Conduct by Employee Laurel Harper.”
I’m done. Finished. My teaching certificate will be shredded, my name blacklisted from every school district in the tri-state area.
I tip my head back, eyes squeezing shut. “God,” I whisper, voice cracking, “now would be a really good time to just… end the world.”
My fingers dig into my scalp, tugging hard at the roots until it stings. “What is wrong with me? Seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with—”
Ping.
The phone vibrates against the cushion.
I freeze. Slowly, like I’m approaching a live grenade, I lean forward and peek at the screen.
Leonid Volkov: What would you give?
“What?” I whisper to the empty room, as I reach for the phone. My thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Me: What?
His reply is almost instant.
Leonid Volkov: You said, and I quote: “What I would give to have him split me open with that cock.” So I’m asking. What would you give, Ms. Harper?
I bring the phone so close to my face my nose almost touches the glass. I read it again. Then a third time. My mouth falls open. Heat floods my cheeks. He’s not angry. He’s not threatening to report me. He’s… playing along.
I should apologize to him and shut this down. Instead, my traitorous fingers type:
Me: What would you want?
The three dots appear immediately.
Leonid Volkov: I ask the questions. Answer my question.
My pulse is everywhere, throat, wrists, between my legs. I’m trembling.
Me: Anyone tell you, you’re bossy?
Leonid Volkov: All the time. Now. Tell me. What would you give to feel every thick inch of my cock stretching you open? To have me pin those pretty wrists above your head while I fuck you rough and hard until you’re crying my name?
I make a small, involuntary sound. My free hand presses against my stomach, trying to calm the riot happening lower.
Me: Anything.
Leonid Volkov: Be specific, Ms. Harper. I want details. Would you beg? Would you crawl? Would you let me tie you to my bed and edge you for hours until you’re shaking and dripping and promising me anything just for permission to come?
My knees buckle. I sink onto the couch, legs weak, breath ragged.
Me: Yes. All of it. I’d beg. I’d crawl. I’d let you do whatever you wanted. I’d be so good for you.
Leonid Volkov: Good girl.
He didn’t speak them out loud, but I feel the words everywhere.
Leonid Volkov: Tell me what you’re doing right now. Are you wet for me? Touch yourself and describe it. I want to know exactly how much you’re aching.
My hand trembles as it slides underneath my skirt, between my thighs, pressing against the damp fabric of my panties. A soft moan slips out before I can stop it.
Me: I’m soaked. I’m so swollen it hurts.
Leonid Volkov: Show me. Send a picture. No face. Just how wet that sweet little pussy is for a man you barely know.
I hesitate for half a second, then the last shred of reason snaps.
I stand, legs unsteady, and shimmy out of my panties. The cool air hits my overheated skin and makes me shiver. I sit back down, spread my thighs, angle the phone between my legs, and snap the photo of my pussy, glistening with wetness.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The reply comes fast.
Leonid Volkov: Fuck. Look at you. So pretty and dripping for me. Touch your clit. Slow circles. Imagine it’s my tongue.
My fingers obey instantly. A broken moan escapes as I obey, circling, teasing, hips rocking against one hand, while I type with the other.
Me: Leonid… I’m already close.
My breath hitches. My fingers pump faster, curling, chasing that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I picture him above me, wet hair dripping onto my chest, hooded eyes locked on mine, that scarred, powerful body driving into me with ruthless precision.
The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core. My hips rock, and the coil snaps.
My back arches off the couch, a choked cry tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me, wave after blinding wave. My inner walls flutter and pulse around my fingers, slick heat coating my hand, my thighs trembling so hard they shake the cushions.
I ride it out, gasping, until the aftershocks leave me boneless, limp, chest heaving.
The phone pings again.
Leonid Volkov: Did you just come touching yourself for me?
My fingers tremble as I type.
Me: Yes.
Leonid Volkov: Good. Now lick those fingers clean. Send me a picture. Show me how sweet you taste after coming like that.
Heat floods my face again, but there’s no hesitation this time.
I pull my hand free, glistening, sticky, and bring it to my mouth.
The taste is musky, salty-sweet, unmistakably me.
I drag my tongue slowly along my fingers, sucking them clean, then angle the phone with my other hand, making sure just lips and fingers are in the frame.
I send it before doubt can creep in.
Leonid Volkov: Such a good girl.
Exhaustion hits like a freight train. My limbs now feel heavy, and slowly my eyes begin to drift closed.
I curl onto my side, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, and let sleep pull me under, still half-dressed, still tasting myself on my tongue.
Leonid
I stand in the master bathroom, my phone resting on the black marble counter, screen lit up with the photo Ms. Harper just sent.
Her lips wrapped around her delicate fingers, tongue dragging along the length like she’s savoring every drop. So fucking innocent and so fucking filthy at the same time.
My cock twitches hard, already thick and heavy again despite the release I just chased. I wrap my hand around it, grip firm, and stroke once, slow, watching her mouth on the screen.
Fuck. I imagine those lips on me instead.
Her kneeling in front of me, her wide eyes looking up at me while she takes the head into her mouth.
Soft tongue swirling, tentative at first, then bolder.
She’d hum around me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine, her small hands wrapping around the base because there’s no way she could take all of me at once.
I stroke faster, breath coming rougher.
My balls draw up, heat coils low and tight, and I come hard. Thick ropes spilling over my fist, splattering against the marble sink. My vision whites out for a second, muscles locking, a rough curse tearing from my chest.
When it’s over, I’m breathing like I just ran ten miles. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Then I look back at the phone. At her picture, the evidence of what I just did.
I just sexted my son’s teacher.
Christ.
I walk into the shower stall, turn it on and step under the spray. Water pounds against my shoulders as I wash off the mess, soap suds swirling down the drain.
This wasn’t how our meeting was supposed to go down.
She’s been pestering me for over a month, insisting we meet to discuss some troubling behaviors she’s noticed in Alexei. But I’ve always been too busy to meet with her.
I know it made me look like I don’t give a damn about my son. Like I’m one of those fathers who throws money at problems. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Alexei is everything. The moment he came into this world six years ago, something shifted.
Igor used to be the only person I’d bleed for without hesitation.
My little brother. My responsibility. But the second I had Alexei in my arms, the hierarchy was rewritten.
He became the center. The only thing that matters.
I just… haven’t been able to show it lately. Too many fires to put out. But Laurel Harper kept pushing. Relentless in the sweetest, most infuriating way. So I finally carved out the time tonight.
I lost track while finishing my workout. Then I decided to take a quick shower. Then straight from the shower, I hoped to fix myself a quick drink before she arrived. I was doing that when security buzzed: “Ms. Harper is here, sir.”
I don’t like staff in the house when I’m home. They finish their shifts, and retreat to their quarters at the back of the property. Alexei was already tucked away in his room watching cartoons when I headed to shower, so I didn’t bother with clothes.
I told them to let her in, with the intent of throwing on something before letting her in. I didn’t expect her to let herself in and walk straight into the living room.
The little minx didn’t wait for an invitation. She just… walked right through the front door like she belonged here.
I shut off the shower, steam curling around me as I step out. My cock is already stirring again, half-hard just from the memory of her face when she walked in.
Laurel Harper. Sweet little teacher, chestnut hair swept into a neat bun, striking green eyes, and flushed cheeks dusted with freckles. Petite with slender curves. She stared long enough that I felt the heat of her gaze like a physical touch sliding down my body.
Inquisitive little thing. Most women would’ve averted their eyes out of politeness or fear. She didn’t. And that single fact has me thickening again, blood rushing south as I picture those soft lips parting in shock, then fascination.
I grab a towel from the rack and roughly dry myself off, scrubbing over my chest, my abs, lower—where the memory of her blurted words still lingers. “God, that cock is huge.”
Fuck. A woman I’ve known for all of five minutes has me acting like a horny teenager who can’t keep it together. I shake my head, a low chuckle escaping my lips.
I toss the towel aside and pull on black sweatpants and a plain gray T-shirt. The fabric clings slightly to his still-damp skin. My pulse is steady now, but the hunger hasn’t faded.
I head down the hallway toward Alexei’s room. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the air system and the distant murmur of cartoon voices drifting from his cracked door.
I push the door open quietly. The room is lit only by the soft blue glow of the nightlight shaped like a rocket ship and the TV flickering on low volume, some animated show about space explorers.
Alexei is already under the covers, small frame swallowed by the massive bed, pajamas patterned with little planets and stars.
I cross the room, and sit on the edge of the mattress. He looks up at me, those serious brown eyes, so much like his mom’s, tracking my face without a word.
I reach over and ruffle his dark hair, the strands still slightly damp from his own bath earlier.
“It’s time for bed. Want me to read you a bedtime story?” I’m slightly disappointed when he gives a shake of his head. I pick up the TV remote and turn it off.
“Spokoynoy nochi, synok,” I murmur. Good night, son.
He stares at me for a beat, then answers in crisp, perfect English. “Good night, Dad.”
I arch a brow. He knows Russian. He’s been fluent since he was three, understands every word I say. But sometimes he does this: answers in English just to poke at me. A tiny act of rebellion. It almost makes me smile.
I ruffle his hair again, and lean down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t lean into it like he used to when he was way little. Just watches me with that quiet gaze.
“Sleep well,” I say, switching to English this time.
He nods once, then turns facing the wall.
I stand, lingering for a second in the doorway, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. There’s no one I love more than this boy. No one I’d burn the world down for.
As he grows older, our relationship isn’t getting better. If anything, it’s fraying. And it’s my fault: I’m gone too much, always on the move. Business doesn’t pause. Enemies don’t sleep. And every trip I take is another night he’s kept safe.
He doesn’t ask me to play ping-pong anymore. Doesn’t run to the door when I come home. Just looks up from his books or his tablet with that quiet, assessing stare, like he’s already decided I’m not worth the effort.
After my parents passed when I was nine, I was left to care for my younger brother, Igor, and I know what we went through growing up. The nights we slept on the streets on empty stomachs. I swore Alexei would never know that kind of hunger, that kind of fear.
That’s why I work the way I do. Why I built this empire brick by bloody brick. Every contract I sign, every rival I crush, every dollar I stack, it’s all for him. One day he’ll understand.
He’ll look at the hotels, the clubs, the offshore accounts, the security that surrounds him, and he’ll see the legacy I’m carving out. He’ll see why I wasn’t there for bedtime stories or Saturday mornings at the park. He’ll understand.
I close the door softly and head back down the hallway. My mind drifts back to how this all started. Six years ago, the night everything changed.
It was my birthday. Igor had dragged me out, insisting I needed to let loose for once. “You’re thirty-one, brat. One night. One fucking night without being the Pakhan.” We ended up at one of our own clubs in Midtown, the bass thumping through the walls, champagne flowing like water.
I rarely drank enough to lose control, but that night I did. Linda was there, long legs, dark hair, easy smile. A one-night stand in a dark VIP booth, protection used, no strings. I woke up the next morning with a pounding head and no intention of ever seeing her again.
I forgot her name within a week.
Nine months later she showed up at my door with a screaming infant in a cheap car seat, eyes glassy and desperate. “He’s yours,” she said. “I need money.” I laughed at first, thought it was a scam.
Then I had a DNA test conducted, and it was confirmed that he was mine. And that’s when the truth came out. Linda was an addict, heroin, mostly. She’d tried to abort twice; neither worked. She carried the pregnancy to term only because she saw it as an opportunity to extort me.
She handed Alexei over in the hospital hallway after the test results came back, took the envelope of cash I gave her, and walked away without looking back.
A few months later she crawled back, strung out, begging for more.
I didn’t give it to her. I had her committed to a private rehab upstate instead, the best facility money could buy.
Told her to get clean for her son. A week later she bolted.
Three days after that, the call came: she overdosed in a motel bathroom outside Albany.
And that was how I became the sole guardian of a newborn. I could negotiate multimillion-dollar deals, intimidate men twice my size into silence, order a hit without blinking. But fatherhood? That was a different kind of war. And I’m failing at it.