Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)

Pummeling an answer out of someone never works.

Pamela Meyer

Iwake to the sound of the cell door opening once more.

It’s extremely disorienting being in this windowless room without a clock or a watch. I have no idea if I’ve been sleeping one hour or ten.

I sit up, stiff from the threadbare mattress. I have a fantastic bed at home in my apartment. It’s my biggest luxury: a thick down comforter, expensive sheets, a cooling pillow . . .

There are a lot of things I’m already starting to miss, being stuck in this cell.

Ivan comes through the door once more, carrying a bowl of something that smells delicious, like cinnamon and nutmeg. Of course, I haven’t eaten in a while, so I’m far from picky. Almost anything would smell good right now.

The earthenware bowl is held in his left hand. In his right, he’s carrying a black leather bag, something like a doctor’s kit. I don’t like the look of that nearly as much.

I consider standing, but then I’d have to choose between draping the blanket over me like a toga and being naked once more. Both seem like embarrassing options. So I remain seated on the mattress, the blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

“Did you get a good sleep?” Ivan asks.

He keeps his face stern, but I can tell there are hidden reserves of humor under that harsh exterior. He’s aware of the ridiculousness of his question. He knows he’s goading me into a saucy answer.

“I prefer memory-foam to straw and canvas,” I tell him. “But I’ll still give you three stars in my Airbnb review.”

That twitch of his lips again. I’ll get him to smile eventually.

He sits down on the ground across from me, heedless of whether the dirt floor might mark his slacks. He sets the leather bag on his right side, and puts the bowl down on his left, just out of my reach.

He sees me eyeing the food.

“Hungry?” he says.

“A little,” I reply, lifting my chin.

“Our chef made this. Slow-cooker oatmeal, with cinnamon and heavy cream.”

He picks up the bowl, holding it between us but not offering it to me yet.

I notice there’s no spoon.

He scoops up a dollop of the oatmeal on his index and middle fingers. He holds it out to me.

I stare at him, confused.

“Go ahead,” he says.

He wants me to lick it off his fingers.

I know what he’s trying to do. Taking my clothes. Making me eat out of his hand like a dog.

He’s trying to break me down. Trying to humiliate me.

I could refuse to eat.

But I really am hungry.

The stress of the previous hours has drained my body. The rich, delicious scent of the food drifts up to my nostrils.

Ivan is right that he has all the time in the world, while I’m only going to get more and more miserable.

I open my mouth slightly and lean forward.

I close my lips around his fingers, taking the food.

“Good girl,” Ivan says, his voice low and approving.

That voice sends a thrill running down my spine.

He’s smiling. Pleased with me.

The oatmeal really does taste phenomenal. As soon as it hits my tongue, my stomach clenches and gurgles, demanding more.

Ivan can hear it.

He scoops up a little more and holds it out to me.

God, this really is embarrassing. And strangely intimate. I’ve never let a man feed me before.

I can’t stand being put in a subservient position. I need to take back the power. Exert myself on him, as he’s trying to exert himself on me.

So when I lean forward to take the next bite, I look up into his eyes. I open my lips and slightly extend my tongue. As I take the food out of his hand, I let my tongue trail along the underside of his fingers. And I suck ever so gently on his fingertips.

I see the flush of color rising up his neck, from beneath the crisp white collar of his dress shirt.

He’s not the only one who can play games.

He’s not the only one who can offer temptations.

As he holds out the next bite, he lets his thumb trail over my lips. I lick his fingers clean, and his hand touches my cheek. His fingers trail down my throat, down to my collarbone and the swell of my breasts beneath the blanket thrown round my shoulders.

But then he stops.

He sets the bowl to the side.

“I know you’re a wild thing, malen’kaya lisa,” he says. My little fox. “But what you’ll come to understand is that I’m going to tame you.”

A shiver runs over my skin.

I’ve never submitted to a man before, and I don’t intend to submit to this one. No matter how intimidating he might be.

He bends over his leather bag and unzips the top. I can’t see what’s inside. I’m not sure I want to know.

He takes out a coil of rope—soft, black, neatly wrapped. He unfurls it, his eyes fixed on mine.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he says to me. “I’m going to ask you questions. If you answer honestly and fully, you’ll be rewarded. If you lie to me, or you try to be evasive, I will punish you.”

Oh Jesus.

My heart flutters against my ribs.

He loops the rope around my wrists with two quick twists and pulls my arms over my head. He lifts me to a standing position, then threads the rope through a hook hanging from the ceiling. The roof of the cell is low, and he’s so extremely tall that he can reach the hook without even stretching.

But I’m pulled up on my tiptoes, my arms overhead, and my body completely vulnerable. My heart is racing. I’m terrified, but there’s much more than fear causing the adrenaline to flood through my veins . . . there’s also anticipation.

It’s insane. I can’t believe what I’m feeling.

I want him to touch me.

I want him to take me.

He takes a blindfold from his bag and covers my eyes, plunging me into darkness. I feel more vulnerable than ever. Instantly my sensations are heightened. I can feel the slightest breeze across my bare skin. I’m hyper-aware of the heavy tread of his footsteps circling me.

He’s prowling around me, deliberately disorienting me.

He’s close, but not quite touching me.

Not yet.

“First question,” he says, in that rough, deep voice. “Where’s the tunnel that let you into my house?”

I bite my bottom lip, trying to decide whether I should tell him or not. I wanted to keep my escape route clear. But unfortunately, now that he knows the passageway exists, it’s only a matter of time until he finds it. Trying to keep the information to myself is hopeless.

“It starts in a well, on the north side of the property, just outside the walls,” I tell him. “It comes out in your boiler room.”

“Good,” Ivan says. His voice is like the tongue of a beast lapping at my skin—rough and soft at the same time.

I feel his huge hand caressing my left breast. His palm cups the bottom of my breast, and his thumb slides across the nipple.

I can’t help but let out a groan of pleasure. Oh my god, I can’t even control myself for five seconds. At his very first touch I’m moaning like a whore.

I tell myself that I won’t make another sound. I’ll pretend not to like it, no matter what he does.

But his hand is sliding down the curve of my side, down to my hip, and then across my navel, below the bellybutton. And now he’s slipping his fingers inside my panties, all the way down to my pussy lips. I’m already breaking the promise I made, I’m already letting out little gasps and moans of encouragement as he rubs his fingers back and forth across my clit, moistened with my own wetness.

All too soon, he pulls his hand away. I can’t see anything, but I have the sneaking suspicion that he’s put his fingers to his lips, to taste me.

Nothing has ever prepared me for this.

If this is his interrogation, he’s going to have my social security number in five minutes.

“You like that, little lisa,” he says. It’s not a question. He knows that I love it. “See,” he says, “It’s better to be friends than enemies, don’t you think?”

I’m ready to be his best friend if he’ll keep touching me like that.

“Next question,” he says. “Who’s your broker?”

Uh oh.

I really don’t know the answer to that.

I have a little information about him, but nothing I want to share with Ivan.

“I told you, I don’t know,” I tell him, trying to make my tone as sincere as possible.

“You did tell me that,” Ivan says. “But I’m afraid I don’t quite believe you.”

I can hear him moving off to my right. I hear the distinct sound of objects shifting about as he rummages around in his leather bag.

My heart rate, already on par with a fast jog, speeds up to an absolute sprint.

He’s coming around behind me.

I hear the whistle of air, and then a sharp CRACK as he swings something toward me. I hear the sound, and then I feel the sting of a leather crop coming down hard on my ass.

“Ouch!” I yell, trying to twist around.

Another CRACK! He’s smacked the other asscheek even harder.

“I told you I don’t know his name!” I protest.

“But you know something,” Ivan says.

CRACK! He’s whipped me again, in the same spot as the first time. Goddamnit, it’s really starting to sting.

CRACK! Back to the left side again.

I can only imagine the welts this is leaving on my nice, smooth bottom.

CRACK!

CRACK!

The sound is almost worse than the pain. It makes me jump every time.

And this goddamned blindfold—I can’t anticipate where he’s standing, which side he’s going to hit. I seem to feel each blow ten times as acutely with my eyes closed.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

He’s not even breathing hard. I’m all too aware of Ivan’s strength and stamina. He could probably whip me like this all day long.

“I have his IP address!” I blurt out. “I know he lives in the Tsentralny District.”

Ivan stops whipping me with the crop.

“You see, my little fox. I always get what I want in the end. So you might as well give it to me to begin with.”

He’s reaching back into his bag. I think he’s going to punish me again, but it turns out to be quite the opposite.

I hear a buzzing sound. Then I feel a vibrating wand pressed against my clit, through the material of my panties.

Oh my god. If I was squirming around before, it’s nothing to how I’m twisting and writhing now. Even through the thin cotton, the sensation is almost unbearably intense. The vibrator sends waves of pleasure across my belly, down my legs, until they tremble beneath me, and I’m hanging from my wrists, the rope the only thing keeping me upright.

But then, just as I’m about to explode into orgasm, Ivan pulls the vibrator away.

I give a groan of frustration and outrage.

“Not so fast,” Ivan growls. He’s standing so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. I can feel his breath on my bare shoulder.

“Tell me why you came to St. Petersburg,” he says.

Goddamn it.

There’s no reason not to tell him the truth.

Except that I don’t want to.

This cuts to the heart of my most vulnerable and personal information. Something very painful to me. My greatest weakness exposed.

But he’ll know if I lie.

He’ll know if I keep my secret.

My lips are trembling. So is my voice.

“I came here looking for my father,” I tell him. “He used to work for the CIA. He said they were calling him back here for one last job.”

I hear Ivan take a step backward. He’s surprised. That’s not what he expected me to say.

“Did you find him?” he asks.

I let out my breath in a long sigh.

“Yes,” I admit. “I found him.”

“Where was he?”

“In a morgue, on Nevsky Prospekt.”

“Was he killed by the FSB?”

I let out a short laugh.

“No,” I say. “He was hit by a taxi in Decembrists Square. Nobody called him back here. He was just wandering around, out of his mind.”

I can feel Ivan’s hesitation.

It wasn’t the answer he expected to get.

But a promise is a promise.

I hear the buzz as he switches the vibrator on once more.

He pulls my body tight against his, one thick, strong arm wrapped around my back, the other pressing the vibrator tight against my clit.

“Let it all go, little lisa,” he whispers in my ear.

And I do let go.

I erupt, into a climax beyond anything I’ve felt before. I bite down hard on Ivan’s shoulder, through the crisp white dress shirt. It stifles my scream as I cum again and again against his hand.