Ruby Mayhem: A Russian Mafia Romance (Vyronov Bratva Book 1)

Two weeks later

I’m sore again. I always am. And I love it.

Last night Kirill had my calves draped over his shoulders, and now my thighs are aching. In the best possible way.

I breathe in and lift my arms above my head. The shower is running, and I push myself up. I listen to the water cascading, imagining the droplets sliding down his tattooed chest, his muscles rippling with each movement. I can almost picture him under the stream of water, all naked and wet, and my cheeks flush at the thought. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this, but it’s hard not to.

It’s all a facade, though. I know it is. But still, it’s not easy to keep my focus on what my goal is right now.

Escape.

New life.

The shower cuts off, and I push myself into a sitting position up against the pillows, trying to appear casual as I smooth the sheet over my chest. The door opens, and my breath catches in my throat.

He’s standing there, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His damp hair is slicked back, revealing those intense dark eyes that seem to see right through me. My heart skips a beat as our gazes lock.

“You’re awake.” He runs an eye over me before turning away to head into his dressing room. “Get washed up,” he adds over his shoulder, “I have plans for us today.”

I nod mutely, still reeling from the sight of him half-naked. It takes all my willpower not to stare at his broad back as he disappears into the adjoining room to dress.

I’d love to watch him do that.

Watch yourself, Tee.

I exhale shakily. This is getting dangerous; I can’t let myself get attached to him. No matter how good it feels when we… well… you know. The man bought me, for God’s sake! But damn, if those abs aren’t distracting me from my mission then I’m Mary freaking Poppins. But then again, I can’t allow myself to take my eyes off the prize: get away and build a life outside of his control.

Outside of anyone’s control.

I slide out of bed, my body still tingling from the aftermath of our heated encounter last night. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it, let alone enjoying it. I shake my head for the hundredth time, trying to clear my mind as I head into the bathroom for a shower. The water washes over me, but it does nothing to cool down the heat he’s ignited in me.

I step out and wrap a towel around my body. Kirill is waiting for me when I exit the bathroom, his eyes raking over my damp form appreciatively.

I can feel his eyes on me as I dress, and it makes me self-conscious. I’ve never been one to flaunt my body, and under his intense gaze, I can’t help but feel like I’m putting on some sort of exotic show.

He doesn’t say anything until I’ve pulled a T-shirt over my head.

“You know,” he murmurs, as if mulling something over. “you have a beautiful body. It is a shame to hide it under these ugly clothes.” My face burns as his eyes linger on my breasts, then lower. “You could show those tits off more… they’re fucking world-class.” He steps closer, his voice low and husky in my ear. “You’d be surprised by the effect you have on people.”

“By ‘people,’ you mean you?” I try to keep my tone light, but it’s hard to hide my crimson cheeks.

“Yes, I mean me, Tiana. But I wouldn’t be the only one.” The way he says my name send shivers down my spine, and I hurry to finish dressing as he watches.

“Come,” he says when I’m done, taking my hand and leading me out of the room. I almost trip over my feet trying to keep up with his long strides as he steers me through the luxurious halls of his massive mansion, his palm splayed possessively at my lower back. It makes me tremble. I’m not used to being touched like this; this casual possession he displays as his hand moves over me. His fingers caress the nape of my neck as we walk over plush carpets, past vibrant paintings. And through it all, I try my best not to show how much I enjoy his touch, keeping my gaze straight ahead.

He brings me to a part of the mansion I saw briefly during the tour he gave me that first night. I haven’t had much time to explore again since then – when we’re together, we’re in bed, and when we’re not, I have a team of guards shadowing me. I’d resent it, but there is something different between us now… something has changed after the night he told me about his mother.

I’ve visited her regularly since then – my only contact with another human aside from Kirill or the staff and guards who attend me. After his initial reluctance, he relented and decided that it might do her good to have some company. Me too. And a small part of me is starting to wonder if he’s such a monster after all.

Yeah, right.

Don’t forget how you ended up here.

You were bought like a piece of meat.

Either way, I can’t allow myself to lose focus on my end goal: getting the hell out of here and, for the first time ever, living a life where I’m not someone’s possession.

“What are we doing?” I ask him as we walk into the room.

“You’ll see.” He grins enigmatically.

I feel my mouth drop open as I look around us. The room – which I could only describe as a salon – is as luxurious as I remember it, except today, it’s different. Racks upon racks of designer clothes line the walls, shoes, and accessories galore laid out in neat rows beneath them.

In the center of the room, a red carpet has been laid out, leading toward a small grouping of comfortable chairs. Against the back wall is a table laden with breakfast dishes. I can catch the aroma of bacon, coffee, and pastries. As I stand there taking it in, one of Kirill’s house staff comes to meet us.

“Sir. Miss.” He nods courteously. “Champagne?” Before I can answer, Kirill reaches for the crystal flutes he’s holding out on a silver tray and heads toward the seating area.

“Come,” he says without looking back at me. He stops beside an elegant blue velvet sofa facing the path created by the carpet. “Sit.” Everything he says has a way of sounding like a command, and somehow I find myself hovering beside him. I sit without questioning him, taking the glass when he extends it to me.

“What’s going on?” I’m trying not to let my eyes bug out, but it becomes impossible when an anxious-looking man with a measuring tape around his neck rushes toward us.

“Mr. Vyronov! It is an honor. Such a great honor!” He bows his head in greeting before straightening up and giving me an appraising once-over. “And this must be our guest of honor.” He smiles at me. “I am Emile, at your service, Mademoiselle.” His voice is accented, but I can’t quite make out the origins. It could be French, British, or Italian, but somehow, I suspect it’s something he’s invented. Regardless, he seems very excited to be with us because his hands flutter like the wings of a bird.

Kirill leans back against the seat. “I want her in something… more flattering,” he says casually, sipping from his champagne flute, one arm draped over the back of the sofa. My cheeks burn even hotter, but before I can protest, the little man is nodding eagerly and snapping his fingers. Music begins to play – something jazzy and sensual – and a woman emerges from a door at the end of the room, and then another.

I stare in astonishment as a parade of models strut down the red carpet, each one more stunning than the last. They’re wearing a series of outfits that range from sexy cocktail dresses to flowing gowns, and even some lingerie that leaves very little to the imagination.

Kirill watches me intently, sipping his champagne as if this is an everyday occurrence for him. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling self-conscious in my oversized T-shirt and leggings. The models are all tall and slender with perfect figures, and they glide by like they belong on a runway. I, on the other hand, feel like a duckling among swans.

The first model stops in front of us, twirling around in a figure-hugging black dress that moulds her curves in all the right places. The fabric shimmers under the light, and I can’t help but admire how it accentuates her slender figure. She’s followed by another wearing a flowing red gown that trails behind her like a crimson river of silk. Then comes another in a lacy negligee that reveals more than it conceals.

My cheeks burn brighter with each passing outfit, but Kirill doesn’t bat an eye. And he seems completely oblivious to the beautiful women in front of us.

“Well?” he asks casually, as if this isn’t the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced. “Which ones do you like?” I open my mouth to protest again about how ridiculous this is when he adds, “Pick whatever you want.”

“Um…” I fumble for words just as the phone rings. Kirill answers the call while snapping his fingers at Emile, who jumps to attention. He waves his hands, and another wave of outfits is brought forth.

I’m overwhelmed. I never wanted for anything when I was growing up – private schools, a nice home… I even had a pony – but we didn’t live extravagantly. Certainly not like this.

“I am thinking of the red, with your complexion, my darling.” Emile has drawn a model in a crimson dress aside. “And black for formal evenings, of course.” He swirls a hand, and the woman does a twirl. I look from her to a couple of the others who are moving into my line of sight. Emile immediately draws them toward us. “The white chiffon. Yes. Yes.”

“Uh… okay?” I’m unsettled by all this attention. Kirill, meanwhile, seems totally preoccupied by the call right now. His voice grows firmer as he speaks briskly in Russian, leaving me wishing I knew the language.

“And, of course, the silk print.” Emile is still going on as another woman glides by in an elegant sundress.

The server who’d brought me the champagne is filling my glass, while another is holding a platter of pastries out for me. I wash down Apple Danish with Dom Perignon and start to feel a little like a princess.

Is this what my life would be like with him?

Stop!

Holy shit, I really need to gather my bearings. I can’t let myself fall for his charm. But it’s all too much. Just too much. When Emile asks if I have any preferences, I start to stutter. I’m not used to being the focus of so much attention.

“I-I don’t know,” I say again, when Emile looks at me expectantly. A movement behind me has me turning to see Kirill step forward. He still has his phone at his ear but clicks his fingers and then he’s pointing at several of the women.

“This. This. This. And this.” He looks at Emile who nods eagerly. “Bring shoes to match. And the underwear. All of it.” He turns his attention back to his call while Emile and the models burst into a flurry of activity. In moments, there’s a mound of boxes towering beside me, each held closed with a large satin bow.

“Good.” Kirill is beside me again, his jaw set grimly in spite of his approval. His phone is now tucked away.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“This too.” He’s still addressing Emile, ignoring my question as he reaches for a hanger on a nearby railing to show a swirling black silk negligee.

“Of course, Mr. Vyronov. I will get Anette to model it for you.”

“No.” Kirill shakes his head. “I want to see it on her.” He brushes my hair over my shoulder. “The rest of you… get out.” Without waiting to see if they comply, he turns back to me. “Put it on, Ptichka.”

I’m acutely aware of the group of people who’d just been gathered around us. Anyone could be watching this exchange. And there’s no doubt about what’s about to happen next. I glance past him to where Emile is leaving the room, his crew following like a cluster of ducklings led by their mother.

“Kirill, I-.” My lips are dry.

“They are gone. Now strip.”

“But…”

“Strip, Pitchka.”

There is no arguing with him. I can feel his eyes on me as I slip out of my clothes and into the sheer black negligee he’s chosen for me. The fabric caresses my skin like a lover’s touch, lifting gooseflesh on my skin. He watches me impassively, sipping champagne as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Turn,” he commands, and I do as he says without thinking. The material swirls around my thighs as I spin self-consciously. It clings to every curve, accentuating parts of me I didn’t even know existed. “Izyskannyy. Fucking perfection.” His voice is low and gravelly, sending goosebumps down my spine. “Come here.”

I walk over to him on shaky legs, feeling more naked than when I was actually naked last night in his bedroom. He sets down his glass and before I know it, he’s lifting me and then setting me onto the sofa like I weigh nothing at all. My heart hammers in my chest as he stands in front of me, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Spread your legs for me,” he growls.

I do as he says without thinking twice; it seems pointless to resist him now that we’re here… and a big part of me doesn’t want to anyway. His hands roam up my thighs, pushing the negligee out of the way before dipping beneath it.

Kirill’s fingers slip between my folds, and I gasp at the contact. He’s so… skilled, his touch sure and confident as he teases me in all the right places. For a moment I wonder how many women he had to be with to gain this level of skill, but the thought is quickly brushed aside by his touch.

I arch my back, my hands gripping the armrests of the sofa as I allow him to explore every inch of me. His touch is like fire, searing my skin and leaving me wanting more and more.

“Ohhhhh,” A moan escapes my lips, and my eyes slam shut as he dips a finger inside me. He swirls it until he hits a spot that has me squirming on the plush cushions beneath us. His other hand cups my breast, thumbing my nipple through the sheer fabric of the negligee until it hardens into a tight bud. My back arches, my hand reaching to clutch at his shoulder as the sensations begin to build. Already I’m gasping.

“That’s it,” he murmurs as his fingers continue their relentless assault on my core. Then he lowers himself and closes his mouth over my clit, and my hips buck up as if of their own accord.

“Oh, my God!” I choke out. He’s watching me over my mound as I writhe against the velvet of the couch. I can feel myself building up to orgasm already, but just when I think I can’t take anymore, he pulls away.

He pulls away!

“Not yet,” he warns against my swollen lips before dipping his head lower.

“But why?!” I wail, reaching down and trying to push his face closer to me. He swats my hands away.

Yet again, Kirill’s tongue flickers over my clit, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through my body. I twist and gasp, my nails digging into the plush fabric as I chase completion, only for him to pull away again at the last second.

What the hell is his deal?

“Oh, fuck,” I whimper, arching my hips towards him in desperation. “Why are you doing this?”

He chuckles darkly against my core, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “I said not yet,” he growls before resuming his torturous ministrations.

His fingers delve inside me once more, curling and stroking in time with his tongue’s sensual dance on my clit. I can feel myself unraveling under his skilled touch, every ounce of resistance melting away with each passing second.

“Please,” I beg, no longer caring about pride or control. All I can think of is finding relief from this exquisite torment. “Kirill… I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yes you can.” His voice is taunting. The tip of his tongue touches my clit, and I jolt.

“Fuck! Please… I’m begging you,” I choke out.

“You’re begging me?”

“Yes! Please… please just let me come.” My whole body feels like it’s strung taut as a bowstring. And once again, he stops.

He stops!

Why did he stop?

The man’s driving me crazy; toying with me like a cat with a mouse.

“Noooo!” I gasp, my fingers tangling into his hair.

He looks up at me with a smirk before dipping his head once more, sucking hard on my swollen bud and thrusting two fingers deep inside me at the same time.

And me? I am done.

The world explodes around me as waves upon waves of pleasure crash over me in an endless tide.

“Kirill!” My back arches off the sofa as I cry out his name, lost in the insane intensity of my climax. My hips buck, my thighs shake, and my cum is dripping down my inner thighs onto the chair I’m sitting on.

As I come down from the high, panting and spent, Kirill stands before me with a smug expression on his face.

“I told you,” he drawls lazily as he smooths his hair and adjusts his pants over an erection that he clearly doesn’t plan to use, “I’ve never had to force a woman to want me.”

I stare at him in astonishment, my mouth hanging open.

Bastard!

I don’t say the word though. I’m still trying to catch my breath as I watch him turn and head to the door.

“I have business to attend to,” he throws over his shoulder. “Be ready for dinner at 7. Wear the red dress.”

He walks out the door, leaving me spent, and staring after him like an idiot. I think I hate him again. If only I could convince my body to agree.