You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (2 page)

Dahlia Fury

T
he Mafia boss’s house is in Park Lane. A dour, deeply tanned man in a black suit and a white shirt opens the door and raises his eyebrows. He is wearing an earpiece. Noah, presumably, and obviously Stella never managed to get him on the phone.

‘Stella can’t make it. I’m taking her place,’ I explain shortly.

‘We do body searches on people we don’t know,’ he says, his eyes travelling down my length.

‘The fuck you are,’ I tell him rudely.

He grins suddenly. ‘I like you. You’ve got balls.’

‘Whatever,’ I say in a bored voice.

His grin widens. He’s got good strong teeth. ‘If you’ve got a weapon hidden in that tight dress you deserve to kill him.’

‘It’s a uniform,’ I say stiffly.

‘No kidding,’ he leers.

I look at him with raised eyebrows.

‘Come with me.’

I step into the mansion, he closes the door, and I follow him into the Mafia Don’s residence. What can I say? Wow? Crime really does pay.  Yeah, must be nice to have so much. Polished granite, marble columns, fantastic lighting, touches of platinum, sleek black leather trimmings. Nope, not my thing, nevertheless very, very impressive in a cold, masculine sort of way.

He takes me down a curving staircase that appears to go down at least another three floors into the ground. I have heard of such houses. There are more floors underground than above ground. He stops after the second flight of stairs and walking down a corridor, opens the door to what looks like a dimly lit massage room.

He flicks his wrist, looks at his watch, and says. ‘He’ll be with you in five minutes.’

Then he winks and disappears. I look around the room. Opera music is being piped in through hidden speakers, and it is wonderfully warm. I walk towards the massage table. All the different oils are in a kind of bain-marie on a trolley next to it.

Shit. Suddenly I feel really nervous.

I’ve never massaged anyone other than Stella and my sister. I take a deep breath. No, I can do this. I will tell my grandchildren about the day I massaged a Russian Mafia boss. I smile to myself. I pick up a bottle of oil. I twist the cap and smell it. Oooo… lavender, musk and something else … Rosemary?

I pour some on my palm and rub my hands together. The smell surrounds me. Very nice. I adjust my clothes. I know exactly why the black suit had been staring at me. The uniform is way too tight. I hear a sound outside the door and quickly put my hands to my sides and look towards it.

The door opens and this huge mountain of a man with a small towel slung around his hips comes in. Whoa! I inhale in slow motion. Jesus! No wonder Stella is all tied up in knots. He exudes pure sexual energy. Let me describe him to you. The first thing that hits me after his height and breadth are his incredible tattoos. They cover his body and they are not an untidy collection of random images, but each one subtly connected to the others. For example; an angel smiles at a tiger tearing into an impala, above their heads are intricate images of stars, demons and other strange creatures. On his shoulder a cobra hisses dangerously, its mouth open and hood flared.

The next thing that floors you are his eyes.  You know those crazy drawings of Nordic aliens, with their hypnotizing ice-blue eyes? That’s what his are like. Piercing and magnetic. Shit. I can’t stop staring. Those crazy eyes slide over me, lingering on my breasts, and then pulling back, and narrowing on my face.

I want to smile, but I am frozen.

‘Where is …?’ He makes a rolling motion with his big, powerful hand. Stella was right; after six months, twice a week, she has not even registered enough for him to even remember her name.

‘Stella,’ I supply helpfully.

‘Where is … Stella?’ he asks quietly. His voice is deep and the accent is strong and actually extremely sexy.

I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out.  I clear my throat. ‘She couldn’t make it. I’m here to take her place.’

He nods. ‘Ok,’ and going to the massage table lies on it face down.

I gaze at the splendid body, the muscles gleaming in the dim room, and think of Stella. God, I’m not surprised she’s fallen for him. I can feel my blood throbbing in my veins. I want to touch him. My desire is so strong it’s as unsettling as a fingernail on a blackboard. It sets my teeth on edge. It’s almost like making love.  I feel hot and excited.  My face feels flushed and I pray he hasn’t noticed my hesitation.  I take a deep breath. Right. Swedish. Make it hard, Stella is saying in my head.

A light sheen of sweat starts on my body. I wipe my brow with the back of my forearm. I flex my fingers and move forward.

I pick up the oil that has been warming in the hot water. Jesus, suddenly the smell of oil feels too musky and erotic. I gaze at his sinewy neck and feel the hair at the back of my own rise. He is like an animal, a big cat. Sleek and dangerous. I put the musky oil back down and pick up a random bottle.

I pour the warm, lemon scented golden oil on the plateau at the base of his spine. I watch it pool. Then I take a deep breath and open the massage with a long, slow stroke. He doesn’t react. I shift my hands down to the two mounds of the gluteal muscles. They are firm, strong and tight … and bulging insolently.

Make it hard. He likes it hard.

I dig down and get to work, careful not to make the mistakes that amateurs make – work too fast. My breathing rate increases, but the man does nothing. Just lies there silently. I move to the front of him, grab his shoulders and push down his back with my thumbs and finger pads.

Smooth and sensuous.

My hands roll back. It is almost hypnotic to feel my palms sliding down the tatted skin, and feel the strong muscles underneath move. By now sweat is running down my back. I am so caught up in the job I do not see his hands move, but they are, without warning, cupping my buttocks. I freeze, more in shock than anything else.

The inert body moved!

I jump back in horror. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He lifts his head and looks at me with those wicked eyes. The light shines directly on his face. Vaguely, I register a white scar that starts at the edge of one eye and runs down the side of his face.

‘I figured since you are not a real masseuse you were a hooker.’

‘What gave you that crazy impression?’ I demand, outraged. How dare he?

His eyes slide down to my breasts. I look down. The scarf is dislodged and my breasts are practically spilling out of my uniform. My ears burn as I pull the scarf upwards and clutch it against my chest.

‘Well, I’m
not
a prostitute,’ I deny hotly.

His reaction is swift and smooth. He rolls to his side and lands lightly on his feet like a cat, with grace and lightness unexpected for someone his size.  Do Mafia kingpins receive some kind of stealth training? He straightens. His cock is massive and fully erect. Naked and utterly unashamed of his body, he takes a step towards me. Shocked and a little frightened I take a step back, but the wall pulls me up short. He stops a foot away from me, and leaning forward, his palms land on either side of me.

I gaze at him with wide eyes.

‘Then why did you massage me like that?’ he asks hoarsely.

The breath escapes me in a rush. ‘Like what?’ I whisper.

‘Like you want to taste my cock.’

‘I didn’t. I don’t,’ I stutter.

‘Then why are you fucking wet?’ he asks softly. His eyes drop to my mouth.

‘I’m not,’ I say clearly.

His hands leave the wall and grab my hips. ‘Do you want me to make a liar out of you?’ he asks.

‘Don’t touch me,’ I spit.

He pulls me towards his naked body until his rock hard cock twitches against my belly.

A strange languor overtakes me, and I am suddenly struck by the desire to submit. To let him have his way. To let him fuck me hard. Because I know it will be a hard fuck. Yes, I’d be just a nameless fuck, and yes, there will be the walk of shame afterwards, but I can live with all of that. The thing that stops me is the thought of facing Stella.

‘How dare you?’ I gasp.

He laughs, a humorless, cold laugh. ‘Is that a challenge or a fucking invitation?’

‘It’s a fucking warning,’ I say furiously.

Ignoring my fury, he runs his fingers along my inner thigh.

I draw in a sharp breath. ‘Let go of me or I’ll scream.’

His eyes light up. They are like the underside of certain fish, silvery blue. He lets go of my hips. One of his hands comes up to my face. He drags his thumb along my lower lip while I stare up at him, mesmerized by the naked lust in his eyes. The fingers of his other hand arrive at the apex of my thighs.

‘Don’t,’ I whisper.

He brushes his fingers along the crotch of my panties. There is no expression at all in his face when he finds them soaking wet. Without a word he pushes the material aside and inserts a long finger into me.

Holy fuck. My body starts trembling.

‘Don’t. I don’t want you to,’ I order, but even I can hear how weak my voice sounds. My brain is already thinking of his thick girth pounding mercilessly into me. 

He withdraws the finger and jams it back in. ‘Don’t?’ he taunts.

Blood rushes to my head and pounds so hard I can’t even think.

‘I … we … oh … ah … shouldn’t.’

He doesn’t even bother to answer me. Just keeps up the steady finger fucking. I am so excited I feel as if I’m already at the point of no return. To my utter shame and humiliation, my body shudders and I climax really hard all over his finger.

He smiles, a condescending, triumphant smile.

Suddenly I feel sick at what I’ve just allowed him to do to me. Jesus, I’ve behaved like a cheap slut. I swallow hard. I can’t even look him in the eye. How could this have happened to me? He made me come with one finger! And that digit is still inside me and my muscles are contracting helplessly around it.

‘Take your finger out of me now,’ I say in a cold, hard voice.

‘Why? Are you ready for me to replace it with my cock?’ he mocks insolently.

I am so inflamed that it seems natural that he should bear the brunt of my fury. My right hand flies up towards his cheek. It never connects. Instead, a band of steel curls around my forearm.

‘Don’t ever do that again. I don’t like it,’ he says very softly.

I try to wrench my hand out of his grasp, but it’s like someone has poured concrete around it.  His impassive eyes watch my puny struggles almost curiously. Like a child watching an insect it has caught before it pulls its wings off.

I take a deep breath. ‘Let me go,’ I cry.

He curls his finger and starts stroking my inside walls, and I feel my body begin to respond to his manipulation. Oh no. I can’t allow him to take total control of my body again. I stare into his eyes.

‘Please,’ I beg. My voice sounds strange and strangled.

One corner of his mouth lifts. It makes him look at once beautiful and cruel. He pulls his finger out of me and releases my hand. ‘Fly away little bird,’ he says dismissively.

I feel so ashamed tears start to burn my eyes. No man has ever reduced me to a feeling of such utter lack of worth. To him I am nothing but a sexual object. A thing.  He thought I was offering myself, and he just helped himself even after I objected. Now he is just getting rid of me. My knees feel like jelly.

I press my lips together and take a sideways step. Some part of my brain tries to make sense of what has just happened. It’s OK, you’ll never see him again. No one will ever know what happened here today. It’s just one of those inexplicable moments you have never experienced before. A powerful man totally floors an inexperienced idiot!

I straighten my spine. You know what, I can do the walk of shame. So what? I take one step in the direction of the door and another step and then another step. I put my hand on the handle and his voice, like warm honey, pours into my ears.

‘Hey, if you ever need help or anything, anything at all, call me.’

I shouldn’t have responded. It would have been better, more dignified, to walk out the door without even an acknowledgement that he has spoken. Instead, I whirl around.

‘If you think I need more of what you just dished out you are very much mistaken. You can take your arrogant offer and stuff it up your ass.’

‘The world is a dangerous place,
rybka
. You don’t know when you need a helping hand. It is better to have a friend than an enemy.’

I look at him scornfully. A man like him could never be a friend of mine. He’s the exact opposite of me. This man has ice water flowing in his veins. I nearly fainted once at a pearl farm when I found exactly how pearls are harvested. They cut through the flesh of the poor oyster and dig around in its flesh until they locate the pearl. Ugh!  He is as unfeeling as those workmen.

‘I wouldn’t come to you if you were the last fucking man on earth.’

He shrugs. ‘One day you will come to me again and you will be eager for what I dish out.’

‘You’ll die believing that.’