You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (3 page)

‘I made you come harder than you’ve ever come using just one finger. You’ll be back for more,’ he says confidently.

I feel heat start climbing up my neck. ‘You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

I shake my head with disgust. There is no way to win an argument with someone who cannot be made to feel ashamed of their rude and arrogant ways. I open the door and walk out.

Zane

I
watch her leave the room and hear the muffled sound of her footsteps go down the best of Italy’s pink marble. I hit the button on the intercom. Noah replies almost instantly.

‘Get Corrine to come up,’ I tell him, and remove my finger from the button.

I open a drawer and take out a condom. I tear it open and fit it onto my dick. The door opens and Corrine slinks in with a seductive smile. She is blonde with long legs and a great pair of tits. She is wearing a semi transparent white blouse, no bra, an extremely short black skirt, and as I have stipulated, no panties.

I don’t like wasting time.

I grab her by the wrist and throw her against the wall. She gasps as I rip her top open. Her pink-tipped breasts strain forward. I look at them without any feeling. I am dead inside.

‘Suck my nipples, Zane, please,’ she begs.

I’m not in the mood for that. If my mouth gets anywhere near those breasts, I’ll bite hard enough to leave marks. I feel that vicious.

I hold my hand out and she immediately hooks her leg over it, giving me an uninterrupted view of her shaved, beautifully swollen and creaming sex. I never got to see the other one’s pussy. It is her pussy I want to see open and dripping for me. I won’t rest until I have her in this position of utter submission. Until the day I train her to hook her leg onto my hand and beg me to suck her nipples and slam hard into her, I won’t be satisfied.

I ram my cock directly into Corrine’s little hole and she makes a grunting sound. Today the sound irritates me. I place my palm over her mouth and twist her face to the side so that I don’t have to look into her eyes, and carry on thrusting hard.

The room fills with the wet sound of my flesh slapping hers. I come in record time, so quickly, in fact, that Corrine moans and desperately rubs her unsatisfied sex against me in a submissive, almost animal like begging gesture. I stay still with my palm covering her mouth and her leg hooked over my hand, until she finds her own release.

Immediately I pull out of her clinging body and turn away, but not before I glimpse into her half-hooded eyes. At the desire and need still shining in them.

‘Zane, I—’ she whispers.

‘Get out,’ I say coldly.

I hear the sound of her clothes rustling, a small sulky sniff. It’s nearly time to get rid of her. She leaves and I feel like punching the wall.

‘Damn you,’ I grate. ‘Damn you to hell.’

Dahlia Fury

www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxRQNO8vg2Y

‘Y
ou look beautiful tonight,’ Mark says.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur sweetly.

Mark Sterling is gorgeous, and in the candlelight he seems even brooding and mysterious like a romantic figure from one of Byron’s poems.  So why, dammit, is there not even a tiny sliver of the seething desire and excitement I felt when I stood in front of the Russian?
Maybe because the Russian was hotter than the devil’s dick.

Shit! I’m at it again. I pull the handbrake on my runaway thoughts.

Zane, I remind myself firmly, is a cold-blooded criminal, a total jerk, and almost certainly, a dyed in the wool misogynist. He treated me shamefully. To be precise: like a piece of meat. Any smart person would have just chalked the experience up as the shittiest day of their lives and promptly put it behind them, but what do I do?

During the first week—and if I am honest for the two weeks that followed—I jumped like a demented frog every time the phone rang, and paced the living room carpet like a caged animal from the moment Stella left to go to her appointments with him until she came back. As soon as I heard her key in the door I would hop onto the couch and pretend I was watching TV. Then I would pathetically try to engage her in conversations designed to make her mention him. The end result of all my efforts was: no phone calls, no text messages, and apparently no change in his attitude towards Stella either.

There was no other conclusion to be had. He was an asshole and I was a moron. To my everlasting disgust I even used to dream of him. Some of my dreams should be classified as nightmares.

The worst one was when I dreamt I was lying in my bed and he entered my bedroom. He stood over my bed and calmly started peeling off that big-assed cobra tattoo, the one that started at his shoulder and curled itself all the way down his arm right down to his wrist. The skin-cobra suddenly became a real cobra in his hand, and the asshole threw it at me.

In order to be faster than the snake, I kicked at the wall like a Ninja boss and launched myself out of bed. The plan was essentially to land precisely and lightly the way a cat would on the floor, but I woke up on my back, shooting pains in my shoulders and hips. While I was still groaning in pain and trying to get off the floor, Stella opened the door and switched on the light.

‘Fucking hell, what was that bloody noise?’ she asked, blinking in the bright light.

‘I fell.’

‘Well, you must be a darn sight heavier than you look, then,’ she grumbled before switching off the light and stumbling back to her room.

Inexplicably, months later, I still can’t seem to stop myself from drooling over the Mafia don. He is like an ache … an itch that hasn’t been taken care of. I just don’t know what to do about it.

‘More wine?’ Mark asks.

I am about to shake my head when the obvious occurs to me. Why the hell not? What am I waiting for? For my unhealthy obsession with the Russian to magically disappear? Why not be proactive? Why not get totally wasted and sleep with Mark tonight? It’s only a freaking itch. Let him scratch it. It’s high time I move on, and Mark is actually the kind of guy any mother would kill, oh well, maybe not kill, but she’d maybe walk a few miles barefoot on hot coals, to have as her son-in-law. He is kind, well educated, good-looking (he might even be prettier than me), polite, strong, stable, to all intents and purposes, fairly loaded; and he treats me like a Princess.

‘Sure,’ I say, and watch him top up my glass. He does it, as he does everything, deftly with inborn elegance.

I pick up my glass, hold it out to him, and with a slow, sexy smile, say, ‘To tonight.’

My meaning is not lost on him. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. One month I have kept him hanging on. Poor man can hardly believe that tonight he’s getting lucky.

He puts his hand out and grasps mine. I feel his eyes on my body, admiring, caressing. I look down at our entwined fingers, then back up to his face. We share a look, and I am suddenly struck by the rightness of my decision. Mark’s a good man. I should consider myself very fortunate. I smile again and he smiles back super slowly. His eyes are shining. Oh fuck! He’s in love with me. My smile falters.

His grip on my hand tightens. His expression changes, and steely determination glimmers in his eyes. Apparently there’s a lot more to solicitous Mark than meets the eye.

‘I’m a patient man, Dahlia. I know what I want and I’m prepared to wait forever if I need to, so you just take it at your own pace, all right?’

‘All right.’

I stare at him. Half of me pities him, and the other half admires his quiet resolve. I’d love to be that unshakeable. He focuses his gaze on me and I find my eyes sliding away. I reach out for my glass and hurriedly take a large gulp of wine. It goes down the wrong way and I end up in a coughing fit. Mark leaves his chair and comes over to me.  He gets on his haunches by my side. My eyes are watering. Thank god for waterproof mascara.

‘Are you all right,’ he asks gently.

I take the napkin away from my mouth and dab under my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ I choke.

‘Good,’ he says softly. ‘Because I’m
really
looking forward to the rest of the night.’

I smile shakily at him and realize that I don’t even need to get drunk to sleep with him. It’s the right thing to do. He’ll help me forget the Russian prick.

‘You can call for the check if you want to. I’m ready to go,’ I tell him.

He grins. He cannot help the victorious look in his eyes. ‘I love the way you Americans call the bill a check,’ he teases.

‘I love the way you English call the check a bill,’ I tell him.

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a rich sound and I think, yes, maybe I can grow to love this man. He stands up, goes to his side of the table, settles the bill, and we leave.

It is a lovely autumn evening. The sky is filled with splashes of orange and red as we walk to his dark green BMW. He opens the passenger door for me and I thank him and slide in. Inside the car he switches on the music. G.R.L’s
Ugly Heart
comes on. It is such a sassy, kick ass song about breaking free from a pretty boy with an ugly heart that I know what my sister would say. Take it as a sign from the universe that you’ve made the right decision. I turn to look at Mark’s profile and smile to myself.

The other thing with ugly heart was purely a moment of madness. This, I lecture myself, is reality. This is what my parents had. This is what makes a successful relationship. Not that uncontrollable fire and lust. This is what is required to bring children into the world and nurture them. This is what a woman can grow old beside. This is the something warm and comfortable that I will be able to slip into on a cold, rainy English night. Yes, that’s the right word. It will be comfortable. In time I’ll forget the other’s face. I’ll forget those silvery-blue eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul.

Mark’s apartment is in a really good part of St. John’s Wood. It is tranquil and civilized. We go up to his apartment without speaking and he closes the door.

‘I have an excellent bottle of Sancerre. 2009. Up for a glass?’ he asks.

‘Bring it on,’ I say with a grin.

‘Look who’s so full of surprises tonight,’ he says, tossing his keys onto a sideboard. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in there?’ he suggests, nodding towards the living room.

‘OK,’ I say, and start moving towards it.

He has a nice flat. The décor is a bit dull with dark wood and paintings of fox hunting on the walls, but nothing I couldn’t eventually fix. A sliding door leads to a balcony that has a great view of the park. I know because I have been here once before. The door to the master bedroom is open and I glance at the giant bed with its fluffy white throw. My first and instinctive reaction is to avert my eyes. The response irritates and annoys me.
Come on, Dahlia. This is simply the next step in your relationship. One that has been a long time coming.

I hear him opening the fridge, the cork popping, and the clink of glasses. I am standing at the glass door looking down at the park when the lights in the room dim. I turn around and he advances holding a wine bottle by the neck in one hand and two glasses in the other.

‘Awesome view.’ Shit, I said that the last time too.

‘Yes, I rather like it,’ he says casually, and moves towards a long, chocolate leather couch. I follow him and sit beside him, quite close, but not touching. He hands me my drink. I take a sip and put it down on the glass table. He picks up one of the remote controls lying on the table and presses one of the buttons. Soft unrecognizable music fills the air.

I clear my throat.

‘Just relax. There’s no pressure to do anything,’ he reassures gently.

I’m not actually nervous. I’m just not turned on. I take another sip of my wine.

He trails his finger along my wrist. Inside me nothing happens. There is no desire to do anything to him or with him. This is not a good sign, so I put the glass back on the coffee table, lean forward and lay my hand on his thigh.

‘Oh Dahlia,’ he mutters, and grabs me quite masterfully as he swoops down on my mouth.

Good start, Mark.

As it turns out he’s a good kisser. Just enough of everything. He doesn’t force his tongue into my mouth either. His hand slides under my top and goes around to my back looking for my bra’s clasp. Finding none, he returns to the front where he defeats it in one efficient movement.

OK, he’s done this before.

He breaks the kiss and looking deeply into my eyes starts unbuttoning my top. He pulls the material aside to expose my breasts.

‘God, you have fabulous breasts,’ he says thickly.

‘Wait till you see my ass,’ I quip, but he is in no mood for jokes.

He bends his head and takes a nipple in his mouth. It feels pretty good and I give him a small encouraging moan. He begins to suck harder, but not enough to cause pain. He has technique, I have to give him that. My brain doesn’t feel like it is exploding in my head or anything like that, but I start to enjoy the sensation. Maybe people shouldn’t knock comfortable sex so much.

My mobile rings suddenly. The sound is jarring and I freeze.

He lifts his head. His warm, brown eyes are dark with passion. ‘Don’t take it,’ he orders throatily.

‘Um … it could be an emergency. I’ll just be two secs,’ I say apologetically.

‘All right. Go ahead,’ he sighs.

I pull the edges of my top together and scratch around inside my bag. I can’t imagine who could be calling me at this time of the night. I look at the screen and it is my mother. Mom never calls on my mobile. She thinks it’s a waste of money. We communicate almost exclusively via Skype.

With a frown I accept the call.