The elevator glides to a stop and the doors open. Sasha sweeps his arm out and I take a few hesitant steps forward until I’m standing in an open concept entryway. He strides past and for a brief second, I consider darting back into the elevator, but before I gather my nerves, the panels close with a soft whoosh.
I sag against the wall next to it as my fingers curl into fists at my hips. Sasha turns and stares at me with an intensity that causes me to shift my legs and rub my thighs to rub together in order to abate the tingles in my body. I’m burning up with temptation but I’m also ice cold from the reality of my situation.
I’ve been taken by the Bratva’s enforcer.
Unable to look away, the sexual tension between us thickens, as does the silence. Will he fuck me as soon as I move? Throw me down and just take me? Expect some degrading act? Fear laces with arousal. I’ve kissed boys here and there. The closest to touching I’ve gone was before my last recital when Lance Buchannan cupped me inappropriately during a dance lift. I haven’t thought of that in years. He was mugged after the show, injured, and never danced again. My guess is karma had something to do with it, but the memory doesn’t help as I stare into dark eyes intent on devouring me whole.
Sasha closes the short distance between us. His hand moves up into my hair at my nape and squeezes slightly. His thumb gently rubs up and down like I’m a scared pet ready to bolt. I am scared, but exhaustion is closing in. I couldn’t fight him off if I had to. More importantly, do I want to?
“Come, solnishko.”
I lick my dry lips and his attention falls to them. Neither of us move and the question spills from my mouth before I can stop it. “Will you do it now?”
He grunts and takes a step back crossing his arms over his chest. His body continues to block out my view of what I presume is his fuck pad. He probably brings all sorts of women here. I don’t like how that makes me feel. Except, he isn’t mine. I’m not really his, either, and this arrangement isn’t permanent. If I can hold him off for the next thirty days, I might be okay.
“Will I do what, Natalya?” His gaze bores down and the tingles from before intensify.
“F–fuck me?”
Sasha chuckles, a loud booming sound that’s startling. I try to move back, but I’m already pinned against the wall. Trapped in here with a killer and, most likely, a madman. What will he do to my father if he can’t pay in the month he’s given him? What about my mother and my siblings? I bite my bottom lip. His eyes narrow.
“I don’t fuck scared little girls.” His Russian accent hits the consonants hard and he steps back into my space.
I shift my weight. He puts his hands up on the wall on either side of my head, and I turn my cheek to rest on the cool wall as his breath skates over my face and neck. He smells a little like the deli, briny pickles and salty meat, but it’s Sasha’s unique scent that permeates my senses. It’s dark, spicy, and masculine. His nose bumps under my eye, and I squeeze them shut to block out his stare. A tear escapes and I hold a shuddering breath back.
“When I fuck you, solnishko, you will be begging me for it.”
I gasp and open my eyes. He pushes himself off the wall and walks deeper into the open room.
“Come. I don’t like having to repeat myself.” Sasha waves his hand in the air and, like a good pet, I follow his command.
As I step down into the living room, my thighs rub together. Shame washes over me. My emotions are like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth. My core is damp and my breasts ache where he grazed his hand earlier. That’s never happened before with anyone else.
He heads toward the kitchen, leaving me standing there while a sense of loss comes over me. I glance around. Huge, blacked-out, floor-to-ceiling windows distort the outside view. At the end of the sunken living room is a U-shaped sofa. I let my fingertips touch the buttery soft leather and follow Sasha into the kitchen where he’s pulling open both sides of an extra large refrigerator. Lights hang over a white marble countertop.
“Hungry?” he asks over his shoulder.
“No,” I grumble, but my stomach decides to prove I’m a liar and growls.
His hands flex over the door handles before he reaches in and grabs several items. He shuts the door and turns, placing a few containers on the counter. I slide myself up on a bar stool while he opens them, grabs plates and utensils, and then brings everything over to me.
The selection of salads, sliced meats, and other assorted foods smell divine. It all reminds me of home when my mother was well enough to cook these things from scratch. Luka and Lydia always fought over the piroshki–they love the small meat pies–and kutia pudding.
“You will eat something.” Sasha holds a fork out for me.
“Nyet.” Since he didn’t take no in English for an answer, maybe he’ll do so in our mother tongue.
He puts the fork down and walks around the counter to stop in front of me.
“Would you rather eat or fuck?”
“What?” He can’t be serious. There’s no way he’d actually make me choose, would he?
“You can eat something, or I can fuck you.”
“Excuse me?” My voice screeches, echoing around the penthouse. “Did you hear me begging?”
Sasha’s gaze intensifies. “I can smell your arousal soaking through your jeans. I figured you changed your mind.”
I swallow back any smartass remarks and reach for the fork. He picks it up before I can and holds it out of my reach. My face burns like it’s on fire. I’ll eat, if that will temporarily keep him out of my pants. Despite my attraction to him, I’m not ready for this, and he’s a full on wrecking ball when it comes to my emotions.
“Ask me nicely, solnishko.”
I try grabbing it, but he continues to keep it out of my reach. Teasing me like a school-yard bully who taunts the girl he likes.
“Please.” It comes out in a growl.
“Please what?” Sasha cocks his head and shows me his perfect teeth.
In another life, or even a few hours earlier, I might have imagined he was flirting with me. Apparently Bratva enforcers have a sadistic sense of humor.
“May I please have the fork so I can eat something?” The words climb out of my throat like cut glass as I suck down my pride.
“So you can beg prettily. I will keep this in mind.” Sasha grins.
He could–would–have killed my dad tonight. He could have maimed him with the slicer, but he didn’t. I guess I’m supposed to be grateful for that. He finally extends the fork toward me. I grab it, but he doesn’t let go. There’s a brief tug of war before he relinquishes it. A part of me imagines stabbing him with it, but that won’t help my situation.
He pushes a salad in front of me. I duck my head and dig into it. I’m hungrier than I admitted to and shovel the food into my mouth. Flavors burst across my tongue. They’re so good I can’t stop the moan.
“Keep eating. I’ll be back shortly.” Sasha leaves the room.
I dig into the other containers, unconcerned with his whereabouts for the moment. There’s a foil-wrapped piroshki that tastes better than my mother’s, though I’ll never admit that out loud. By the time I’m stuffed, my energy has waned and the exhaustion of the day returns. I glance around for my messenger bag and find it on a table by the couch.