“Blyat, Lucy. Blyat.” I stroke my hands all over her body, gratitude following fast on the heels of my pleasure.
Forgiveness.
Affection, even.
I wait until her orgasm has passed and she’s regained her breath before I ease out and get a washcloth to clean her up.
She doesn’t wait but walks past me into the bathroom. I hand her the washcloth, and she points to the door. “A little privacy?”
I shake my head. “Be nice or I’ll use my belt next time I punish you.”
Her eyes flare, but I’m certain it’s half with excitement. I walk out and shut the door. Let her have her privacy. She’ll have very little of it here with me.
I will own her every minute. Monitor her every communication, control her entire existence.
So yeah, if she wants to rinse off alone after I fuck her, she can have that tiny win.
There won’t be all that many.
Lucy
My legs tremble and my ass tingles with heat. Mostly, I just feel pleasure. The post-orgasmic languor of heavy limbs and bliss.
All those nights watching Russian porn trying to get myself off, I never got any satisfaction. Even when I did bring myself to orgasm.
But I’ll be damned if I tell Ravil that he satisfied me.
Asshole.
I partly hate myself right now for letting him do that. It’s just that he’s already proven himself a careful and attentive lover. And this pregnancy has me so damn horny.
Besides, I’m a feminist. I don’t believe that sex is the only power a woman has—a gift to be given or withheld. That’s bullshit. A remnant of patriarchal rule. Not one we need to subscribe to.
That sex was for me, even if it did look degrading.
And I got what I needed out of it.
And if he happened to enjoy it, too, well, good for him. It might help our negotiations.
I use the toilet and then turn on the shower. As I’m stepping in, Ravil knocks lightly and opens the door. He holds up my cosmetic bag for me to see and sets it on the counter before backing out again and shutting the door.
A chill runs down my spine remembering that man packed my things today. Moved me in with him. His threat to take me to Russia for the duration of the pregnancy is believable enough that I’m scared. He obviously has a great deal of money and connections. He doesn’t care about laws. He does what he wants.
Takes what he wants.
This is the type of man I wanted out of my son’s life.
But unless I come up with a way to get rid of Ravil, that won’t be possible.
I’m not capable of murder. So that leaves prison. I need to use my time here to observe and collect evidence of crimes. I could build a case and hand it over to the district attorney. Get Ravil put away.
I’d have to come up with a way to make sure whatever I put him in for sticks. And keeps him in there at least twenty years.
Unease prickles all over my skin. The chance of such a plan backfiring looms large. If I tried to put him away—whether I was successful or not—chances are good there’d be retribution. If not from him, then from his “family”. They seem tight. And he could still give orders from prison.
I shiver under the hot water.
It’s a bad plan. My options are severely limited. I keep thinking.
Better plan—collect the evidence. Store it somewhere very safe. Use it as leverage on him.
Yes, that’s a decent strategy.
So I just need to treat my time here as a chance to spy on Ravil.
Find out everything I can about him and his operation.
And if he happens to satisfy my rather ravenous sexual needs during this time, there’s no harm in that, is there?
No.
I finish my shower and step out, grabbing a soft gray towel from the wire rack. It’s fluffy and absorbent, and it feels heavenly against my sensitive skin. Well, at least I get to live in luxury while I’m here.
I wrap the towel around my hair and walk out, naked. “I’m hungry.” I’m not usually rude or demanding, but frankly, he deserves it.
Ravil’s sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He’s still in his button-down shirt and slacks, which he barely took down to have sex with me. The contrast of the business attire with the tattoos across his knuckles and at his neck is sexier than it should be.
The bad boy who arrived. Who reached the height of success despite his bad boy ways.
“What are you hungry for, kotyonok?” He’s unruffled by my complaint.
“Chicken wings,” I blurt. “With honey barbecue sauce.” It’s true, that’s exactly what I’m craving, but I’m also testing him. He said I’m here so he can take care of me during the pregnancy. I’m going to make him work. I’m going to act like a freaking pregnant diva.
It doesn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. He picks up his phone and hits a button. He says something in Russian to whoever answers, then ends the call.
“Your wings are on the way,” he says mildly.
I’m irrationally happy at that. Only because when a pregnant woman has a craving, it really does feel like the end of the world if she doesn’t get it. I swear, sometimes I get so hungry I want to cry. I haven’t resorted to ordering takeout at ten at night or whatever time it is now, but I sure have wanted to.
Ravil’s gaze roves over my naked body.
I don’t hate being pregnant like some women do. I actually thought I might, but after I broke up with Jeffrey, I’d really feared it was too late for me. That it would never happen. And so, until now, this baby has felt a bit like a miracle. I relished all the changes my body’s gone through. Even the less-than-pleasant ones like getting up to pee twice in the middle of the night and wanting to cry at sappy commercials.
Still, no one has seen me naked since I changed shape.
“Prekrasnyy,” Ravil murmurs.
“What does that mean?”
“Beautiful. Truly. I’ve never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in my life.”
Three things simultaneously grow warm—my chest, my neck and my lady parts.
“What else can I get you, kitten? More of this?” He holds out the glass of cucumber water.
“May I just have some plain water?” The cucumbers were nice at first, but they don’t sound good anymore.
“Of course.” He picks up his phone again. When he gets off, he tugs down the covers of the bed. “Come. Cover yourself. Or put on your pajamas. If my men see you naked, I’ll have to kill them.”
I shoot a glance at his face because I’m not sure how serious he is. Does he really feel possessive of me?
He doesn’t smile.
Okay, then.
That sets my thoughts on a hamster wheel. Does he think I belong to him now? Is he claiming me along with this baby? Or do I have some chance of him letting me go? Of course, I wouldn’t want to leave without my baby, and he knows that. In fact, that would be the worst possible outcome.
So should I want him to claim me as his, too?
That thought’s too crazy to even consider.
I pull on my camisole and pajama shorts and climb under the sheet. He hands me my laptop with my phone resting on top of it.
“Listen to me, Lucy.” He doesn’t release his hold on the laptop when I try to take it from him.
I meet his icy blue gaze.