Ruthless vows a dark maf.., p.6
Ruthless Vows: A Dark Mafia Standalone Romance, page 6
A man like him, as brutal as he is, has ambitions beyond harassing a single escort who didn’t please him.
It’s the better part of an hour before there’s a knock on my dressing room door. I’m back in my street clothes—black skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a tank top under a cropped leather jacket for the spring chill outside—but I’d waited for specifically this reason, because I assumed that Nikolai would want to talk to me.
“Come in,” I call out as I zip up my makeup pouch and slip it back into a drawer. The standard dressing rooms that the other girls use are typically a mess of makeup, hair products, beauty tools, lingerie, and heels everywhere, and it always makes me glad that I have my own room. I like the room to be neat when I arrive for work, so no matter how tired I am at the end of the night, I make an effort to clean it up. I always feel more relaxed walking into a clean, neat space at the start of my shift.
“Asha, I’m so sorry.” Nikolai is already speaking from the moment he steps into the room. “How badly did he hurt you?”
“A few bruises, but nothing that won’t heal in a few days—”
“Take the week off,” Nikolai says immediately. “You need time to heal up—”
“No.” I shake my head at him, slipping my makeup brushes back into their bag. “I don’t want to sit at home and stew over it. All of my clients for the next two weeks want a domme, and I can do that, no problem. They won’t touch me. I’d rather just keep to my usual routine. Anything else is just going to make me feel worse.”
Nikolai lets out a heavy breath, but he nods. “Fine,” he says, although his expression doesn’t look pleased. “I don’t necessarily think that’s what’s best, but if you do, then I’ll defer to that.”
“Thanks.” I give him as much of a smile as I can muster. “I promise I’m fine. That’s what Damon and the other guys are for, right? And the panic buttons. It almost never happens, but you have all the precautions for if it does, and it all worked exactly the way it’s supposed to. I’m not upset, Nikolai. As long as he doesn’t come back,” I add, and Nikolai nods quickly.
“Of course not.” He shakes his head. “Ignoring a safeword is an instant ban. You know that. I’d never break that rule for anyone. Not even for information.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t.” I want to say that I’d known he wouldn’t, but I’m aware that Nikolai is more than just the man who runs this club. He’s a Bratva pakhan, which means his methods of doing things go beyond what an ordinary boss might do. There’s a side to him that I’ve never really seen and know very little about—just enough to know that it would have kept things from ever really working out between us. It also means that while I always hope Nikolai will do the right thing, I can never be completely sure.
“There are other ways to get information,” Nikolai says firmly. He steps completely into the room then, shutting the door as he walks towards me, and I go very still. He hasn’t been this close to me in a long time, and while I tell myself it doesn’t matter, having him within touching distance makes my breath catch in my throat, and my heartbeat quicken in my chest. “Asha, I—”
He lets out a slow breath, and I know he won’t touch me. He’s too devoted to Lilliana for that—the kind of love I really hadn’t been sure he was capable of feeling, as harsh as that sounds. But it just took a certain woman to bring it out of him, I suppose.
“I know things used to be different between us,” he says quietly. “We never really talked about it. I know what you felt was different, too—I’m not blind. I ignored it because I think we both knew there was no future in it. But tonight—”
“Nikolai.” I shake my head, stepping away from him. “We don’t need to talk about it. We really don’t.”
“It scared me, knowing you were in danger like that,” he admits. “I think I cared for you more than I knew. It doesn’t change anything, but I want you to know—”
“I know enough,” I say as firmly as I can, because I don’t want to hear anything else. I don’t want to hear what might have been or if I were a different man, or any of that. “You love Lilliana.”
“I do.” He nods. “I’m not saying anything against that or that there could be anything between us again. Just, back then—”
He’s trying to reassure me that it wasn’t all one-sided, in the awkward sort of way that men like Nikolai have when it comes to talking about their feelings, as if that makes it better.
“We don’t need to retread this. Especially not tonight.” I force another tight smile. “It’s better if we just leave it be, Nikolai. You’re happy, and I’ve moved past it. We can leave it like that. Otherwise, it makes the job too complicated, you know? And I know you don’t want to lose me.” I say it teasingly, but I can tell from the look on his face that the humor doesn’t exactly land.
I see the question in his eyes, have you really? He’s wise enough not to say it, at least, and he just nods.
“I called an Uber for you,” he tells me. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with it tonight. It should be outside waiting for you by now. Get some rest, Asha.”
“I will.” I swallow hard, looking at him once more, at that handsome, chiseled face that I once knew so intimately. Whatever emotions he was trying to express before, they’re shuttered now, the cool professionalism firmly back in place. Good, I think to myself as I tell him goodnight and reach for my purse, walking quickly to the stairs. I don’t need more emotion tonight, more retreading of the past.
I need to blow off some steam.
On another night, I might have hit the twenty-four-hour gym that I have a membership at, but I can feel the soreness starting to settle in, and what I want more is a hot shower. So instead, I go down to the Uber that Nikolai was kind enough to call for me and slip in, leaning my head back against the warm leather seat as I’m driven home.
I’m already stripping off my clothes from the moment I walk in my front door—my jacket tossed on the kitchen counter as I pass by, kicking my boots off, tank top stripped over my head as I walk into the bathroom. My apartment is tiny—the kitchen is right next to the front entrance, a postage-stamp-sized living room, and the bathroom is situated right next to my small bedroom. It could be cramped or cozy, depending on the occupant’s perspective, but I like to think of it as cozy.
Right now, I’m just happy to be about to get into a hot shower.
I turn the water up as hot as I can stand, tossing my clothes into a pile on the linoleum of the bathroom floor, and step under the spray. I want Matvei’s touch scrubbed off of me, any hint of it, any lingering scent or feeling that he might have left behind.
Most nights, I come home and shower and fall directly into bed. I’ve gotten very good at leaving the club behind its closed doors, and not bringing any of my work home with me, so to speak. But tonight, it’s not just the clinging, gross feeling of being touched by Matvei that sticks with me. As that lingering sense floods down the drain, a feeling of relief taking its place, my thoughts drift back to the man at the bar before I realize where they’re headed.
I’ve never fantasized about anyone from the club. Nikolai is the exception, but once again, he doesn’t really count. I’ve never had a client that I thought about later, imagining other things I might do with them, other scenarios—or even replaying the scenes we played out in private at the club. I forget it all from the moment I walk outside the Ashen Rose—it’s the only way to do this job and maintain some sense of self, I’ve found.
But I keep thinking about his eyes on me, the way his gaze roved over me, half-hungry and half-guilty, as if he wanted me desperately and felt as if he shouldn’t. I can think of so many delicious ways to exploit that, so many ways I could make him beg for me, for all the wonderful, pleasurable, torturous things I could do to him. So many ways that I could strain that sense of self-respect that he so clearly has, and was so clearly struggling with.
I feel that clench of desire deep in my belly, my blood warming at the memory of his lustful stare, the way I could see him resisting the urge to walk up on that stage and do all the things running through his head. He’d been gorgeous too, the kind of man who, unless he has very specific desires, doesn’t usually come to a place like the Ashen Rose. He wouldn’t need to spend that kind of money just to get a girl in bed. A man who looks that good typically has a reason for buying a girl—and the clear discomfort I’d seen in the red-haired man’s face is why I’m so sure he was with the guest at the poker table.
Which also means I’ll never see him again.
I shouldn’t feel the flush of disappointment that spreads through me at that—or let my thoughts wander to what might happen if he did come back. I feel myself tighten and throb at the thought of having him alone, seeing that hungry gaze close up, seeing that tension of need running through his body. I can easily imagine him bound on his back on the padded bench, stripped bare—
There’s another flush of heat between my legs. I quickly shut off the water, reaching for a towel, suddenly eager to get to bed with that image still filling my mind. I walk naked into my bedroom, opening the drawer in my nightstand that has my assortment of toys, and glance over what’s there.
What does his cock look like? I try to imagine the thick ridge of it, straining against his fly, eager to be set free. I choose one that’s almost this side of too big, a cock that would be a little of a strain to take. I can imagine him tied down, that thick cock jutting up from his hips, lips pressed together as I tease him with my fingers, stroking the veins. Beg me to take it, I’d tell him, hovering over him, just close enough that my arousal would drip onto him, hot and wet, teasing him with how close the tight pleasure of my pussy is to the head of his cock, relief just out of reach. Tell me how you want to split me open with your big cock. If you beg well enough, maybe you can put the tip in.
I think he’d resist. I imagine that resistance, the guilt on his face at thinking of talking to me that way, of wanting it, as I kneel in the center of the mattress, hovering over the thick toy in my hand as I imagine it. He’d try not to say it, the pleading in his face so much worse when I just barely rubbed my wet pussy over the tip, enough to get that hot arousal all over his sensitive flesh, and he’d moan and writhe and try to thrust up into me, but he’d be tied down, unable to get his hips up enough to feel that tight pressure where he needs it the most—
The flood of desire that courses through me catches even me off guard. Lately, when I have played with myself, it’s more to get to sleep than anything else. I don’t imagine anyone in particular, not since Nikolai got married, and I feel guilty for remembering our times together that way. It’s been more like scratching an itch, easing a need like eating or sleeping or drinking. But right now—
I want the man from the bar. I don’t even remember his name, have no idea who he is or what he does or anything about him, but I’m aching at the fantasy of having him naked and at my mercy, that thick cock dripping pre-cum for me, twitching at every touch, those full, soft-looking lips of his parted on a plea for me to stroke him, suck him, fuck him. I imagine arching over him, rubbing my fingers over my clit the way I had on the stage, teasing him with an up-close and personal view of the show I put on tonight, rubbing those fingers over his lips so he could get a taste.
Some men want to be fucked by their dommes after a period of extended begging, others get off on the denial, on the just-out-of-reach tease that sometimes has them coming without ever even being touched. I don’t know which one he would be—hell, I don’t know if he even likes that—but I imagine his pleading voice as he finally gives in, begging for just a minute in my pussy, that that’s all he needs, and how I’d slide down torturously slowly—
I sink down onto the toy, gasping aloud as I clench around it, the fingers of my other hand circling my slick, throbbing clit as I take the toy in inch by inch, imagining the man’s face twisting with pleasure, his body jerking against the cuffs holding him down, his hips desperate to thrust, unable to move. I imagine controlling every inch of his pleasure, sliding back up as I ripple over his length, hovering over him again with his cock glistening with my arousal, telling him to beg me again if he wants another stroke. I could torment him for a long time like that, one slow thrust at a time, letting him twitch and jerk helplessly in between, just enough pleasure to keep him rock-hard but not enough to let him come.
Maybe I’d let him, maybe I wouldn’t. Some of it would depend on his specified desires, of course, but this is my fantasy tonight, and in my head, I get off of him, making him think I’m going to leave him like that, hard and throbbing, the veins on his cock standing out until he pants and begs, and then I’d give him my mouth, wrapping my lips around just the head and sucking until he screamed out his pleasure, bursting between my lips—
My entire body tightens, thrusting down on the toy as I tip my head back and cry out, my fingers rubbing quickly over my clit as I feel my orgasm course through me, a release I didn’t know I needed until now. And the moment I come, a strange thought bursts through my head—the image of him looking up at me as I suck his orgasm out of him; words growled at me with a sudden force.
Swallow all my fucking cum, and I won’t punish you once I’m out of these cuffs.
I’ve never gotten off on submission. Not like that. But the words claw through my brain, intensifying the pleasure until I’m rocking down onto the toy, clenching around it as I imagine him pulsing inside of my mouth, those threatening words pushing me to swallow every drop, licking him clean as he murmurs good girl, and I’m suddenly craving those hands on my body, running through my hair, those muscled arms pulling me into him as I wait for him to get hard again so I can fuck us like we both need—
The climax ebbs, the pleasure spiraling away, and as I come back to myself, I feel a strange, startled sensation replace the bliss. What is going on with me? I slip the toy free, setting it aside for a moment to let my thighs stop trembling before I go and clean up, and I shake my head, trying to jolt the fantasy loose. After tonight of all nights, I don’t know why I’m getting off imagining being told what to do. I hate being called a good girl. And I don’t like cuddling, not even with people I see outside of the club. I like my space, my independence. I don’t even like bringing dates over to my place; I’d rather go to theirs. I don’t want someone else’s cologne or perfume on my pillow, the scent of their skin lingering on my sheets, traces of them left behind. My apartment is my safe space, a place that is only mine.
Closeness creates more problems than it soothes. And I have never wanted anyone that close.
Most of all, I want freedom. Once upon a time, I had something keeping me held in place. And I know the cost of wanting that. Of needing anything other than myself.
It’s too high. And I never plan to want or need it again.
Finn
Two days later, I’m still thinking about the girl from the Ashen Rose.
I’d never tell anyone else that. Allan and Flynn—Flynn especially—would never let me hear the end of it, and there’s no one else I’d tell that I saw a girl for hire at an exclusive sex club and can’t get her out of my head.
I definitely wouldn’t tell anyone that I went home and jerked off again thinking about how her sweet pussy might taste on my lips, or that every time I’ve wrapped my hand around my cock since then, she’s found her way into my thoughts, no matter how hard I try to think about something else. Jerking off is usually a once-a-night or every couple of nights thing for me, something to take the edge off so I can focus, but I’ve gotten hard more times than I have in years over the past couple of days. Pretty much every time she pops into my head, which is more than she should, considering I’ll never see her again.
There’s no reason for me to. I can’t afford a membership, and I don’t think Flynn’s getting another guest pass. Even if I somehow managed to leverage some of the minor connections I have to get in, I can’t afford her. She’s going to stay exactly what she is right now—an unattainable fantasy, which means that thinking about her is a waste of time.
If only I didn’t get off so goddamn hard every time. Jerking off is never as good as fucking, but thinking about her while doing it is damn close. Which just makes me wonder even more—
Quit it, O’Sullivan, I tell myself as I park my motorcycle in front of the building, steeling myself for another meeting. Nikolai will be at this one, as a part of the truce between his family and Theo’s, since we’re here today to talk about what to do about the upstart Russian who is nosing in on territory, trying to make a name for himself.
Matvei Kotov. Even the name makes him sound like a little shit, I think privately to myself as I tuck my keys in my pocket and stride to the elevator, shrugging out of my leather jacket as I do. Unfortunately, after being at the Ashen Rose, thinking of him also makes me think of that woman on stage—and thinking of them together causes a confusing, tangled flood of anger and arousal that throbs through me with equal strength.
Stop being such a fucking idiot. I have no reason to be angry at him for touching her. She was the prize for that damn poker game, and he won—no surprise, too, because from what I saw when I wasn’t staring at the dark-haired woman, he had iron concentration and a hell of a poker face. Both of which are good things to know, incidentally, when it comes to discussing with the other Kings and Nikolai how we’re going to stop him from becoming a real problem.
What won’t help is thinking about her—or getting angry because he got to take her upstairs and I didn’t, like I have any right to feel possessive over her.
Nikolai is already at the table with a handful of the other Kings when I arrive, some of the seats still waiting to be filled. He gives me a nod as I sit down to conference Theo in, and I wonder if he noticed me at the club last weekend. Is there some kind of protocol against saying something? I wonder as I bring up the screen for the video call. I don’t know how that kind of shit works—I’m not in the habit of buying women, or of knowing people personally who I’d make that exchange with. Before that night, I’d only ever been to run-of-the-mill strip clubs. Nothing like the Rose.
