Chicago Bratva Series

Lucy

After stopping at a cafe near work to eat a quick dinner, I take a cab home. My feet are too swollen to even consider taking the El and walking the few blocks to my place.

I limp out of the elevator and open my apartment door, dropping my work satchel inside the door. My place is small but immaculate because I need order around me to manage everything on my plate. I turn on the lamp by the door. I have one heel already kicked off before I catch sight of my luggage standing near the door.

What the—?

I suck in a sharp breath, filling my lungs to—

“Don’t scream.” He barely speaks it. Just a low intonation from the shadowed figure in the armchair in my living room over by the window.

My heart stutters and thuds painfully when I identify him, one elegant leg crossed over the other, lounging back like he owns the place.

He unfolds his large form from the chair with grace.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I catch the back of the sofa with my fingertips to steady the swoop of the room. Damn blood volume.

He doesn’t answer, just saunters toward me with a devilish smirk in place. Like he knows everything that’s about to happen and enjoys that I don’t.

Damn Russian.

“I came to get what’s mine.” He advances slowly.

The floor stops tilting enough for me to take my hand away from the couch and jab it into the purse still slung over my shoulder to find my phone. I might be able to call 911—

Ravil catches my wrist and takes the phone away, pocketing it.

Or not.

He divests me of the purse, which he drops on the floor by the satchel.

If he looked angry, if his touch had hurt me, I’m sure I would have screamed. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

In reality, I’m trapped in his azure gaze, memories of how he commanded my body so masterfully the last time we were together flooding back.

I find indulgence in his eyes... not rage. Only a hint of danger.

I put a hand protectively over my belly and take a step backward toward the door.

He catches my wrist again and pulls me back. Places my palm back on the sofa. “I liked you where you were, kotyonok.”

Kotyonok. His pet name for me.

Kitten.

He picks up my other hand and puts it on the back of the sofa, and I have no doubt why he enjoyed this position. I’m perfectly presented for a spanking. He presses down on the backs of both hands, his body crowding mine from behind. “Don’t. Move,” he murmurs against my ear.

I instantly rebel, pulling one hand up and away.

“Hmmm.” He’s patient. He catches my hand and pins it down again. “No safe words for you this time, kitten. But I’ll be gentle.”

He bands one arm around my waist and splays his hand over my growing belly. “You shouldn’t have kept this from me.”

I go still, breath clogged in my throat.

Ravil’s aggressiveness is leashed. Suave. He’s no more threatening than a handsy date, and yet I’m not foolish enough to underestimate him. He’s confident he holds all the cards here, and until I know what those cards are, I must be cautious. He rubs a slow circle over my baby bump.

I don’t insult his intelligence by attempting to play dumb. Say I didn’t know how to contact him. We both know I could’ve figured it out.

Keeping his hand over my belly, he uses the other to drag up the hem of my skirt in the back.

I’m wearing thigh-highs for hose—not to be sexy but because regular pantyhose are too hot to wear in July. Especially for a pregnant woman.

I hear Ravil’s intake of breath when he discovers them. “Fuck,” he chokes. “Who did you wear these for?”

I’m suddenly tempted to lie. To tell him there’s someone else. That I’m back together with Jeffrey, or maybe, I met someone new. Maybe that would stop his sexual advances.

Except I don’t want to stop the sexual advances. They are what frighten me the least about this man.

He’s already proven himself an attentive lover. He gave me the best orgasms of my life.

And I haven’t been with any man since.

So I opt for the truth. “They’re cooler than regular hose.”

“Cooler.” He practically purrs his approval. He strokes his palm around the left globe of my ass. “Yes. That would be important.” He arranges the skirt of my dress above my waist and nudges my feet wider. I wobble, still halfway in one heel, and he bends down to slip it off.

Like a modern-day Prince Charming, only his form of charming is quite a bit more terrifying.

“Your feet are swollen,” he remarks gruffly. “No more heels for you, kitten.” He tosses the shoe down the hall.

I’m tempted to challenge his right to make rules for me, only I’m afraid to discover his response. He certainly believes he has a right to one.

I’m inclined to believe he might.

His hand claps down on my ass with a surprising smack.

“Hey!” I jolt upright and try to swivel my hips away from him, but his hold around my waist makes it impossible.

“Hush, kotyonok. Punishment is in order.” Somehow he makes it sound more like a delicacy than something to be feared. But then, I have submitted to his dominance before. Another smack, this time on my other cheek. He smacks hard—hard enough that the place where the first slap landed starts to smart and sting.

“Ravil,” I gasp, and he strokes his palm over my offended cheeks.

“I like to hear you say my name, lovely Lucy. We did not exchange names last time, which seemed a great shame.” His hand leaves my ass, and I brace for another smack. It comes, followed by a rough, claiming squeeze.

“But of course the biggest shame is this.” He strokes my belly. “Not that you’re having my son, but that you wanted to keep him from me.”

I get dizzy hearing he knows I’m having a boy. It supports my theory that he has laid a trap, and I’ve already stepped in it. Dammit! Why didn’t I take charge of the situation in my office this morning?

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I don’t believe you.” His accent grows thicker. He smacks my ass again, three times, hard, then slides the satin of my panties down to my thighs.

“I’m sorry I offended you,” I amend. He’s right, I’m not sorry I tried to keep the child from him. I still wish he didn’t know.

And with good reason, as I’m now the subject of his punishment.

Not that there isn’t something deliciously erotic and pleasurable about it. Especially when he slips his fingers between my legs and runs them over my extraordinarily wet folds.

“That may or may not be true, kitten.” He continues to explore between my legs, gliding a lubricated finger up to my clit and tapping.

I let out a breathy moan. I don’t mean to—I was just trying to exhale, but it has a wanton sound that makes Ravil rumble approvingly.

“But I will make sure you are well-punished for the offense you gave me.”

Tap-tap-tap.

I squirm at the touch on my clit—suggestive and not enough.

“And believe me, kitten, if you ever want to come again, you’ll do as I say.”

My heart thunders because I know we’re not just talking about sex here. There is unmistakable danger in his voice, even though he only threatened to withhold my orgasm.

“Y-you need to leave now,” I say, but I don’t move from the position he put me in. I don’t jerk away or clamp my legs closed or do anything at all physically to show I don’t want his touch.

Because I do want his touch.

Rather desperately.

I have to say that pregnancy hormones have turned me into the horniest, most unsatisfied female in the entire state of Illinois. I spend my nights with my laptop open to porn and my fingers between my legs, but I’m never satiated.

And I blame Ravil for my choice of porn. BDSM—preferably Russian. And believe me, there’s a lot of Russian porn out there. I never had the slightest interest in either before Valentine’s day.

Tap-tap-tap.

I whimper.

“I will leave, kitten. And you will come with me.”

I start to shake my head, but he chooses that moment to increase the pressure on my clit, slowly circling it with the pad of his finger.

I whimper again.

“I-I’m not going anywhere with you,” I assert.

We both know it’s a lie. I’m just not sure yet how he plans to make me.

“Open your legs wider.”

The fact that I obey says everything. He holds all the power here. Not because of his threats—he hasn’t made them yet although I’m sure he will.

But because of the magic of his fingers.

I want more.

Need more.

So desperately.

He shoves my panties lower, like he needs them out of the way. “Take them off,” he orders. His voice is rough and guttural. He’s not unaffected by what he’s doing to me.

Breath coming in ragged drags, I kick off the panties and resume my position.

Ravil slaps me between the legs.

I gasp, instantly trying to close them. I may let him spank my ass, but my pussy is something different. It’s so swollen and slick right now with my juices. Embarrassingly so. It’s like this every time I masturbate since I got pregnant.

Too much of the baby’s testosterone, I imagine.

“Open.” One word, very firm.

I do, only because I want him to go on. I may not have liked having my pussy spanked, but it only served to make me needier. More desperate.

He slaps me there again. And again.

“Naughty kitten. I will enjoy punishing you.”

I flush with heat, the throb between my legs driving me mad.

He stops spanking and rubs his fingers through my wetness again. “Now, if you want me to finish this later in a way that has you screaming my name, you will do exactly as I say.”

My pulse picks up speed.

He removes his fingers, slaps my ass on each side again, and pulls my skirt down over my bare, smarting cheeks. “It’s time to go. You’re coming to live downtown with me for the remainder of your pregnancy. You will tell your office you’re on bedrest and can no longer come in. I will permit you to maintain your work and friendships remotely so long as you never mention me or your situation. I will be monitoring.”

I stand upright but cling to the back of the sofa with one hand for stability. “And if I don’t?”

The question I dread to ask.

“Then I will take you to Russia until the baby is born. No promise of your safe return when it is over.” He completely leaves out whether my son would be with me when—if—I returned, so I’m guessing the answer is no.

The room spins.

I must look like I’m about to faint because Ravil scoops me into his arms, honeymoon style. “Come, no need to be upset. I will make sure you have every comfort and necessity for this pregnancy.” He carries me to the front door and opens it. “These are easy guidelines to follow.”

Behind the door stands a giant. More of a bear than a man, with broad, Paul Bunyan shoulders, a scruffy beard and dark piercing eyes.

I shriek a little.

“Shh. It’s Oleg. He will carry you to the car.”

“I don’t need to be carried,” I say quickly. I don’t find the man threatening, per se, but he’s huge and a stranger. And I don’t love that Ravil is handing me over to anyone else.

Ravil tips me down to stand. “You will walk out with me quietly? No alerts or alarms. No problems from you?”

I look down at my stockinged feet. “I need shoes.”

“Not the heels,” Ravil says firmly. He tips his head at Oleg and says something in Russian to the giant man who steps inside. We stand silently in my apartment hallway. My mind races the entire time.

What would I do if a neighbor came by? Would I try to signal for help despite Ravil’s warning?

No. I believe his threat.

If he took me to Russia, I’d have even less means of escape. I don’t speak the language. I don’t know anyone there to help me. And the chances of me escaping would be slim to none.

Oleg returns carrying all four of my suitcases at once, along with my purse and leather work satchel.

Ravil bends to open one of the suitcases, seeming to know exactly where to look, and produces my flip flops. He drops them on the floor for me. Oleg picks up the suitcase and marches toward the elevator without a word.

I try to shove my feet in the flip flops with my thigh-high hose still on, but I can’t really get the thong between my toes.

“Hold on, kitten.” Ravil surprises me by squatting in front of me to drag one of my thigh-highs down. I lean over to help with the second one, and he pushes me back, pinning my pelvis against the wall. “Don’t rush me.” His accent grows thicker. “I was enjoying my view.”

He rolls the second thigh-high down my leg and off my foot but keeps the hand pinning my hips against the wall firmly in place. “Such long legs.” He grips behind my knee to pull it slightly forward and kiss my inner thigh.

Tingles race up my leg straight to my already needy sex. He slides his hand up my inner thigh to brush my bare pussy then lifts my skirt and brings his face between my legs.

I moan before his tongue even makes contact. “Uhn. Ravil.”

“That’s it, kitten. Say my name.”

My pussy clenches. I’m annoyed with my own neediness. I should definitely not be begging this man for anything—especially not sex. He doesn’t deserve my surrender. He’s essentially stealing me from my life, and only God knows what he plans to do with me and the baby once it's born.

But the tip of his tongue takes a turn around my clit, and I moan again.

Ravil grips both my thighs and swirls again but then pulls away, dropping my skirt and standing up, my juices glossing his lips. He licks them. “You taste even better than I remembered.”

His words worm under my defenses. Maybe it’s just something he says to everyone, but I like hearing he might have spent as much time remembering me as I remembered him. I’d doubted he did. I was a bumbling newbie just discovering what she likes, and he was obviously an experienced dominant, comfortable with his skill and sexuality.

But then, he told me that night he felt differently about me. You’re something special, he said. And I wanted to believe him. Not enough to pursue anything beyond that night. Just to preserve the memories of the man who gave me the gift of this child.

What I’d so desperately wanted from Jeffrey, but he would never give me.

But now sexual frustration is getting on top of me. I want to kick Ravil for teasing me like this. It seems downright cruel considering my pregnancy hormones have me almost feverish for satisfaction.

I jam my feet into the flip flops and toss my long hair as I walk to the elevator. Oleg has already gone down, so it takes a moment to return, and I stand there, staring at the steel doors rather than look at the man at my elbow.

“You can’t keep me prisoner,” I say finally, even though it’s only wishful thinking.

“Not prisoner,” he says mildly. “Special guest. I must keep you close, so I can protect you and be sure you are very well cared for. You carry precious cargo, of course.”

Now I cast a look at him. “I go unwillingly. Under protest.”

His lips twitch. “Noted.”

Dammit. I shouldn’t find sparring with him so sexy.

It must be the hormones talking.

Because my worst nightmare about having a baby with a member of the Russian bratva is coming true.

And I seem to be incapable of stopping it.