“You feel so good, malishka,” Ivan groans, the pleasure apparent on his face nearly enough to send me over the edge. “You’re so fucking good.”
Suddenly my orgasm is coming, and I start breathing heavily, my hips moving in rhythm with his motions. He can sense my impending climax, and starts fucking me harder, each push deliberate and deep. Before long, I cry out in bliss, my pussy clenching with waves of pleasure around his thick cock.
And he isn’t far behind.
“Oh fuck, Katy!” he bellows, and with one final thrust I can feel him pull out and spurt a hot, sweet stream of come across my thigh. I can’t explain it, but some part of me wants to cling to every last drop. I want him to mark me and tell me I belong to him.
And I realize now: I do. I belong to him, utterly and completely. And not just in the transactional manner, but in heart and soul.
I am his, for as long as he wants me.
He leans down to kiss me long and sweet. He lies down beside me and I turn to face him, feeling his seed slowly drip down my bare skin into the sheets. Ivan is gazing at me with the same dark blue eyes that have stricken fear and obedience into many a hard-hearted man — except now his eyes are soft, almost docile. There is a sweetness in his expression as he looks at me, and then a slow, beautiful smile lights up his features. I am breathless.
I run my hand across Ivan’s chest as we lie together, relief washing away any of the real worlds worries once again. I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself revel in the feel of his muscular chest, then down to his impossibly hard abs.
There’s a silence between us for a moment, but it feels peaceful, somehow. It’s as if both of us know not to speak, just letting the moment hang in the air lazily between us.
But my eyes open, and my gaze falls on the tattoo on his chest. An eight-pointed star, marking him as one of the Russian mafia’s men.
Just like that, the magic of the moment is dispelled, and I’m reminded of my debt. Of the fact that I belong to this man. Whatever glue is keeping us stuck together… it’s impossible to separate from the transactional nature of our relationship. It’s not an equal partnership. As much as I want to justify our dynamic by allowing myself to feel for him, to long for him, I can never fully erase the fact that we would not be together under normal circumstances.
He’s a mobster, Katy. Don’t lose yourself to this.
But then again, since when has any part of my life qualified as “normal?” And besides, it feels good, damn it! Not just the sex — though, oh God does that feel good — but just simply being with Ivan feels good. The majority of the time we’re together, it doesn’t even occur to me that we aren’t just a regular couple, even with his tattoos, his accent, and the nagging voice in the back of my mind, a voice I’m sure probably belongs to my dad.
If I’m going to belong to a hit man for a year, then I am for damn sure going to make the most of it, in whatever way I can manage.
“What are you thinking about?” Ivan asks quietly, his deep voice reverberating in his chest. I can feel the guttural vibrations of his words with my fingertips, and it’s nearly enough to make me want to fuck him again. Almost. But I am so comfortable here, like this. Just being.
“Your tattoos,” I reply simply. He peers down at his own chest.
“Do they bother you?”
I’m taken a little aback by the question. Ivan is certainly not the kind of guy to ask insecure questions — and he generally doesn’t need to ask me what I do and don’t like, either. He just knows. I pause for a moment and he seems to tense up a little, waiting.
“No,” I begin. Then, thinking better of it, I add, “maybe a little.”
“I would not have thought you the prudish type, mishka,” he says, bemused.
“Oh no, it’s not the existence of tattoos that bothers me,” I respond quickly. “Maybe just the, uh, significance of them.”
“Ah,” Ivan says.
“It’s just that it’s a little scary, for lack of a better word,” I explain hastily, hoping he isn’t offended. Good move, Katy. Offend your gun-wielding, heavily-muscled, Mafioso pseudo-boyfriend while you’re lying naked beside him. Fantastic.
Ivan lets out a rare, low laugh. I instantly breathe an internal sigh of relief.
“Well, I suppose that is to be expected,” he says breezily. “In fact, I would be concerned for your mental health if you were not at least a little bit afraid of my associates.”
I can’t help but laugh, too, partly in relief and partly just at the absurdity of it all.
Ivan continues, “But, my solnishka, please understand that you need not fear them as long as you are with me. I can protect you. I promise you that.”