Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(95)
A harsh groan bursts from Ivan as he comes, filling up the condom inside of me with hard pulses, and his wild thrusts send me toppling over my own orgasm, my arms buckling and letting my face press against the hard wood surface, mouth gaping and eyes clenching beneath the cloth as my whole body shakes.
Ivan is still hard and merciless. Even as jets of his seed fill up the rubber inside me, he torments my wildly ecstatic body, disorienting me with the sensation as I melt into a shaking pile of pleasure on the table, my knees slumping to the side as he withdraws his cock at last.
Finally, I'm able to make out the sounds from outside.
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Ivan had made us come into the New Year.
As the cheering and music outside resumes, I hear Ivan's footsteps moving around the room, and I nearly have a heart attack when a loud POP makes me withdraw my limbs again, even as my fluids mar my table. I feel a hand taking off the blindfold and turn my helpless body over on the table.
My eyes adjust to see Ivan, smiling and shirtless, looking down at me affectionately with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other.
He sets the glasses down and pours the liquid, then pulls the couch up closer to the table where I'm sprawled. Still regaining my senses, I feel his strong arms lift me up as though I were made of paper, carrying me over to the couch as he sits down with me in his lap.
I blink blearily, a smile crossing my face as I wrap my arms around his neck and let myself hang there, utterly fucked silly. His warm arms are wrapped around me, comforting my naked body as it tries to come down from the high of the orgasm.
I smell champagne as he brings a glass close to me, stroking my back with the other, and his mouth comes close to my ear.
"Happy New Year, Katy."
10
Katy
It’s surprisingly chilly when I wake up on Valentine’s Day. There’s frost on the windows lining the wall of my apartment, and my toes are almost numb. Shivering, I draw up my legs and slide out of bed, finding a pair of slippers and a fuzzy robe to wrap myself in. I look at the clock to see that it’s just after ten o'clock in the morning. I’ll have to start getting ready for work soon.
But first, I need my coffee.
I shuffle into the kitchen, yawning as I start the coffee maker and slump back against the counter. I squint across the room out the window and stare long enough to notice tiny, delicate snowflakes drifting downward. It’s been unseasonably warm and rainy this winter until now. I ponder what the snowy weather will do for my business. It could keep everyone bundled up inside. Or they might possibly head out to the clubs and bars in droves, looking to warm up with a drink and a hot stranger. I hope it’s the latter — business has been pretty good, but I’m not out of the woods yet. There are still debts my father left me, even if the protection fee from the mafia isn’t an issue anymore.
Right on cue, my phone lights up with a text. “Natalie, that better not be you calling out of work to take some starry-eyed girl on a Valentine’s date,” I mumble to myself. Blinking in the low light, I read the name on the screen. It’s Ivan.
As always, at any sight or mention of him, my heart skips a beat. I don’t know what it is, whether it’s nerves or fear or excitement… or something else.
I slide my phone open to read the text.
“Good morning. You’re taking the day off.”
I furrow my brows in confusion. Taking the day off of what? Work? Being a sex slave?
After a moment of thought, I reply with just a simple question mark. Almost instantly I get a response from him, and I can’t help but crack a smile.
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Who would have expected that a gun-toting, heavily-muscled mafia hit man was a sucker for made-up romantic holidays? Stranger things have happened, I remind myself. And besides, he has been surprisingly tender and sweet to me these past few months. The sex is often hard and fast and rough — not that I’m complaining in the least — but in our regular interactions, Ivan is a lot gentler and more sensitive than any guy I dated in the past.
Not that I’m sure you can call what Ivan and I do dating.
Just at that moment, my phone goes off again with another text from Ivan, who has written, “You have a date.”
“Do I?” is my coquettish response. I can’t help but bite my lip and grin down at my phone like an infatuated teenage girl. This is ridiculous.
“Da, printsessa. I will pick you up at noon.”
I don’t know Russian, but I’m fairly certain Ivan has just called me princess. Part of me wants to be indignant, tell him off and inform him that I’m nobody’s little princess. But the bigger, more dominant part of me is just flattered. After another minute of staring at my phone with my thumb hovering over the keyboard, I finally sigh and set the phone down on the counter.