Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 15

I spend the next thirteen minutes shooting him furtive glances, wondering if I should break the silence. Spoiler alert: I don’t.

The SUV comes to a stop in front of a tall, thin building so white it shines. Eleven Madison Park. I’m pretty sure there’s a three-month waiting list to even set foot in the lobby here.

It’s just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside. We walk into a huge symmetrical room with double-height ceilings and a terrazzo floor with inlaid carpets. Hanging pendant lights illuminate the neutral color palette of the upholstered furniture, a mix of blue-grays and copper earth tones.

Everything about this place intimidates me. Including the leggy blonde in a little black dress who shows us to a private room in the back of the restaurant.

The door clicks shut behind the hostess and the hubbub of the general dining area dies away. Heat instantly spreads across my body.

Ruslan brushes past. “Shall we sit?”

I nod, reaching for my chair at the same time he does. I lunge back, only to realize that he’s pulling out the chair—for me.

Who says chivalry is dead?

I squash the juvenile reaction in my head. “Thanks.”

He settles into the seat next to me. My thoughts are going berserk. This is it. This has to be it. Why else would he have asked for a private room?

So I sit there and wait for him to touch me under the table. Maybe order me to drop to my knees below the tablecloth. But he does neither of those things. In fact, apart from the setting and the way he pulled my chair out for me, he’s neither said nor done anything to suggest that this isn’t going to be a very above-the-board kind of dinner.

Except that I’ve never had dinner with my boss.

I start with surprise when the door opens and the hostess returns with what I’m sure is a very expensive bottle of champagne. She pours us both a flute and then bows right back out.

“Emma.”

My name slips out of his mouth and instantly, I experience what can only be described as a hot flash. Except, you know, it doesn’t suck. It just makes my toes curl and my heart beat a little faster. It makes me very aware of my body.

Because more self-awareness was exactly what I needed, right?

“Yes, Mr. Oryolov?”

“We’re not in the office anymore.”

I exhale. “So I’m allowed the privilege of using your name?”

Those amber eyes are scorching. “I detect sarcasm.”

“Then you detect correctly.” I pick up my flute of champagne and give it a taste. As expected, it’s jaw-dropping.

He smirks and a lightning rod of excitement rips down my spine. If that smirk doesn’t spell “foreplay,” I don’t know what does.

“I invited you out tonight to lay the ground rules for our arrangement.”

My eyebrows pull together. Call me crazy; somehow, I thought this arrangement would involve a helluva lot more ripped clothes, mind-blowing orgasms, and scandalizing dirty talk. And yet here we are, having an extremely civilized dinner, discussing ground rules.

“Okay. Got it. Ground rules.”

“You need money to pay off your debts.” My skin prickles with anxiety, but I don’t bother asking him how he knows that I’m in debt. “And I need a woman who’ll be at my beck and call without expecting me to fulfill her…emotional needs.”

Despite the turn this dinner has taken, I still feel those butterflies every time he says something to me. It’s different from the orders he usually barks at the office. Still, I get his message loud and clear.

“I mean, you can certainly try not to fall in love with me. I’m warning you though, it’s gonna be tough.

I’m a hoot and a half.”

I swear, I almost manage to squeeze a smile out of that stone face.

Almost.

“I wouldn’t worry. There’s zero percent chance of that happening.”

I scowl. “A gentleman would have at least given me five percent. Two percent, even. Or at least lied entirely.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t be offering you a contract for sex, either.”

I wince. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

“When I require your attention, I will send a driver to pick you up and take you to my penthouse.”

“The fuckpad?” I blurt before I can bite my tongue.

He doesn’t respond to that apart from a subtle tremor in his brow. “My driver will drop you back home when we’re done.”

“So… no sleepovers?”

“That is correct.”

I nod distractedly, feeling uneasy about one thing in particular. “What about other partners? That is, um, other sexual partners?”

His expression completely flatlines. His mouth turns into a harsh grimace, his eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches.

Makes me feel like maybe I should have read the fine print.

“For as long as this arrangement between us lasts, you will not be permitted to date, kiss, or fuck anyone other than me.”

I should resent the amount of control he’s exerting on my life, but somehow, the possessive snarl in his tone has my body writhing with delight.

“Not what I meant.”

His expression doesn’t relax. “No? Then what did you mean?”

“I need to know if this is a two-way street.” I take a sip of champagne to bolster my nerves. “I’m sure we both share the same concerns.” It’s the only way I can think of to get him to stop glaring at me and see even a sliver of reason. He doesn’t want to share me with other men? Fine by me. I don’t want him sharing whatever he catches from other women, either. “Hm.”

That freaking “hm.” It’s amazing how one little sound can ride under my skin in the worst way.

“I will agree to keep our arrangement monogamous.” His tone is clipped, so I have no idea if he’s happy about the concession or not, but I certainly am.

I file his answer away under my “victory” column and focus on a more practical point. “How often will I be coming?”

“You’ll be coming to the penthouse twice a week. As for how often you’ll be coming…” He shrugs mischievously.

“Only twice?”

He smirks at the eagerness that question implies. I wanna kick myself. Great, Emma. Good job not looking desperate.

“I’m a busy man, Emma. Discipline is the cornerstone of my life. Twice a week will be sufficient, but you should be prepared to be on call at any time.”

“‘Any time’ doesn’t really cut it when you’ve got three kids with different schedules and different needs. I’m gonna need advance notice. At least…” I quickly calculate Amelia’s typical response time. “At least three to four hours.”

His jaw tightens. “Very well.” He sips his champagne and the southern half of my body is making me wish that I were the flute in his impossibly large hand.