Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 33

“Fuck, Ruslan… please… ahh… please… I’m gonna… come…”

His mouth pulls away. But before the disappointment crystalizes, his hands grab my hips and he sinks his dick all the way inside me.

Ruslan smooths a hand along my spine as he rocks into me, making sure I feel every inch stretch me open and fill me to the brim. His fingers thread through my hair at the nape of my neck until he grabs a fistful and pulls just hard enough to make me arch deeper for him. Every thrust is timed with a tug; every resounding slap in the air is the sound of his hips connecting with my ass.

I have no idea what I’m screaming—I just know my lungs burn and my throat is hoarse.

I also know that I’m going to get the first layer of skin slapped off my ass for breaking his rules, because there’s no way I can hold the orgasm back anymore.

“Come for me, my little kiska,” Ruslan growls.

Oh, thank God.

I shudder and sob as the orgasm rips through my body. He’s close behind me, pulling me harder onto him and grinding in so fucking deep as he fills my body with his own release.

He doesn’t wait long before he pulls out of me. I collapse face-first onto the sofa. I’m not complaining; I’d gladly bury myself inside this couch if I could.

Ruslan grabs a couple of tissues from a fancy metal holder. I think he’s going to pass them to me for a second, but before I can respond, he bends down and cleans me up himself. His hands are gentle, his gaze staying fixated on his work. I just lie there in awe and let him.

Then, head still woozy, I watch as he rises back up to his full height. Even after coming, his cock is still a dangerous weapon, nearly the size of my forearm. He turns and pulls his boxer briefs back on, then walks over to the bar in the corner.

“Drink?”

It’s tempting. Especially because the offer suggests that he wants me to stay a little longer. The thing is, I feel good. Like, really good. But I don’t want to burst the bubble by overstaying my welcome. And since I’m almost certain that being kicked out again is going to bring my high crashing down, I decide to stick to my guns and leave immediately.

“No, thanks. Don’t wanna risk a hangover. I have work tomorrow and my boss can be a nightmare.” He smirks. “Is that so?”

I nod. “But he isn’t all bad. At least he pays me well.”

“Hm. As you wish.” Ruslan gives me a little smile that makes me suddenly wish I hadn’t just turned down his offer to stay.

No. Distance is better. Distance keeps you safe.

“Goodnight, Mr. Oryolov.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

I dress quickly, cheeks burning—both sets of cheeks—then leave without looking back. On the way down in the elevator, I let out a low breath that turns into a disbelieving laugh. This whole thing still feels too surreal to be happening to me.

This time, when I pass the guard at the security desk, I give him a huge, confident smile. A smile that says, Yeah that’s right. I had hot, sweaty, nasty sex with a hot, sweaty, nasty man, but I am no one’s prostitute. I am my own woman. I protect my own heart.

And when I do leave one day—whenever that day comes—I’m going to leave Ruslan wanting more.

24

RUSLAN

“You’re telling me that it’s all gone?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

I wait for the supplier to elaborate, but he sounds like he’s concentrating on not shitting his pants. I wish we were having this conversation face to face. Shitting his pants would be the least of his fucking concerns.

“That container of B47 substrate was marked for me. The purchase order was sent. You accepted my motherfucking money.”

“I-I understand, Mr. Oryolov, b-but I have no control over—”

“Who stole it from me?” “Excuse me, sir?”

“Two tons of an extensively manufactured industrial chemical doesn’t just disappear into thin air. Someone purchased that container and I want to know who.” I’m pacing across my office so chaotically that Kirill has to lunge out of my way.

“I, um… That information is classified, sir.”

“What’s your name?” Silence.

And then—dead air.

Did that son of a bitch just hang up on me?

I roar, flinging my phone across the room. It hits the door and flies apart, the cracked screen catching the dying sun and winking up at me.

Breathing heavily, I turn to Kirill, who’s already pulling out a brand-new phone from one of the drawers of my desk. “I’ll just transfer the SIM and you should be good to go,” he explains. “As always.”

Suffice it to say, this has happened enough times to warrant a standard operating procedure.

“This has Adrik’s fingerprints all over it,” I fume. “That mudak is retaliating for the beating I gave his ego.”

Kirill is busy trying to pluck the SIM out of my broken phone. “You really think he has the balls? Or the resources?”

“That idiot’s only goal in life is to take me down. What better way than this? Undercutting the development of a drug that I’ve already spent who-the-fuck-knows-how-much on?”

He hands me the new phone as it powers to life. “Point taken. My question is, what do we…?” He trails off as I stalk out of the office. “Where are you going?”

“To fucking deal with it,” I reply. Emma is sitting at her desk, all wide-eyed and concerned at the sounds of mayhem she must’ve overheard. “Cancel all my appointments. I’m working out of the office today.”

I don’t linger to wait for her response.

The journey from Bane to the chemical facility is punctuated by a series of vivid and violent fantasies. All of which involve Adrik suffering a messy and painful death under the heel of my boot.

But as satisfying as those revenge fantasies would be, my first priority is Venera. I need to make sure that this setback doesn’t affect the rollout. I can deal with delays if we’re talking a few days. But if it stretches into months, that’s going to be a significant hit to my bottom line. Which means I need to go into Damage Control Mode.

I don’t even bother with the bullshit white coat when I get to the facility. I storm into the lab as I am and bellow for Sergey at the top of my lungs. He stumbles out of the storage room, his face pale and his brow already sweaty.

“We’ve lost the last container of B47,” I inform him icily. “How much Venera have we manufactured so far and how imperative is B47 to the formula?”

Sergey's mouth twists into a strange, crooked shape. “Uh, well…”

“Spit it out, Sergey. I don’t have time to waste.”

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “I may have a solution.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Go on.”

The man doesn’t look the least bit encouraged. He shifts from one leg to the other, all his nervous tics pinging at the same time. “I have been… experimenting. I did so without your authorization—and I do apologize for that, sir—but I wanted to see if I could improve on or erase altogether the lesser side effects of Venera.”

On any other day, I would have been pissed. But I’m not about to bite off the hand that’s throwing me a bone when I need it.