HIS RUSSIAN CLAIM | 18+

02 | ANYA INAVOVA

ANY PLANS I MAY HAVE HAD OF BACKING OUT HAS DISSIPATED.

I’m not even sure if I felt a tiny bit of reluctance before getting up here, and I don’t want to think about it at all else I may begin to have second thoughts. I brought myself here, and there’s nothing I’ll even be able to do to stop this from happening.

What I do know for sure, though, is that I may want to die from regret come morning.

The door behind me closes with a soft clink as the buff guy I assume is a bodyguard guides me into the vip room, disappearing back to the hallway before I can even thank him. With a small sigh, I walk further into the room, the only sound in my ears that of my heels against the tiled floor and my heart beating even faster than ever.

Oh god, how will the night go? What have I —

No, Anya, I scold myself immediately, cutting off my thoughts. You won’t second-guess what this is.

To distract myself, I scan the room, taking in the surrounding. First of all, it’s huge, the room I mean.

The middle-floor of the room is covered with a dark crimson, expensive looking carpet. On it, a round glass table stands proudly, carrying a small basket of artificial flowers. Then, in the corner of the room, just before the black curtains probably covering the window is a black, lovers couch, a bigger round glass table before it, and a tall bookshelf placed in another corner.

And lastly, a few feet away from me, there’s a big, round bed placed exactly in the middle of the room, draped with dark silk sheets that I imagine myself being f****d on.

The mental image alone sends a delicious shiver down my spine, and the next thing I know, the light dims just when door behind me opens.

When I turn, I’m hit with the same cologne smell of the stranger, overpowering the subtle notes of wood in the room. He stands by the door-side, eyes trained on me, and I take an instinctive step backwards when he locks the door and takes a step forward.

Oh my god. For someone arrogantly confident in my plans for the night, I’m sure as f**k scared. I should’ve probably stayed back at home.

Or rather, found something else to rebel against Father with.

“Want to back out already, Zmeyka?” My soon-to-be hookup asks, his tone carrying a curious edge. He pulls out a pack of cigar and lighter from his pants pockets and lights it, the fire flickering in his eyes. His dark eyes. “Didn’t strike you as the type to cower. Especially after the show you put up out there.” I am dragged from my thoughts by his words, and I swallow, watching as he takes the cigar between his lips.

“I’m not cowering.” I defend myself immediately.

“Oh?” Smoke curls out of his mouth as he asks and steps forward again, instantly closing the distance between us. He’s staring down at me now, and I don’t know what other look is in his eyes, paired with that gleam when he asks, voice dangerously low. “Who are you, and what brings you to this club?”

I blink once, twice, and then, a third time before stepping back again. Then, with a renewed sense of confidence, I reply. “You don’t need to know who I am — it’s a club where one can’t be forced to reveal their identity.” I tilt my chin, meet him head-on, and add. “And I told you already that I want you. If it wasn’t clear enough, I want to f**k you.” His jaw clenches at my last words, and I resist the urge to snap my thighs together when pure, horrific desire shines in his eyes behind the mask. “If you’re not going to give me what I want — if you’re going to interrogate me — you might as well just f**k off and let me go find someone else.”

His nostrils flare. He narrows his eyes on me, and regret, mixed with pride courses through me when I realize what I’ve just said.

It’s not even just the words — it’s the tone, the hidden challenge in them, and the ability to be able to talk back at a man who’d be able to crush me with his just his arm.

And despite that, I still want to surrender to him.

“Such a fiery little thing,” the man before me muses, dropping his cigar and crushing it beneath his shoes. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you tonight.” Before I can think of a reply, a warm, large hand covers the top of my head, and I’m shoved down my knees immediately. “Take out my cock.”

The girl between my legs throb at his roughness and the sting on my knee, more wetness gushing out of her, but I don’t do as he say. Instead, I roll my bottom lip between my lips, look at my Russian hookup, and smile, knowing my reply will only push him further into manhandling me.

Which I strangely find thrilling.

“Make me.”

His long, calloused fingers wrap around my throat, and I’m immediately pulled up to my feet. Just when I open my mouth to throw a taunting remark about him giving up so soon, I am silenced by the s***h of his lips against mine.

The taste of whiskey in his mouth goes straight to my head, making me feel dizzy, but I latch onto the collars of his shirt, tugging him down to meet my height. The kiss is not slow and sensual like the type I know others involve in. It’s different — a clash of tongues, gnash of our teeth together, mixed with saliva, and a fight for dominance — and despite knowing how strong this man is, I don’t let him take the lead.

This is all about me.

I’ve barely registered his hand leaving my throat when the sound of something being torn echo in the room. Cold breeze bites my skin, making me shudder, and only when I pull away from the kiss to look down at my body do I realize the man before me has shredded my dress into two, the pieces now hanging loosely on my arms.

“What — ”

“Shut up,” he interrupts, gripping my hair and murmuring against my lips as he looks down at me. “I’ll get you a new one.” Then he claims my lips again.

His other hand goes around my left thigh, and he pulls me closer, our chests meeting. My thigh now rests against his hip, and with every movement he makes, I can feel the hardness between his legs against my mound.

I moan into the kiss. He pulls away, roves is hisgaze over my body, and rests his forehead against mine before closing his eyes.

“Fuck.” is all he says.

I frown. “Is anything the — ”

“Don’t ask me any question, Zmeyka.” He interrupts me again, his hot breath falling over my lips. “Let me — ”

This time, I’m the one who interrupts him. “I don’t know what exactly is making you so breathless, but I don’t take it well when people inter — ”

The bastard interrupts me again with a tighter grip on my throat, and I throw him a glare. He doesn’t seem fazed by it at all. In fact, he smirks, and the next thing I know, my bra is ripped into two from the middle with his teeth and other hand.

Jesus, how strong is this man? And why do I find that hot as f**k?

My gasp ends in a loud moan when he suddenly latches onto one of my t**s, sucking one of the two pretty pointers into his mouth. My hand flies to his hair and I grip it, bucking my hips for some kind of friction against his thigh. Instead, he shifts his thigh, and a frustrated noise leaves my lips before he sucks harder on the tight bud, hollowing his cheek. He gives the same attention to my other tit, and when he pulls away this time, he does it in an excruciatingly slow motion that has my breath stopping in my throat, I wonder if he did that to avenge what I said earlier about him being breathless.

And from the little I’ve gathered about him, I won’t be shocked that’s what his intentions are.

I am pulled away from my own breathless thoughts by his hand slipping between my legs, inching up as it leaves goosebumps in it’s wake, until it reaches the hem of my thong. I expect him to rip off the fabric like he did my dress and bra, but he doesn’t. Instead, he circles the pad of his index finger over my wet crotch and flicks my c**t through it in a way that has me raising my hips up into the air.

Calmly — too calmly for my liking — this man pushes back my hip and slips a finger into my thong, leaving featherlight touches around the area where I want him the most. I bite down on my bottom lip as he does that and try not to make any sound because that alone gives off just how desperate I am for him, and I don’t want him to know that much since he hasn’t shown me any sign of want from his own end.

As if on a mission to destroy what I have in mind, he circles my hole with the pad of that finger, and without warning, press it with just a little amount of pressure.

Instantly, my knees give out on me and a loud moan falls from my mouth.

Oh god.

“Look at you,” he rasps against my ear, and I open my eyes to meet his, the look in them smoldering hot as he stops me from falling onto the ground. His finger is still where it is, running circles around my hole, and I swear if he doesn’t do something about it, I might pass out. “Such a needly little mess when I haven’t even started anything with you yet.”