Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (open ebook .TXT) 📗

my tank top down and his lips clamp around my nipple while his tongue flicks back and forth. I feel a pull deep in my pussy that makes me moan, and I grind against him.

Then he pulls back. “Take it off.”

I’m not about to argue with a man who can do that with his mouth. I throw my shirt to the side of the pool, and he lifts me with one hand down the back of my shorts and the other around my thighs. As he captures my nipple again, his fingers press inside me.

He works me until I am jelly, until I’m clinging to him and moaning, rubbing my clit against his stomach. “Tell me what you want, Charlotte.”

I want everything. “I want you.”

He grins and swirls his fingers against my clit then around to my ass. “What do you want me to do?”

I’m breathless, writhing, as his fingers repeat that trail and my nails dig into his shoulders. We’re outside. He’s staring as if he wants to devour me, and I’m feeling naughty. “I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes narrow and he disentangles his hands from my shorts then pushes me away. The angry Russian I thought I imagined earlier reappears.

“And now you know what it feels like to be played.”

He climbs out and walks toward the house, leaving me open-mouthed and half naked with a gardener only a few feet away.

16

Kostya

I end most days in my life wondering just how I managed to survive to see another midnight sky. But today is not one of those days. Today, I wonder how everyone else has managed to survive after the day I’ve had.

I glance at the door to the Dark Stallion Bar and wait. I don’t know how Charlotte has managed to get so far under my skin, but I know it has to stop. I just need to figure out how to make it happen.

But I can’t do that right now, because the bar’s glass door is open and Marguerite Salazar is walking out with Kellan Makenzie, Jack Whelan’s second-in-command.

She has her hand tucked into his jacket, and he’s holding four fingers and a thumb full of her ass, but she’s leading him to the car. Marguerite is a friend from the old days when my papa was in charge, and I was just a kid of fifteen.

She was twenty-two, beautiful, built like a porn star with a voice that made my cock stand up, and she spent an entire summer teaching me everything I ever needed to know about pussy. Probably the best summer of my life up until then.

I watch the action and wait for her signal. So far, she’s pushed him into the back of her Escalade. I pull my car closer, silent, lights off. He has no idea what the night has in store for him.

Even if he did know, I doubt he’d change anything. My intel says he’s a man enslaved by his cock. It made him an easy mark for Marguerite. She’s been leading men around by their dicks since she was in high school.

The light in her SUV flickers. That’s her go sign.

It’s time.

I roll out of my Mercedes while I twist the silencer onto the end of my Glock. It’s time to send a message, to make sure Jack Whelan knows I mean business and he’s on the wrong side of the Bratva.

I wait until Marguerite backs out of the car, half dressed, wiping her mouth with the tip of one finger. I shoot her a wink and slip into her spot, standing over the nearly naked Whelan enforcer. Kellan scrambles for his pants when he sees me, terror lighting up his eyes like spotlights.

“Kellan Makenzie,” I growl.

I push the gun against his temple and shove until his head is against the window. “Don’t worry, little man.” He is quite small. From his T-rex arms to his short little legs to his tiny penis, flopping at half-mast in his panic. How did this slip of a man come to be second-in-command over Jack’s own son? I’d love to know but don’t really have time to ask.

“Do not worry at all. It’ll only hurt for a second.”

I’m not known for my parting shots. I leave that to Yelisey, who always seems to have a zinger of a line before he makes a kill. I generally prefer the strong but silent approach.

Today, though, I wish I had the time to spend with Makenzie. But I don’t. Things to do. Business to attend to.

So I shoot. His head flops to the side and blood spurts back at me. Motherfucking Irishman. A pain in my ass, even in death. “I lose too many shirts this way,” I grumble.

“Well, Wyatt Earp, you sure know how to light up a girl’s life,” Marguerite croons as she sashays up behind me. She smiles and slides her hand down to squeeze my dick through my suit pants. “How about you let me return the favor? Like old times.” She licks the shell of my ear. “I haven’t forgotten what you like.”

She’s older now than I remember and more polished, thanks to the money that I’ve paid her all these years that allows her to choose her clientele, her places of business, her Gucci purses and those red-soled stilettos that she so loves. Her hair is brown, dusted by blonde highlights and strands of gray. She’s still objectively beautiful.

But she’s not Charlotte.

Shit. I should want her. I should be aching to have her lips wrapped around my cock. But all I can think about is the frightened, feisty woman curled up in my mansion.

I pull her hand away so my lack of hard-on doesn’t hurt her feelings. I smile down at her. “Thank you for your help, but I have to go. I need to get to the airport.”

She nods. “We were a lifetime ago, weren’t we?” Any other day, I would take a dip in the pool of our nostalgia, and maybe she senses