zemlyanika
(n.) wild strawberries
RONAN
A tap to the cheek pulled me out of a deep sleep.
I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who woke me. She smelled like strawberries. I’d never been a fan of the fruit before her, but now, the scent made me hungry. And hard. Her hair caressed my bare chest. I was about to wrap a few strands around my fist and pull her mouth to mine, though I didn’t get the chance.
She slapped me hard.
“What the fuck, Mila?” I growled, waking fully.
I was lying on the drawing room couch, a throbbing arm hanging off the side. Awkwardly, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here. When I’d said I would be busy with Alexei’s shit today, I meant it. The last thing I remembered was dealing with one of my train cars that derailed, crashed, and then exploded when I arrived. Little white pills had fallen from the sky like snow.
With a distressed noise, Mila shoved at my chest. I clenched my teeth. Apparently, I wasn’t waking to her sweet side tonight. She tried to push away from me, but I grabbed her wrist.
“I couldn’t get you to wake up!” she cried breathlessly. “I thought—I . . .”
The sight of tears streaming down her cheeks tightened my throat. She’d thought I was dead. No way I’d go down half-naked lying on a loveseat. The idea would almost be amusing if seeing Mila cry didn’t make me feel like shit. Though the fact those tears were for me sent a warm sensation to my chest I could only associate with Christmas cheer. I didn’t even like Christmas.
“I thought you believed I couldn’t die, kotyonok,” I said roughly.
She swallowed. “There’s so much blood . . .”
A full moon lit the room almost as well as the overhead light. Blood dripped down my arm, coating my chest and her hands. She must have taken off my shirt to check the damage. I was surprised I didn’t wake up, though I hadn’t taken care of the gunshot wound as well as I should have. Alexei’s games made that impossible.
Albert had dug the bullet out and wrapped up my arm, but it seemed to be bleeding decently now by the small puddle on the floor. The fact I could move my arm fine told me it looked a lot worse than it was.
“It’s not all mine.” The blood on my chest wasn’t.
“Whose?” Her voice wavered. She probably thought it was her papa’s. It should be. Would be.
“A priest’s.” As blasphemous as it sounded, he was a really shitty priest on Alexei’s payroll.
She sawed her lip between her teeth. “Oh.”
I was sure she’d have something more to say once the statement sank in, but she remained silent, sitting on the edge of the couch in nothing but one of my T-shirts. She looked like Michelangelo’s wet dream. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples visible beneath the white fabric. Apparently, I still had some blood left in me, and it rushed to my groin.
Tear-stained cheeks. Glistening eyes. Legs I would die for. She was so beautiful, the sight punched me in the gut. A train car had exploded like a scene in an action movie, but when pills dropped from the sky, all I saw was the memory of Mila dressed in yellow, standing on cracked pavement catching snowflakes in her hand.
Greedier men than me were out there—her papa included—but I suddenly knew I had them beat as the impatient, covetous heat erupted inside for this girl who cried for me.
Pulling her lip free from her teeth, I ran an inked thumb across her mouth. “Nothing to say about my blackened soul?”
Her soft eyes lifted to mine. “No.”
My gaze hardened, her response sending an irrational lash of annoyance through me. The knowledge was difficult to admit to myself, but I liked this girl an indecent amount. I liked her in my home—even with all the mud she dragged in. I liked her full attention and smart mouth. But what I really liked was her heart—the pliable organ in her chest I could mold to fit my hand like Play-Doh.
Her tears, her trusting eyes, her fucking existence—all of it made it impossible to imagine her walking away from me while I watched from a distance, my palm containing a remnant of sticky yellow Play-Doh I’d never be able to wash off.
My thumb pressed down on her lips, smearing my inner turmoil across the soft pout of her mouth. Her lack of self-preservation used to amuse me; now, it made me want to keep her locked in a bulletproof room only I had access to. And I didn’t currently have one of those.
“Stupid kotyonok,” I growled in frustration.
Those cat-shaped eyes that originally gave her the nickname narrowed, and she jerked free from my grip. “You’re the stupid one lying here bleeding out.”
Now, she was moy kotyonok because she was sickly sweet until she bared her claws.
Grabbing her by the throat, I tugged her lips to mine. She exhaled into my mouth, the slide of my tongue cutting off her protests. She braced her hands beside my head in an effort to keep her body weight off mine. I’d been shot in the arm, not the chest, though somehow, it felt like the latter when she was around.
I nipped at her lips and feeling the wetness on her cheeks that belonged to me, I grew harder.
“No,” she breathed into my mouth, trying to pull away from me, but my body took it figuratively—as in, fucking forever—and my grip tightened, the chaos inside me rising to the surface.
She turned her head. “Ronan . . . no.”
“What did I say about that word?”
“You’re bleeding. Badly.” She sounded so distressed, I relaxed my grip but couldn’t stop myself from running my mouth down her neck, leaving a mark on her in the only way I knew how.
Releasing her flesh with a scrape of teeth, I said, “That’s what happens when you get shot.”
“You need to go to the hospital.” She struggled against me. “Seriously, what are you doing lying here?”
“I was trying to take a nap. But now I’m in the mood for something else.” I grabbed her thighs and pulled her to straddle me, ignoring the fire in my arm. The pain had nothing on the sudden physical need to be inside her. Oddly, I didn’t think the desire had anything to do with my dick.
“I’m not having sex with you right now.”
Grinding her down on my erection, I said, “I’ve had a shitty day, kotyonok. Make it better.”
“I’m calling the doctor.” She tried to pull away, but I didn’t let her go.
“You don’t have a phone.”
“Ronan . . . please. Please, just call the doctor.” Fuck. She sounded close to a fresh wave of tears. It rubbed me the wrong way, though that warm sensation returned, cementing the comparison I’d given it earlier to the holidays. Although, my cock was rock-hard, so now, the feeling was closer to a softcore Christmas special.
“I’ll text him,” I told her. “But only if you help me occupy the time until he gets here.”
The unenthusiastic look she gave me wasn’t one I usually got from a woman I was about to fuck, but it was somehow adorable nonetheless.
“That can’t be advised on WebMD.”
I chuckled. “If you’re such a follower of theirs, I’m sure they have a tutorial on how to patch up a gunshot wound. Better wash your hands and find a needle.”
She sighed, cast a look at the blood dripping from the crimson-soaked binding on my arm, and gave in. “Okay. But text him right now. This is a Satan’s Express situation, not a leisurely drive through the countryside. Got it?”
My eyes narrowed. I wasn’t used to taking orders—especially with fucking “got it” attached to the end—but the ridiculousness of what she was saying overrode the annoyance. I pulled my phone from my pocket and shot off a text to Kirill, using Mila’s exact words. He’d figure it out. Or maybe not. All I cared about now was the woman sliding down my body and working on my belt buckle.
I tossed my phone to the floor.
Mila released me from my briefs and wrapped a hand around my hard cock, slowly stroking me like an apathetic fluffer doing her job behind the scenes of a porno.
“This is nice, kotyonok. But not exactly what I had in mind.”
She glanced up at me. Her eyes were a window to her soul. I suddenly knew, if I ever died, those eyes would have something to do with it. Somehow, it sounded acceptable to me.
“Will you show me what you like?” she asked uneasily. Then she lowered to her stomach between my legs, and I understood her reservation, nearly groaning.
“Da.” Fuck da.
It felt like I was a teenager about to get his first blow job. My heart beat overtime, which was probably making me bleed more, but I’d take that knowledge to the grave or else I knew Mila would stop.
This definitely wasn’t advised on WebMD.
The first slide of her tongue on my shaft hit me like a lance of fire. Residual heat spread up my stomach and tightened my abs. My head fell back to the couch, and I clenched my teeth in an effort to not make a sound as she licked my dick like a lollipop. I’d never make it to three hundred and eighty-eight.
My hand tightened in a fist as I fought the urge to slide my fingers into her hair; to hold her still and fuck her mouth. That was what I’d do with any other woman, but I couldn’t stomach treating Mila like everyone else—even considering the way she torturously licked every inch of my cock.
Her free hand slid up my taut abs. The slim ivory fingers appeared innocent. Soft as velvet. Unpainted, blunt nails. Unblemished skin. Yet the press of them on my stomach burned a path just as hot as her mouth. This was the first time I’d paid attention to a woman’s hands instead of her mouth on my cock. Maybe I really was bleeding out.
Her gaze met mine as she licked the head of my cock. I held in a groan, knowing the moment I was vocal, all kinds of demanding things would escape. Containing, but not limited to: “Gag on my cock . . . Deep-throat me, kotyonok . . . Tap my thigh when you need to breathe.”
The moonlight cast a halo over every inch of her body. It looked like an angel was sucking my dick—D’yavol’s dick. I knew the real devil would never let her go. He’d cut off her wings and lock her away. The idea would have some merit if Alexei wasn’t such a massive bitch and if karma wasn’t fucking everything up with feelings, reminding me Mila wouldn’t like that idea very much. As much as I appreciated the tears she shed for me, my skin also chafed at the idea of causing more.
She seemed to be getting more comfortable with this and enjoying herself too. The pad of her foot slid up the other ankle while she tortured me with little licks and sucks that only made me ache.
Her gaze lifted to mine. “You’re being so quiet. Very . . . passive.” She tilted her head, a hint of worry flickering in her eyes. “Are you feeling okay?” I had the impression she was close to touching my forehead to check my temp.
I wasn’t being demanding, so I must be sick? Jesus Christ.
“I’m fine, Mila. Just suck my cock, would you?”
She frowned. “You’re not telling me what you like.”
“I like it all.” It was partly true. She could breathe on my dick, and I’d enjoy it. If this day hadn’t gone to shit, she could lick my cock for hours without any complaints. But right now, all I wanted was to come in that pretty mouth of hers.
She raised an impish brow. “Really? My friend said some guys like teeth.”
“Not this fucking one.”
“Sure about that?” She licked up my shaft and then snapped her teeth at me adorably.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to keep sucking my dick. I wanted it all.
Here I was trying to be a gentleman for the first time in my life, but then she had to call me “passive” and bring teeth into the mix. Screw it.
Pushing her hair back from her face, I demanded, “Take me in your mouth and suck.”
She held eye contact with me and obeyed without a word. Taking me between her lips, she slid down a few inches and sucked like a pro on her way up. Fuck. My hand fisted in her hair, gliding her head back down. And up. And down. I restrained my movements, going easy on her. But when she made little humming noises around my cock and pressed her thighs together, I realized this was really turning her on. Fuck me. My restraint snapped.
“Deeper, kotyonok,” I ordered harshly.
Complying, her mouth slid down even farther to take in those last few inches. She gagged before she made it. The heat building at the base of my spine grew hotter and unstable. I knew it wouldn’t take much more.
“Relax your throat,” I rasped.
I ran my thumb down the smooth column to show her what I wanted. She inhaled, and the next time she took me in her mouth, she slid down, managing to take every fucking inch.
“Fuck, kotyonok,” I growled. “Your sweet mouth is going to make me come.”
She pulled back to suck in a ragged breath. Her eyes watered, tears pouring down her cheeks. My heart pounded with force, but I softly held her hair back from her face, my voice a deep rasp.
“Then the only place left for me to come in is your ass.”
She hummed a breathy noise and rubbed her thighs together before licking up my shaft, then taking my cock in her mouth all the way again. I hissed through my teeth. She gagged, her throat constricted around me, and it was game over. The heat inside me erupted so violently my ears rang as I pulled back slightly to come in her mouth and not down her throat, unsure of how she would feel about that.
She looked up at me, her eyes watering little streaks down her cheeks, and swallowed. I made a rough sound through my teeth, every cell in me on fire with satisfaction and . . . something else. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand, her hair an unruly mess of curls reaching past her waist. The sight turned me inside out. Like someone had shoved a hand into my chest and ripped out my non-beating heart.
Fuck.
I grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her lips to mine, kissing her deeply, sliding my tongue into her mouth. Her fingers found purchase in my hair, which sent a shudder through me. I swallowed her sigh. That little puff of air of hers settled like an anchor in my empty chest.
Pulling back, I brushed some wetness from her cheeks. “These are the only tears I like.”
Her eyes held mine for a moment, but where transparency usually lay was that absent place I despised. I knew it wasn’t distress that caused her to put up a wall, but something else entirely.
I brushed another tear from her cheek and said, “Now sit on my face.”
Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t do that to get something in return. This . . . was just for you.”
I smiled. She was cute. My perfect little martyr. But she had something wrong. She squealed when I grabbed her thighs and pulled her to straddle my face.
“This is for me,” I said with a growl, pulling her thong to the side and sucking her clit into my mouth.
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
“You’re wet, kotyonok,” I scolded. “Is all of this from just sucking me off?”
“Da.”
I wanted to smile. I liked hearing Russian on her lips more than I should. Spreading her open with my thumbs, I gave her cunt little licks and sucks that made her shake.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
I chuckled roughly. “I think I’m a bad influence on you.”
Her hand found purchase in my hair, and she grinded down on my face, yelping when I nipped where her hip bone met her inner thigh for being impatient. She sighed when I laved the sore spot with my tongue. Then I moved back to her pussy, sucking each lip into my mouth, releasing them with a light graze of teeth. Her forehead fell to rest on the couch arm with a moan.
“Ronan, I’m going to come.”
“Christ, woman,” I rasped. “I haven’t even started the ABCs.”
“I don’t know what those are, but I do know I don’t want a lesson on the alphabet right now.”
I fought a laugh. “We’ll start with A.”
She groaned in frustration. “Ronan, no—” The rest was cut off by a raspy moan that would wake the dead. And probably Yulia. Even Mila’s carnal noises sounded innocent. Sexy and feminine and perfect. I’d never get them out of my head.
I drew a B on her clit with my tongue before switching to C. Her thighs trembled while she mumbled incoherent moans. She was so close, I sucked her clit hard, and she shattered. I slid my fingers inside her just to feel the hot pulses, only pulling free after they stopped. She panted coming down from her high.
A sudden knock on the door caused Mila to fall off the couch. I couldn’t hold in a chuckle. I knew this gentleman thing wasn’t for me. Seeing Kirill in the doorway, I pulled my briefs over my cock. The doctor stood with his briefcase in hand and a massive look of disappointment.
Apparently, he was with WebMD on this one.
“He made me do it!” Mila blurted from her spot on the floor.
“U neye ovulyatsiya,” I explained. “Ona prakticheski iznasilovala menya.” She’s ovulating. She practically raped me.
Kirill’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I ty ne mog ot ne’ye otbit’sa.” And you couldn’t fend her off, I see.
I smiled. “Ona sil’neye, chem kazhetsya.” She is stronger than she looks.
Mila got to her feet and aimed a glare at me. “Ovulating? You’re the one who’s always ovulating if you ask me.”
I laughed. She must have not understood the “rape” part of the conversation, or she’d have a lot more to say. My amusement nose-dived when I remembered she was wearing nothing but my thin T-shirt.
My gaze hardened. “Go put on some fucking pants, Mila.”
She ignored me. Straight-up ignored me. If she thought the gunshot wound had made me so passive I wouldn’t carry her ass up those stairs, she was wrong. But her words momentarily paused me.
“Will he be okay?” she asked.
The doctor understood the English but unfortunately couldn’t translate his very superfluous response. “Yesli odin vystrel v ruku ub’yet yego, ya razvedus’ s lyubimoy zhenoy i trakhnu izvestnuyu shlyukhu s vich. Potom pereyedu v sibir’ i budu vyrashchivat’ repu, poka ne umru.”
I laughed loudly.
Mila frowned. “Was that a no?”
“He said if one shot in the arm kills me, he’ll divorce his loving wife and fuck a famous whore with HIV. Then he’ll move to Siberia and farm turnips until he dies.”
She pulled her lip between her teeth to hide a smile. “He thinks you’re immortal too.”
I wanted to return the smile but didn’t. I’d escaped a lot of near-deaths. When I was younger, I thought even death didn’t want me. Now, I thought fighting my way out of the freezing Moskva had awarded me an iron-clad resilience to live.
“Nyet, kotyonok. He’s just seen me much worse than this.”
She swallowed as her eyes slid down my chest, like she was seeing the scars for the first time. Some of the marks were long and thin from contraband blades behind bars. A few of them were round from gunshots—one in my side, one in my back, one now in my arm, and another an inch away from my heart, which was the scar Mila drew her fingers across. The touch made my skin crawl but was warm nonetheless.
“Who?” she asked shakily.
I knew she was asking who shot me—who almost killed me. But something inside me rebelled at telling her the truth. Mila wanted to live in a shiny bubble. A bubble her papa could be redeemed in. A bubble where his character looked a little dark but shiny nonetheless.
She might learn a lot about how he’d done business when he was dead. That he kidnapped girls younger than her and sent them into the sex industry. Her bubble was going to be popped someday, but I couldn’t be the one to do it.
I smiled and lied, “No one you know.”
Her fingers slipped off my chest, leaving a weird sense of absence behind. She stepped back to give room for Kirill to set up a blood bag. I gave him a silent warning to not put any pain-relief drugs in my IV. I hated the way they made me feel. At first, he’d complained, but now, he was used to it and merely nodded.
Mila hovered as if there was something she could do to help. I’d never been the source of someone’s concern before her. I didn’t need it. Here I was, four gunshots in and still alive. Yet Mila was on a roll trying to string some Russian together to ask Kirill about my condition. I suddenly hated her concern. I hated it because I liked it. And the latter wasn’t conducive in any way. Once she was gone, karma would leave me pining for a woman’s love over a bowl of soggy Fruit Loops.
I needed to stop this Hallmark avalanche now.
“We both got off, Mila,” I said harshly. “I’m not sure what you’re waiting around here for.”
She took a step back at my words, her complexion paling. And now I hated myself. What was a little self-loathing added to the mix?
“Okay,” she murmured. “I guess I’ll go then.”
Mila hesitated for a second before turning to leave as if it was the last thing she wanted. I didn’t think it was what I wanted either. She gave me a fleeting glance in the doorway that tightened my chest, and then she was gone.
I wondered if that was the exact scene that would play out in less than two days’ time—a glimpse of her yellow hair and a brief meeting of eyes before a gnawing absence set in.
I fell into bed over two hours later in my bloody pants and boots. Kirill told me the wound would heal fine after shoving some antibiotics in my hand. He was pretty confident the bullet had missed bone, only tearing through muscle. How narcissistic I got once again. I’d normally be enjoying two fingers of vodka and a cigar after this day, though now all I could see was the heartbroken look on Mila’s face.
The need to go to her room tore at me, but I quelled the impulse. I’d already apologized to her once; I didn’t have another in me. Not to mention, it was futile to do so now, thirty hours before I murdered her papa.
I was sure she wouldn’t welcome me anyway, and I’d never begged for a thing in my life—not even as a kid living on the streets. I simply took what I wanted. Unfortunately, Mila wasn’t a handful of rubles or a loaf of bread. She just had to have feelings and some kind of voodoo power over me that wouldn’t let me hurt her—apparently, even emotionally.
I’d never beg.
But this was the first time I’d wanted to.
I fell asleep to the thought of seeing Mila on the streets. I simply picked her up and carried her home to my Russian fortress, where I hand-fed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never be able to leave.
It was slight movement on the mattress that woke me. Again, I knew who it was. The pressure in my chest released when Mila slid into bed beside me and rested an arm on my chest and her head on my shoulder.
My perfect little martyr, lying in her father’s executioner’s arms. I had a job to do, and she was the chess piece needed to win.
The problem was . . . I didn’t think I could ever play her.
