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Usually, we don’t talk about his business, not since he first put his proposition on the table. That night, he proved quite forthright so I would know the full scope of what I would be getting into. But Ilya has made a point of avoiding personal details in the year I’ve known him.
And yet, tonight, he seems almost vulnerable. The way he scrubs his hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots, reminds me of my nervous habit of chewing my nails. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I haven’t gnawed my nails into nonexistence for a long time now, not since Ilya entered my life. He’s taken the anxiety that used to plague me, and I wish there was something I could do to ease his turmoil.
I can see a glimmer of the pain Ilya carries from having lost his father so unexpectedly. And beneath his apparent anger at his sister, I detect his underlying love for Bianka, his concern for her well-being, despite how adamant he’s always been about not forming attachments.
Without thinking it through, I blurt the question that’s been nagging at the back of my mind, “Is your father’s death what made you sure decide you didn’t want a proper relationship?”
Ilya looks over at me sharply, a hint of surprise behind his eyes. “No, though I did learn that lesson from my father, it came long before his death. You see, my father knew what love was. He married my mother for it, and then he lost her. She died young, murdered by one of his men who proved to be a traitor, and her death almost broke him. I was only five at the time, and seeing my father–a strong, powerful man–so ruined shocked me. And one day, he called me into his office and warned me that men in our family don’t have the luxury of emotions like love. We have a greater responsibility as leaders of our Bratva. After that, it was a revolving door of women who my father stopped seeing any time they got pregnant.”
My heart twinges at the image of a five-year-old Ilya losing his mother and watching his father fall apart. How lost he must have felt.
“What… happened to the women your father got pregnant? And their children?” I ask tentatively, scared to learn the answer since I’m under the impression that Bianka is his only sister.
“My father paid for them all to live separate lives so he wouldn’t have to know them. I’ve lost count of how many half siblings I have who I’ve never even met.”
That’s almost a relief. “Why is Bianka different?” I ask.
An indulgent grin spreads across Ilya’s face, the first smile of the night. “She just showed up at our front door one day, wanting to know her father and saying his name was Valentin Popov. He turned her away, of course, but I took a liking to her fiery spirit and decided I wanted to get to know my half sister. We met up frequently after that, and after my father died, I invited Bianka and her mother to move into the family estate. I thought I might look after her, take care of her in a way my father refused to do for any of his children besides me.”
The smile dies on his lips, and Ilya’s frown returns. “Now I’m starting to see why my father didn’t want to know any of his illegitimate children. Bianka’s proving more trouble than she’s worth.”
An unexpected laugh bursts from my lips. “You don’t mean that,” I chide warmly, reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s large hand. “You obviously love your sister and care about her safety. You’re just worried about her well-being, and you don’t like the thought of her putting herself in harm’s way.” Seeing Ilya’s vulnerability when it comes to his sister is endearing, and I love knowing that he has someone in this world that he truly does care about, that he’s not all iron will and stone-cold killer. I might not believe in romantic love, but it’s our deeper connections that make us people.
Ilya snatches his hand from mine, and his eyes narrow. “You’re naive if you think I can love anyone, regardless of the blood we share, and it’s not your place to be telling me how I feel about my sister.”
His words sting, and I withdraw instinctually, not wanting to get caught feeling vulnerable when he’s clearly bringing our open conversation to a close. I’d intended for my comment to help him lighten up about Bianka and the stress she’s causing, but it seems to have done the complete opposite. Ilya rises from the couch and turns to stand over me, looking down on me with intensely dark eyes that make my heart flutter.
“You presume too much, and pets who forget their place need to be punished.”
My stomach flips as Ilya’s voice drops into his low, dangerous Dom voice without warning. Even as I reel from the sudden shift in his mood, my body responds greedily, all the pent-up anticipation over the last week of abstaining rising to the surface and burning away any hurt feelings I might have had.
“Get up, and take off your clothes,” he commands.
15
ILYA
It seems all the women in my life are bent on questioning me today. Frustration has me wound so tight, I feel like I just might snap, and at the same time, having been away from Whitney for over a week has me aching to be inside of her. Her needling questions, her casually insightful observations expose my emotions in a way I can’t stand, and her simple touch as she grasped my hand sent me over the edge. I have to release the tension building deep inside me, and Whitney needs to be taught the valuable lesson that my world consists of violence and force, not love and concern.
Whitney’s eyes grow wide, and she licks her lips as she slowly unfolds her legs from the couch to stand before me. Wordlessly, she obeys my command, her eyes holding mine as her hands reach behind her neck to untie her dress. Velvety gray fabric falls forward, running down her body like water and revealing her full, pert breasts. Her fingers push the fabric clinging to her waist down over her lips, and it falls to the floor with a hushed swish. In an instant, she stands before me in nothing but a skimpy strip of navy lace covering her pussy.
My cock stiffens as I take in her perfect shape, her taut young flesh, the way her nipples pucker from the sudden exposure to the cool air. I cup one supple breast, massaging it forcefully with my palm, and Whitney inhales sharply, her nipples hardening further in response. Grabbing her upper arm, I yank her forward and spin her. She gasps as her lean back connects with my chest and my arms wrap around her, pinning her to me. I breathe in the cinnamon scent of her hair as I explore every inch of her with my hands, squeezing, groping, pulling her roughly against my erection as I grind forward against her full, athletic ass.
My fingers find the lace of her skimpy thong, and I wrap my fingers around it before giving it a violent jerk. Whitney yelps as the fabric snaps, and I drag it from between her thighs, letting the lace tease her clit as it slides free. My other arm lies heavily across her chest, keeping her firmly in place, even as she starts to squirm.
“Now bend over the back of that chair,” I command, shoving her toward the accent chair set at the far end of the coffee table.
Whitney stumbles forward but quickly regains her balance as she does as she’s told, ever the obedient pet who loves her punishments. Usually I’m not tempted to punish her quite so thoroughly. She’s pushed me over the edge, though, and her spanking this time won’t be like the light, playful ones she’s had before.
I watch her to ensure she does as I say, and the sight of Whitney’s considerable cleavage appearing as she leans over the back of the chair makes my cock throb painfully against the zipper of my jeans. She rises onto her toes in order to fold at the hips and reach forward to grasp the chair’s arms. Then her chocolate eyes meet mine expectantly, waiting for my next command.
“Stay.” Striding past her without another word, I head to her bedroom to find the toys I need. I strip my shirt as I go, tossing it aside as I kick off my shoes. My jeans I keep on as a reminder of the self-control I’m going to need so I don’t take it too far, because tonight, I’m on the verge of losing it.
I return a moment later and toss several items onto the couch. Then I walk around the front of the chair to begin knotting bondage rope around Whitney’s wrists. Her breathing quickens as she watches me work efficiently, looping the rope around each wrist before attaching it to the corresponding chair leg and tying it off.
“A good pet,” I say as I rise from my crouch, “does not offer unsolicited opinions. They do as they are told. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she whispers.
