Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)
: Chapter 13

Her knee has been bouncing for as long as we’ve been on the road. I’m curious to see how long she can keep up the anxious momentum while she’s stuck in New York City gridlock.

As it turns out: the whole damn time.

We turn onto 48^th. That’s when her leg finally stops pistoning up and down. Now, she looks like she’s barely breathing. I catch a glimpse of her face as she slides out—she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek and her cheeks are pale.

Not exactly the enthusiasm I was anticipating.

She stays as far away from me in the elevator as possible. I start to wonder if she’s just nervous or if she’s still pissed about our little spat earlier. I’d half-expected her to back out of our meeting today, but apparently, giving me the cold shoulder is her preferred method of punishment. It doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to breaking through her icy exterior.

And I have just the tool for the job.

She’s still chewing on her cheek when the elevator doors open into my penthouse. Her complete lack of reaction reminds me that she’s been here before. I’ve had her drop off files, clothes, food. Condoms, once, too—which is probably where she got the idea that I use this as a “fuckpad,” to borrow her term.

I take my coat off and she follows my lead. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Deciding that what she needs is a little liquid encouragement, I leave her in the living room and head into the kitchen. The bar is connected to the kitchen by a vast marble countertop.

I can’t help imagining her spread out on top of it. Will she moan for me like she did in her voicemail? Will she plead with me to fuck her? Or will she be shyer in person? Will I need to coax her out of her shell until the siren is unleashed?

All possibilities are equally tantalizing.

I walk the drinks back to the living room. Emma is standing by the window with her back to me, gazing out over the glittering skyline.

“Drink?”

She wordlessly takes the glass and throws it back so fast that my brows hit my hairline. Her eyes close, her mouth puckers, and her nose wrinkles. “Fuck, that’s strong.”

“It’s gin.”

“That explains it.”

She hands me back her empty glass and I offer her my full one in exchange. “Apparently, you need this more than I do.”

She eyes the glass for a moment. “No, I think I’ll pass. If I drink any more, I might throw up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sexy.”

“Sorry.” She cringes.

“Maybe this time, you could just sip it instead of downing it in one go.”

She takes the glass and brings her mouth to the rim. The liquid slides between her plump lips and, just like that, I’m starting to feel an unreasonable twinge of jealousy toward that drink. After she swallows, I watch her tongue peek out just long enough to slide across them, igniting a slow-burning heat that starts at my chest and ends at my groin.

“I actually tasted it that time. It’s good.”

I make sure to meet her gaze. “Some things are meant to be savored.”

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is both endearing and alarming. It brings up the series of doubts that I’ve been fighting ever since our little spat earlier. Did I pick the right woman? Is she a little too naïve, a little too innocent, a little too emotional for this kind of arrangement?

“Ruslan, I know you said not to mention it, but… I want to thank you, again, for what you did.”

If she starts tearing up, I’m ending this fucking arrangement on the spot.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, so I’ll just leave it at that. But I did want to make sure you know that I am grateful. That I’m not taking you for granted.”

Her eyes stay dry. That qualifies as a point in her favor.

“You’ve thanked me. There’s no need to mention it again.” I pour myself a shot and, despite my advice to her, knock it back in one gulp.

She frowns, which makes me curious. I’m not usually the sort of man who spends his time trying to decipher what a woman—any woman—is feeling. But there’s something about this one that’s got me asking all sorts of questions in the back of my mind.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she blurts out suddenly. Color floods her cheeks the second she says it. “That’s probably not a very sexy thing to admit, is it?”

I force down the smile that’s almost on my lips. “Take another sip and come with me.”

I rarely ever close the blinds in the master bedroom. One, because I enjoy the view. And two, because I hardly ever spend the night here. But for tonight, I don’t feel like sharing the kind of view I’m looking forward to enjoying on my bed, so I take a moment to close them while pretending to not notice the look of relief that passes across her face.

Emma’s gaze darts around the room, giving away the fact that she’s never been in this part of the penthouse before. I don’t know why that thrills me. Maybe because it proves her to be trustworthy—she doesn’t snoop around when I’m not here.

I set my glass down and start to slowly undo my shirt buttons. Emma freezes. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. Except in this case, the headlights are my abs.

She turns away abruptly when I glance over at her, acting as though she was staring at the cream wallpaper the whole time.

“When was the last time you had sex, Emma?”

Her eyes widen. She still doesn’t look at me. “Is that relevant?”

“Answer the question.”

“A while ago,” she admits.

I nod. “Take another sip.”

She listens, then coughs. “If your plan is to get me drunk, I’m not sure sipping the drink slowly is going to accomplish what you want.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I arch an eyebrow. “What makes you think you know what I want?”

She hesitates for only a moment before she speaks. “I know that… you want me.”

If only she was just a little more confident when she said it. That’ll come with time and practice.

“And that scares you?”

Her brows pinch together. “I’m not scared.”

“Then you’ll have no problem giving me a live performance of that voicemail you sent me.”

Her mouth pops open. “Y-you want me to—”

“I want you to touch yourself, Ms. Carson.” I take a seat on the armchair by the window and look her in the eyes. “And I’m going to sit back and watch.”

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