I had a meeting with Alfonso in an hour. The Colombian drug lord’s latest shipment of cocaine was cut with laundry detergent, and I made it a priority to make sure what I put out was pure. A chemist in Rublyovka tested all my product in his basement. It was an interesting meeting in front of me, but all I could think about was the girl tied to my guest room bed. I ran a thumb over my split bottom lip wondering how I was going to work her over. Diamonds and furs wouldn’t do it, unfortunately. She responded to a little seduction a moment ago, but I didn’t want to push her to a point of simply needing to get off. I wanted her to need me; to beg, live, and breathe just for me. On second thought, I probably wouldn’t have time for all that, so Pd settle for a hard and willing fuck. Unsure of the angle to take with this girl, the thrill of the chase mixed with the pent-up frustration tightening in my groin. I had multiple women I could call, Nadia included, but somehow, I knew I wouldn’t. The only lips I wanted on my dick right now tasted like strawberries. The longer Mila made me wait, the more she’d regret it. Her phone rang in my pocket. I turned it back on this morning, having the urge to gloat a little. When I saw Ivan’s name onscreen, a smile pulled on my lips. I answered the call and brought it to my ear. “Ronan’s Steakhouse. Home of the largest sausage in Moscow.” “Ty sukin syn.” You son of a bitch. I chuckled. “Bitch is appropriate, but ‘cunt’ would be a better description of my mother.” “You touched her,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “My mother?” I parried with amusement. “No. Even I find incest unappealing.” Then I added, “Not to mention, not a huge fan of STDs.” He made a bitter sound. “I’m sure you have a history with them. You’ve fucked half the city.” “Nah. I always wrap it up.” And then I drawled a popular health provider’s slogan. “Prevention is the key to health and happiness.” “You’re a dead man walking, you know that?” “Living on the edge always did make my cock feel a little tingly.” Pavel blew a stop sign, narrowly missing a T-bone collision with a farm truck. “Jesus, kid,” I snapped. He white-knuckled the wheel. “Fuck, I’m sorry!”