10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 18

I did it.

The elevator ride up to my apartment feels infinite. My knees won’t stop shaking. My skin hums. My breath comes in shallow bursts, like I just sprinted up ten flights instead of standing still in an airless box.

By the time I fumble my keys into the lock, my thighs are slick with rampant, ungodly horniness and my pulse is an electric current under my skin.

But I did it.

I won.

I finally get my door open, lunge inside, and throw it closed behind me like Sasha might be following behind me, ready to make good on my teasing. My purse and keys go clattering to the floor as I sink down to a seat, back to the floor, torn between laughing and screaming. The grin spreading across my face is downright goofy, but I can’t stop it. I wouldn’t even if I could.

“You’re crazy,” I whisper to myself. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

My phone starts tap-dancing in my purse. I pull it out to replace Gina triple-messaging me.

GINA: So?

GINA: … So??????

GINA: SO??!?!?!?! Did you do it?!

Good question. Did I? Did I just waltz into Sasha’s office, dressed like a librarian porn star, in full view of his coworkers, and proceed to blue ball him until the veins stood out on his forehead like cables on the Brooklyn Bridge?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.

Pretty sure he’s still drooling all over his laptop, I text back, giddy and delirious.

LFgggggggggg! is her immediate reply.

I want to shout from the rooftops, to throw open my window and let everyone in New York know that I, Ariel Ward, just got the better of the smug asshole commonly referred to as Sasha Ozerov.

Since that seems like a bad idea, I go with Plan B, which involves pressing my face into a throw pillow and screaming.

But even when I’m done with that, my body is still thrumming with restless energy. It’s a heat that has nothing to do with the stifling New York summer and everything to do with the way Sasha looked at me when I straddled his lap.

Like he wanted to bury himself in me and never come out.

His eyes were huge, his hands tight, and his breath was a harsh rumble in his chest. He was one whispery moan away from spontaneous combustion.

I got him so fucking good.

Problem is… there might’ve been some collateral damage.

Namely, the raging inferno currently blazing between my thighs.

I kick off my heels and pad across the hardwood floor to my bedroom, the skirt of my very effective librarian costume rubbing around my thighs. It’s probably wrinkled beyond repair, but honestly, who cares? It served its purpose. I ought to hang it in the rafters like an athlete’s retired jersey.

I opt for another form of post-Sasha celebration: self-care.

The battery-operated kind.

I rummage through my nightstand drawer, pulling out my trusty vibrator. It’s a sleek, rose-gold number that Gina gifted me last Christmas with a wink and the sage advice, Never underestimate the power of a good buzz.

Truer words have never been spoken.

I unzip and toss my skirt aside. The cool air of my window unit A/C is everything I’ve ever needed. Then I settle back against the pillows and flick my never-fails boyfriend to life.

Bzzz. My eyes drift closed.

In the black void behind them, two blue circles appear.

His face swims through the darkness. Of course it does. I’d normally try to force myself to revert to one of my old reliables—I mean, whomst among us hasn’t borrowed Jason Momoa to get where she needs to go, right?—but given how insane this whole day has been, I just let it happen. Stealing Sasha for my own selfish pleasure kinda feels like yet another tally in the win column for me, anyway.

So he’s there, hovering in the darkness. I reach out an imaginary hand and feel Sasha’s imaginary stubble beneath my fingertips. I trace the line of his jaw, dropping to his throat, his collarbone, the valley between his pecs.

In my mind’s eye, he’s exactly as I left him: chewing the inside of his cheek, shirt unbuttoned, tie askew, skin feverish everywhere I touch.

Ms. Ward… he rumbles.

Who, me? I taunt back in my head. You look upset, Sasha. Is something wrong?

You’re going to be the fucking death of me.

I laugh, both in my fantasy and out loud, because there are way too many hidden meanings in that sentence for it to be a smart thing to say out loud. I don’t need the reminders of the stakes here; God knows I’ve spent enough time thinking about them as is.

What I need is for Dream Sasha to do what Real Sasha would never: Let me use him how I need.

I up the vibration. New sensations skitter through me as I tease aside the hem of my panties and touch it to my throbbing clit.

You stay right there, sir, I order him in my head, pushing back on his chest with one heel as I sit on his desk. He leans back in his office chair, legs spread wide. I shimmy my underwear down my thighs and let it dangle from my stiletto.

Then, with a playful Oops, I drop it in his lap. Sasha starts to reach for the lilac g-string, but I stop him with a toe to his wrist.

No, no, no, I scold. Keep those hands right there. Yes, that’s a good boy. Right on those armrests. Where I can see them and make sure you’re not being naughty.

Those taut muscles in his throat work hard. He’s a fucking mess, and it’s turning me into a mess, too. Hidden beneath the hem of my skirt, I’m so wet it’s almost shameful.

But we still have so far yet to go.

Half of me is surprised that, even in my dreams, Sasha considers disobeying. The other half grins with satisfaction when he clamps down on the arms of his office chair as instructed and leans back. No part of me misses the muttered curse that slips between his perfect lips.

There are so many ways I could use you, I purr in my vision. I run a teasing finger up the inside of my calf, up my knee, until it disappears beneath my skirt. When I withdraw it, it’s glistening with my desire.

I hold it out toward him. I could let you taste me, if you wanted?

His mouth parts and he arches his neck toward me. Ariel, I⁠—

No, no, no! I tut again, shaking my head. I don’t think you should talk right now, either. Just sit there and be beautiful for me, mmkay?

He does.

God fucking help me, he does.

Now, where was I? I look down at my sopping wet finger. Oh! What a mess. Let me clean that up.

Then, without ever looking away from him, I put it in my mouth.

Sasha’s eyes go huge. Bluer than blue, but a dark kind, an ocean-deep kind. I don’t think he’d be able to form words in Russian, English, or gibberish even if I did let him talk. He’s on the verge of a feral growl and nothing else.

But, since this is my fantasy and I’m in charge, he stays silent.

I wonder with a giggle what it’s costing him to obey.

That’s better! I grin again. So I was asking a question, wasn’t I? I was considering all the ways I could use you. And there are so, so many options. My brain’s spinning just thinking of them!

I’m hamming it up and I know it, but sue me: shouldn’t I get to act however I want in my own imagination? Sasha doesn’t look like he minds, right?

I could hike this skirt up, wrap two hands in that curly mane of yours, and drag your face between my legs. I’d make such a mess of your beard, but you wouldn’t be upset, would you? Nod your head if that’d be okay.

Sasha nods.

Or… Oh, I know! I could take those big, strong hands of yours and shape your fingers exactly how I want them. Just two of them, crooked like a question mark. I could slowly, slowly slide them inside me and make you sit perfectly still while I ride you until I get what’s mine. Would you like that, Sasha?

Sasha nods again.

What else? Let’s see. I could slide to my knees, unzip your pants, and take you into my mouth. I bet you’d be big. I bet you’d be hard. I bet you’d like that best of all.

His knuckles are white as he squeezes the chair. I increase the settings on my vibrator. It’s a pulsing, whining groan now, and so am I, every joint in my back cracking as I arch up off the bed. My opened blouse flutters in the A/C’s draft and I reach up with my free hand to tease one nipple into a perfect, painful point.

If I sat on you and rode you until you came inside me, would you like that?

If I bent for you and bucked back into you until you exploded everywhere, would you like that?

If I was yours and you were mine, if I used you and you used me, if we both stayed locked in here until the windows fogged and the desk was ruined and our clothes were nothing but a sweaty, ragged memory…

Tell me, Sasha, would you like that?

Would you like that?

Would you like that?

And then, right when the orgasm is so fucking close I can taste it on my tongue like a coming storm…

Someone knocks on the door.

“Goddammit!” I moan. All the almost-there tautness goes rushing out of me and I flop back on the mattress like a landed fish. I’m sweaty, achy, unsatisfied in the rudest possible way.

It almost makes me feel guilty for what I did to Sasha.

And I’m gonna kill Gina.

She always gets salty when I don’t text her back. She once gave me a three-day silent treatment because I didn’t heart-react to a GIF of a pair of otters hugging with the caption ugh, so us that she sent me at two A.M. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s dropped in on me unannounced to demand I watch the series of TikTok links she’s sent.

I abandon the vibrator on the duvet so I don’t forget to clean it later, throw on a bathrobe, and march irritably toward the door.

“Gee, I swear I’m gonna⁠—”

But as I rip it open, I see it’s not Gina. It’s not Gina at all.

“Hello, ptichka.” Sasha’s tie is still slung loose around his neck, exactly how I left it. “Miss me?”