THE SOLDIER

He pulls up in front of the building, and I take a deep breath.

“Knock them dead, blossom. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Thank you.” I lean over for a kiss. It’s awkward because he didn’t lean my way or try to touch me, but he cradles my face and kisses me back lightly.

“You’ve got this.”

I step out of the car. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know up from down. Maybe that’s why I believe Pavel implicitly. My defenses are down, and Pavel thinks I’m perfect. All I can do is show up and be me.

Pavel

I don’t know how long it will take Kayla, but I figure there’s time to take her car to a carwash and get an exterior and interior clean. She hasn’t texted by the time it’s finished, so I take a chance and bring it to the Jiffy Lube for an oil change and tune up, sliding a hundred dollar bill into the guy in charge’s hand to get it done quickly.

Afterward, I drive around L. A., looking at it for the first time. I realize I don’t even know where Kayla lives. I was playing fantasy dom-meeting her at Black Light and then bringing her to a hotel room for the weekend.

Now, though, things have shifted.

I see a commercial real estate sign in front of a large apartment complex and some wild and ridiculous notion pops in my head. I pull over to call the number on the sign.

“This is Larry,” a guy practically yells over the phone. Sounds like he’s driving a convertible.

“Yeah, just wondering the selling price for the property on Wilmont.”

“Are you an agent?” he demands.

“No. This is Pavel Pushkin. I’m a real estate investor from Chicago.”

“It’s five million, eight. I won’t show it until you’ve proven you have funding.”

I ignore his last statement. “How many units?”

“Six one-bedroom units and six two. The top floor is a penthouse suite, and there’s a pool on the roof.”

“How big are the units?”

“Eight hundred square feet and one thousand.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I say and end the call without a thank you. Groveling isn’t my thing.

I stare at the building and run the numbers in my head.

Real estate is the true secret to Ravil’s wealth. He may run smuggling and gambling and loan shark operations-staples of the bratva business-but he invested his money wisely. Somehow, he made enough-or maybe he killed the right people to inherit enough-to buy the Kremlin-lakefront property in Chicago. Definitely worth multiple millions. And now, with his beautiful new crime-intolerant wife, Ravil has steered the organization in a relatively legit direction. He can because he’s now a real estate mogul, not a crime lord.

I wonder, briefly, if Igor bankrolled him. I never asked because it’s none of my business.

All this time, I’ve saved all my earnings, so when things have cooled down enough to return to Moscow, I could get myself set up somehow. Oh, I’d still work for the bratva. The only way out of the bratva is in a box, or so they say. But having my own business-sanctioned by the pakhan, of course-has been my goal.

Sasha just inherited something like sixty million when Igor died. I wonder if she could be talked into backing me on something like this?

But that’s a crazy thought. Why would I start a business venture in Los Angeles if I’m moving to Moscow?

Well, the why is pretty obvious.

I’m thinking with my dick.

But my mother’s alone in Russia. Friendless, isolated, depressed.

Because of what I did.

So giving any thought to not returning would make me even more heartless than everyone thinks I am.

Blyad’.

A text comes through on my phone from Kayla, and I put the car back in drive and swing in front of the building where she auditioned to pick her up.

There’s a calmness around her as she walks out that hits me square in the chest. It’s not the kind of hair-tossing confidence Sasha wields, but she looks grounded. Happy.

I get out to open the door for her, and she leans into me, lifting her face with a smile and big moon eyes. “You’re awfully nice to your slave,” she purrs.

“My slave earned it.” I brush her cheek with my thumb. “How’d it go?”Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

She exhales with a smile. “Really well. As good as it could have. I did a couple scenes for them, and one made me tear up. It was perfect, honestly. Thanks for the pep talk before I went in. It really helped.”

“You don’t need pep talks, little flower. You already have it all. Believe that.”

She keeps leaning against me, her tits pressing soft against my ribs. My dick twitches against my zipper at the contact. I want to throw her over my shoulder, run back into that building and find some supply closet where I can fuck her brains out one last time before I go.

As if she’s reading my mind, she asks, “What time’s your flight?”

I shrug. “I already missed it. I’m sure I can find another one going out tonight.”

“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”

This is new, too. We’ve always just met at Black Light or the hotel. When it’s over, I take a cab or rideshare, and she drives away.

I know I should tell her no. That I’ll call a ride share. There’s something desperate and clingy about us needing to stay together until the last possible minute.

But the fact is, I do want these last few moments with her. Even after a solid forty-eight hours and more orgasms than I can count, it’s never enough. There’s something thoroughly addictive about Kayla that makes me want to change every plan I’ve ever made.

I brush my lips over hers. “Yeah. That would be nice. Thanks.”