(Watch Me) Break You
Run This Town, bk #1
Here comes trouble…
Men. Women. Drugs. Dima Zhirkov’s favorite things. Add in the element of danger and he should be right as rain. But not today. It’s not working, hasn’t for a long time. He’s grasping at the flimsiest of straws to prove he’s indeed strong enough to run his streets. Until he sets eyes on him. In the midst of a room full of strangers, Dima is drawn to a man as cold and dangerous as he’s beautiful. Captivated, Dima embarks on a ruthless campaign to get his new toy into bed.
Here comes the danger…
Xavier “X” Storm is content to pull the strings while someone else handles the day to day dealings of his gang, The Rude Boys. He’s after what Dima holds closest—the Coney Island streets. He contracts out the job of killing the Russian, except Dima isn’t that easy to kill. When he suddenly shows up in X’s path, tempting him to indulge in the dirtiest play, he finds Dima isn’t all that easy to shake, either. His cocky attitude and rough submission tempts X to go where he’d vowed to never return, and they plunge head first into an affair fueled by possessive obsession.
Run for cover
Sex and pain Dima can handle, and X delivers the most depraved kind. Their connection is explosive, their games addictive, but Dima can end it whenever he wishes. He doesn’t see that X is breaking him down, giving Dima everything he wants and even more than he ever thought to need. By the time he realizes who X is and what he wants, Dima is raw and bullet riddled. It’s run or fight. And Dima doesn’t back down. Neither does X.
It wasn’t working. None of it. Dima huffed out a frustrated breath and nodded at Sylvie when she paused what she was doing to send him an inquiring frown. Her lips curved and she bent, resuming her eager lapping at the wet, swollen pussy spread out before her.
Behind Sylvie, Anton grunted his pleasure, thrusting into Sylvie as she moaned and ate the woman…Ilina? Ilana? He always had a hard time remembering, but her name didn’t matter. She’d been brought in just for tonight’s fun, but her real job was much more important. She was brunette, the Il-something woman, skin tanned, body toned. Sylvie, on the other hand, was blonde and voluptuous, her body jiggling, shaking with every shove of Anton’s hips.
Dima picked up his glass of whiskey from the floor and downed it with a grimace. Damn thing wasn’t even burning his throat. Another thing that wasn’t working for him. He palmed his unresponsive cock and bared his teeth in a pissed-off grimace. Usually he got off on this—who wouldn’t?—but something was happening. With his pleasure. It was gone. He couldn’t feel it. No pain. No pleasure.
The Il woman grabbed a fistful of Sylvie’s hair and held her still as she rammed her pussy into Sylvie’s mouth, head thrown back, chest heaving. Dima watched them. Anton watched him. The weed was low, alcohol wasn’t working, and the scene in front of him that should have him fired up and ready to go wasn’t doing its job.
He got to his feet and hurriedly buttoned his shirt.
“Boss?” Anton called out to him in Russian.
Dima ignored him. He ignored the aroused cries of the two women and walked out the apartment. His bodyguards, Ben and Aleks, stood out in the hallway on either side of the door, waiting with bored expressions. He knew how they felt.
“Let’s go.” He didn’t wait for a response. It wasn’t needed.
“Where are we going, boss?” Aleks caught up with him on the stairs.
Dima took the stairs these days, didn’t matter how far up he was going, or how far down either. He didn’t ride elevators. The last time he did, he’d gotten a bullet in his back. No elevators. “Crown Heights.”
Aleks stopped walking, mouth hanging open as he stared at Dima. “Crown Heights?”
“I didn’t fucking stutter, did I?”
Aleks broke eye contact, his gaze quickly falling to his toes. “No, sir.”
Sir. Fuck. He was no sir. But of course, he couldn’t say that. He was their boss. His father was gone and Dima was now in charge. Not too many people liked that idea. “Let’s go then.” He continued descending the stairs. “Night’s not getting any younger.”
There was an uneasy tightness to his skin that wouldn’t relent until he got what he needed. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this, but it’d been a while, and this time…this time felt different. His needs had been awakened by the sight of his ex. For sure Mateo had been the only man who’d given Dima exactly what he’d needed. He’d done it with utter perfection, with zeal. And because he’d cared for Dima. Not the way Dima had wanted. Nope. But he’d cared, Mateo had.
Now, he didn’t. Or even if he did, it still wasn’t the way Dima wanted him to. Because Mateo was married, to a spitfire of a man who he happened to be madly in love with. Maybe that was the reason Dima couldn’t function. He didn’t know, but he intended to end his drought tonight. Ironically he’d be going to a place Mateo recommended. It would be safe, his ex had promised. Safe for Dima’s body. For his identity. He didn’t know for sure, but he’d find out. He could always burn the place to the ground if he didn’t find it to be what he wanted. The way he was feeling, he wanted to watch something burn.
He had Ben and Aleks drop him off around the corner then watched them drive off before walked over to the building. They didn’t like leaving him alone, not since the attempt on his life, but some things weren’t meant for his employees to witness. His men would never see him on his knees. That part of himself he kept carefully hidden. They didn’t care so much that he also fucked men, but his kinks would be seen as a weakness. In this stage of the game, he couldn’t afford any of that.
He rang the doorbell and the large red door was opened by a tall, skinny man with salt and pepper hair and gruff expression.
Dima tried peering over the man’s shoulder, but couldn’t make out a damn thing. “Mateo sent me.” He held the man’s gaze, presenting the image of a man in control of himself and his needs. “Mateo Oliveros.”
“Of course, sir.” The man stepped back and motioned for Dima to enter. “Right this way, please.”
Dima didn’t even hesitate. He went in.
* * * *
He spent a few minutes with the man, Sal, he’d introduced himself as, talking about the rules, Dima’s likes, and getting a brief tour of the surprisingly large house. The main floor wasn’t crowded, but after Sal allowed him the chance to walk about on his own, Dima found the basement level filled with people.
He heard the feminine moans and the arousing sound of leather connecting with flesh before he spotted them. In the middle of the room. The woman was secured to a cross, getting whipped. She was stunning in her submission, blissful pain on her face. Dima would be all over her, getting high on her pained cries…
If he hadn’t seen him. The man doing the whipping.
He wore black dress pants and shiny matching shoes, but his upper half was bare. Gloriously brown and smooth, bulky with muscles that moved when he did, hypnotizing Dima so that he forgot to stick to the outskirts of the crowd. He had to get in closer. Had to see more.
His feet moved and he pushed his way through the crowd until he was right there, at the forefront, smelling leather, sex and pain. His cock throbbed, awakened and aroused. Not for the woman, but for the man who delivered those precise blows with grave silence. Dima surged to the right of the crowd in order to see him, his face.
It was a beautifully constructed one, with dark beard and goatee trimmed to frame his full lips. His eyes were hard, intense, his face blank. Expressionless. Dima didn’t see passion in what he was doing. He didn’t see displeasure. He just saw a man going through the motions. It hit Dima, like a punch to the throat.
The need to see pleasure in those eyes.
The urge to break that fierce concentration, for emotion to crack that smooth veneer.
Not for anyone else, but for him. With him.
The man, the Dom, was with someone else, but that didn’t matter. Neither did it factor in that he was topping a woman. Dima had him in his sights. This was who would make him feel again. Who would give him release. He watched them, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as the Dom took his sub to the clouds, as she sighed and folded like a cheap suit in his arms.
Everyone around Dima sighed and applauded. The Dom stiffened then looked up and around as if he’d only now realized he had an audience. He cradled the woman to his chest, whispered in her ear as he kissed her temple and smoothed a huge palm over her head. He did all that, but his face never lost its detachment.
That wouldn’t do for Dima. He’d demand more. No way would he accept being topped by someone who wouldn’t or couldn’t show their pleasure at his submission. His gift. Because submission was a gift to be treasured. Appreciated.
He melted into the crowd, watching from the shadows as the woman finally curled up on a bed in the corner of the room. She looked as if she’d fallen asleep. The Dom disappeared into another room without a backward glance. Dima waited, but he didn’t see him return so he went back upstairs to the main area. A sub was being spanked by his Dom. Someone else was being flogged. Dima went from room to room, barely registering the sights and sounds and smells. His full attention remained on that Dom in the basement, he needed to know his identity.
In the bar area, where curiously no alcohol was being served, he got himself a glass of water and filled out a detailed questionnaire about himself, his kinks and everything else. Shit, he half expected them to ask about his credit score. He eavesdropped on hushed conversations, but none was about the man. His toy. They’d be playing soon enough. He always got his man. Always. He hadn’t been looking, but he’d found himself a brand new toy. His body tingled with that thought.
He’d hurt him. Dima had seen the tightly coiled power in those muscles, the way the man stood, the way he landed his blows. He could hurt Dima. Exactly what he wanted.
He exited the bar area just in time to see his quarry—now fully dressed—duck into a room on the top floor. Dima remained where he was. The biting need that rode him for days remained, but he tamped it down. Now that he had someone in his sights he’d get what he wanted soon enough. He’d selected a new toy so now, no one else would do. He ignored the crowd, pulling his dark cap low on his forehead.
The Dom didn’t stay in the room upstairs long. He came out a short time later and quickly descended the stairs like a man on a mission. Dima followed him into a bathroom and stood by the door as his new toy rolled up his shirt sleeves and washed his hands in a nearby sink. When he turned away to wipe his hands via the paper towel machine mounted to the wall, Dima stepped out from behind his hiding place.
His new toy didn’t seem surprised to see him. He gazed at Dima through the mirror. Cool. Unruffled. In control. It made Dima’s blood race. Made his palms sweat.
“What’s your name?” he asked. The man didn’t blink and Dima realized he’d asked his question in Russian. He repeated himself in English.
The man didn’t answer. He remained facing the mirror, head cocked at an angle, watching Dima watch him. Their appearances couldn’t be any different. The Dom with his coffee with milk skin, impeccably dressed in a blue shirt and black pants, and Dima with his wrinkled shirt missing buttons, the ragged holes in his faded jeans, black motorcycle boots and the taste of weed, alcohol and Sylvie’s pussy on his tongue.
“I watched you,” Dima said. He sounded…rough, words halting with need. “Downstairs. I want it.”
Just one word, but it fired Dima like nothing ever had. He stepped up close, pressing his front to the other man’s back. He was hard, the other man. Brick. But so was Dima. Achingly hard.
“I want you.” Fuck. He’d switched to Russian again. “Give me what you gave her.” It was a demand, but Dima heard hollow need all over those words.
The man spun around, lightning fast, and grabbed Dima by the throat. Mother of God. His balls tightened, threatening to explode. By that. Just that. The man’s expression hadn’t changed Dima found when he peered up at him through his eyelids. Dima kept his hands fisted at his sides.
“Give it to me,” he whispered in Russian.
“Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking neck.” He slammed Dima into a stall door. The pain made pre-cum pour, wetting Dima’s boxers. He groaned. The man released him and was gone before Dima could gulp in air.
His heart pounded as he clutched the edge of the sink, breathing fast. He met his own wild gaze in the mirror, shivering at the hungry grin on his face.
A chase. He could do that.
He followed his toy at a distance out the building, via a side door, and into a small parking lot next door. A woman stood near a town car with tinted windows, waiting.
Dima narrowed his gaze as his prey went to her, grabbing and kissing her as he swept a hand under her dress. His gut clenched and Dima reached down, pulling a small knife from his left boot. He crept closer, head down. At least the place was practically empty and the parking lot dimly lit. That allowed him to get close enough to see that the woman was the same one his toy whipped earlier. And he was fucking her up against the car, an arm at her throat, the other gripping the red panties bunched around her pale thighs.
Dima bit his tongue as he watched. The man fucked her hard, but didn’t make a sound. She made enough for them both, loud whimpers. Dima squeezed the knife in his palm.
Would she make the same sounds if he gutted her with the knife? Would her blood look as pretty against her skin as the bright color of her panties? He catalogued every sound she made to memory, hating her for having what he wanted. That roughness. The pain from earlier. His kisses, because he kissed her, Dima’s toy. He kissed her hungrily, briefly silencing her cries as he plunged into her.
Was he thick, cut? Curved? Dima loved a curved cock, they tended to hit all the right places. He wondered at his toy, the way he smelled. His skin. The more he wondered the more he ached to know, the more he had to, and the more he hated the bitch who clutched his toy’s back as she came with a low keening sound.
Dima’s new toy pulled out and away from the woman, giving Dima a quick snapshot of his clenched ass before he yanked up his pants and got into the dark sedan parked next to the town car. Soon as he pulled off, Dima jumped from his hiding place. He caught her as she was about to get into the driver’s side of the car and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She gasped and he jerked her head back, knife at her throat pushing into her skin.
Her eyes were blue and wide, full of fear and lingering arousal. She smelled like cum and sex. Dima’s hand shook with the overwhelming need to drop to his knees and push his face between her spread thighs, to breathe her in, see if she smelled like his toy. If he licked her, would she taste of him?
He dipped his head, pressing his nose to her shoulder as she whimpered. He took a breath then lifted his head to stare down at her. “The man who just fucked you, what’s his name?”
She hiccupped, bottom lip trembling. Dima smiled and pressed the knife deeper into her skin. A bead of blood welled up then slid down into her cleavage. He trailed it hungrily with his eyes.
“His name. Tell me.”
Her pebbled nipple poked against his arm. Musky arousal swamped him.
Shit. Dima gritted his teeth. She was like him, getting high on danger. Turned on by her own fear.
“Tell me and I’ll give you want you want.” He could give it to her, but what he wanted, only one would suffice. The woman’s pupils dilated and she bit her bottom lip, pressing closer against him.
The knife at her throat poked deeper into her skin.
“Mr. Storm,” she whispered, voice husky. Hopeful. “That’s all I know.”
Shit again. “Is he your Dom? You two play together often?”
She moved her head side to side in a “no.” “We come here once a month. Every other time we meet at my place.”
That was weird, but Dima would puzzle it out later. Lowering the knife, he bent his head and licked her neck, near the area he’d seen his toy bite her. He inhaled again, trying to find the smell of his toy under the woman’s own arousal.
“Did he cum inside you?” he growled against her skin.
She didn’t answer so he looked up. Her head was thrown back, lashes brushing her flushed cheeks as she panted. Dima wanted to snap her neck, but he shook her instead, pressing his thumb into the indent at her throat.
Her lashes flew open.
“Did he cum inside you?”
She jerked her head in a nod and he reached down, pushing two fingers into her. She bucked, pussy soaked. Dripping. He screwed his fingers deeper into her heat as her cunt rippled around him.
“Oh.” She clutched at his hand.
“You should tell him this,” he whispered as he tunneled his fingers in and out. “That I finger-fucked you to get at his cum.” He scraped against the spongy knot at the roof of her channel and she convulsed, coming in hot, tight waves around his fingers.
Her liquid pooled in his palm and Dima pulled out, practically throwing himself away from her. She stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
“I—” Her voice shook. “My name—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t give a fuck about your name,” he snarled in her ear. “This isn’t about you. Go.” He waved at her car. “Don’t forget to tell him what I did.”
She stumbled into the car and drove away after two attempts to start it. Dima made sure to get a good look at her license plate, committing it to memory before he ducked between a red minivan and a dark colored car and tugged his cock from his pants.
“Fuck.” He shoved his fingers into his mouth, the same ones that were inside her as he stroked himself. He came with barely a touch, sucking the bitter yet salty cream from his fingers with eyes screwed tightly shut. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground under the force of his climax. “Fuck.”
His new toy was playing hard to get. Obviously he’d never met anyone like Dima. They’d see each other again. He moaned around the fingers in his mouth. Yes. The hunt was on.