Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

I’m texting Amelia, the kids’ absurdly expensive part-time nanny, to see if she’s willing to stay later if she needs to when Ruslan walks out of his office.

“Ms. Carson.”

I put my phone down and stand. “Yes, sir.”

“Dinner. 8:30.”

Panicking slightly, I glance at the schedule on the side of my desk. “You don’t have anything scheduled. Do you need me to make a—”

He sighs. “I’m asking you out to dinner, Ms. Carson.”

“Oh.”

Oh!

He cocks one dark brow. “Are you free to join me or not?”

His tone suggests that he’s got plenty of other options if I turn him down. I twist my phone around and spy the text that I’ve just gotten from Amelia. That’s fine! It feels like my first real break today.

“Yes! Yes, I’m free.”

He nods. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

The moment he disappears into the elevator, I throw files and papers, notepads and pens back into my desk drawer, grab my bag, and haul ass into the restroom.

I touch up my makeup and add another coat of seduction-red lipstick. I thank my lucky stars that I remembered to pack perfume, too. It’s down to its last few puffs, but I manage to apply a spritz onto the sides of my neck and the front of my wrists. Then I pop out the top button of my blouse, allowing just a peek of my bra and the cleavage it offers, before I head downstairs to meet Ruslan.

He’s already in the back of the monstrous black SUV parked right outside the Bane skyscraper. The door swings open on its own as I approach.

Ruslan is on his phone when I slide inside. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence apart from hitting the roof of the vehicle with the palm of his hand. As soon as he does, we whisk away from the curb.

I spend the next thirteen minutes shooting him furtive glances, wondering if I should break the silence. Spoiler alert: I don’t.

The SUV comes to a stop in front of a tall, thin building so white it shines. Eleven Madison Park. I’m pretty sure there’s a three-month waiting list to even set foot in the lobby here.

It’s just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside. We walk into a huge symmetrical room with double-height ceilings and a terrazzo floor with inlaid carpets. Hanging pendant lights illuminate the neutral color palette of the upholstered furniture, a mix of blue-grays and copper earth tones.

Everything about this place intimidates me. Including the leggy blonde in a little black dress who shows us to a private room in the back of the restaurant.

The door clicks shut behind the hostess and the hubbub of the general dining area dies away. Heat instantly spreads across my body.

Ruslan brushes past. “Shall we sit?”

I nod, reaching for my chair at the same time he does. I lunge back, only to realize that he’s pulling out the chair—for me.

Who says chivalry is dead?

I squash the juvenile reaction in my head. “Thanks.”

He settles into the seat next to me. My thoughts are going berserk. This is it. This has to be it. Why else would he have asked for a private room?

So I sit there and wait for him to touch me under the table. Maybe order me to drop to my knees below the tablecloth. But he does neither of those things. In fact, apart from the setting and the way he pulled my chair out for me, he’s neither said nor done anything to suggest that this isn’t going to be a very above-the-board kind of dinner.

Except that I’ve never had dinner with my boss.

I start with surprise when the door opens and the hostess returns with what I’m sure is a very expensive bottle of champagne. She pours us both a flute and then bows right back out.

“Emma.”

My name slips out of his mouth and instantly, I experience what can only be described as a hot flash. Except, you know, it doesn’t suck. It just makes my toes curl and my heart beat a little faster. It makes me very aware of my body.

Because more self-awareness was exactly what I needed, right?

“Yes, Mr. Oryolov?”

“We’re not in the office anymore.”

I exhale. “So I’m allowed the privilege of using your name?”

Those amber eyes are scorching. “I detect sarcasm.”

“Then you detect correctly.” I pick up my flute of champagne and give it a taste. As expected, it’s jaw-dropping.

He smirks and a lightning rod of excitement rips down my spine. If that smirk doesn’t spell “foreplay,” I don’t know what does.

“I invited you out tonight to lay the ground rules for our arrangement.”

My eyebrows pull together. Call me crazy; somehow, I thought this arrangement would involve a helluva lot more ripped clothes, mind-blowing orgasms, and scandalizing dirty talk. And yet here we are, having an extremely civilized dinner, discussing ground rules.

“Okay. Got it. Ground rules.”

“You need money to pay off your debts.” My skin prickles with anxiety, but I don’t bother asking him how he knows that I’m in debt. “And I need a woman who’ll be at my beck and call without expecting me to fulfill her…emotional needs.”

Despite the turn this dinner has taken, I still feel those butterflies every time he says something to me. It’s different from the orders he usually barks at the office. Still, I get his message loud and clear.

“I mean, you can certainly try not to fall in love with me. I’m warning you though, it’s gonna be tough. I’m a hoot and a half.”

I swear, I almost manage to squeeze a smile out of that stone face.

Almost.

“I wouldn’t worry. There’s zero percent chance of that happening.”

I scowl. “A gentleman would have at least given me five percent. Two percent, even. Or at least lied entirely.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t be offering you a contract for sex, either.”

I wince. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

“When I require your attention, I will send a driver to pick you up and take you to my penthouse.”

“The fuckpad?” I blurt before I can bite my tongue.

He doesn’t respond to that apart from a subtle tremor in his brow. “My driver will drop you back home when we’re done.”

“So… no sleepovers?”

“That is correct.”

I nod distractedly, feeling uneasy about one thing in particular. “What about other partners? That is, um, other sexual partners?”

His expression completely flatlines. His mouth turns into a harsh grimace, his eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches.

Makes me feel like maybe I should have read the fine print.

“For as long as this arrangement between us lasts, you will not be permitted to date, kiss, or fuck anyone other than me.”

I should resent the amount of control he’s exerting on my life, but somehow, the possessive snarl in his tone has my body writhing with delight.

“Not what I meant.”

His expression doesn’t relax. “No? Then what did you mean?”

“I need to know if this is a two-way street.” I take a sip of champagne to bolster my nerves. “I’m sure we both share the same concerns.” It’s the only way I can think of to get him to stop glaring at me and see even a sliver of reason. He doesn’t want to share me with other men? Fine by me. I don’t want him sharing whatever he catches from other women, either.

“Hm.”

That freaking “hm.” It’s amazing how one little sound can ride under my skin in the worst way.

“I will agree to keep our arrangement monogamous.” His tone is clipped, so I have no idea if he’s happy about the concession or not, but I certainly am.

I file his answer away under my “victory” column and focus on a more practical point. “How often will I be coming?”

“You’ll be coming to the penthouse twice a week. As for how often you’ll be coming…” He shrugs mischievously.

“Only twice?”

He smirks at the eagerness that question implies. I wanna kick myself. Great, Emma. Good job not looking desperate.

“I’m a busy man, Emma. Discipline is the cornerstone of my life. Twice a week will be sufficient, but you should be prepared to be on call at any time.”

“‘Any time’ doesn’t really cut it when you’ve got three kids with different schedules and different needs. I’m gonna need advance notice. At least…” I quickly calculate Amelia’s typical response time. “At least three to four hours.”

His jaw tightens. “Very well.” He sips his champagne and the southern half of my body is making me wish that I were the flute in his impossibly large hand.

“In addition to your monthly salary, you will be compensated for your time in the form of a weekly allowance.”

My eyes widen. “A what?”

“It’s simply a way to account for any expenses that might come up as a result of our arrangement. As I understand it, you have three young dependents?” I nod and he continues. “I’m aware that childcare is not cheap. The allowance will make sure they’re looked after so that you don’t have any distractions when you’re with me.”

The man is thorough; you gotta give him that. His explanation does go a long way toward making me feel better about the whole exchanging-sex-for-money dilemma. There’s still a lot of moral ambiguity, but it’s a little easier to ignore.

“One more thing.”

I shift in my chair, unease turning my palms sweaty.

“I’m not interested in trapping you, Emma. You’re free to break our contract at any time, as long as you give me notice. You will still get your severance package, as well as a good recommendation.”

I exhale slowly, pleasantly surprised by the escape hatch he’s allowing me.

“However.”

I should have known. With men like Ruslan, there’s always a “however.”

“If you so much as breathe a word about this contract to anyone, then—

“Then,” I cut in, “the deal is off. No protection, no recommendations, no pension—and you have the means to completely destroy my chances of employment in any capacity ever again. I’ll be lucky if I can brew coffee for a living. Did I miss anything?”

He cocks his head to the side. That tiny little smirk is back. “You did not.”

I nod. “I pay attention, Ruslan.” It’s mildly embarrassing that goosebumps fleck my arms when I say his name. I’m lucky I chose long sleeves today.

He leans forward, those arms flexing as they hit the table. “Then you’ll have no problem following my rules.”

I laugh. “You better hope you can follow the rules.” I point to myself with both hands. “Hoot and a half, remember?”

Those amber eyes burn a little brighter. Then, without warning, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. His grip is tight, bordering on painful. He meets my gaze with an unflinching glare. “I’m going to make myself very, very clear: this isn’t a relationship. I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not your anything. Feelings aren’t an option.”

I swallow a gulp and nod.

He relaxes his grip and sits back in his chair. “Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can enjoy dinner.”

An hour and a half later, the SUV pulls up outside my building.

I’m very satisfied right now, but not in the way I’d expected. The food at Eleven Madison Park was nothing short of holy. The conversation, however, was extremely lacking. In the most literal sense of the word. After we ordered, he barely said a word to me.

I’d half-expected him to take me back to his fuckpad after we finished dinner, but he gave the driver my address instead.

“Goodnight, Emma.”

Of course, he’s not gonna walk me to the door. That’s a boyfriend’s job, and he’s my… fuck buddy? Sugar daddy? Casual sex partner? Friend with benefits?

I almost snort at that last thought. We’re definitely not friends.

“Goodnight, Ruslan.”

To his credit, he waits until I’m inside the building before driving off. I watch the SUV go, its engine purring softly in the distance. And all I can think is…

What a waste of lingerie.