Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)

When I wake in Ivan’s dungeon once more, I’m feeling refreshed and ready to get into trouble. I have to say, I rather enjoyed my interrogation. But that doesn’t mean I’m content to hang around here forever.

The first thing I do is examine the lock on the door and the hinges. It’s an electromagnetic lock, with an armature plate. It appears to be fail-safe, which means that it would automatically unlock if the power failed. But of course, I have no access to the power supply from in here.

There’s also no way to pick the lock, even if Ivan hadn’t taken all my clothes, with their hidden caches of tools.

My next point of examination is the camera up in the corner on the left-hand side of the door. I grab my mattress, dragging it over to that corner and flipping it on its side so I can climb up on top of it and take a closer look.

It’s a fairly standard cam, wired so it can be viewed remotely. Ivan might be watching me right now from his phone. I could disconnect the feed, so he’s blind to the interior of the cell. Then I could try to attack him on his way in. But he’s not sloppy enough to come strolling in blind.

I open up the back of the camera to see if there’s some way to loop the feed, but once again I need some goddamned tools and probably a laptop too.

I’m pretty tricky, but I’m not MacGyver—I need more than a Bobby pin and a stick of gum. Not that I have either of those things anyway.

I take a look at the toilet and the sink—if I could rip either of those out of the wall, it’s possible that the plumbing has a wide enough gauge that I could get out that way. Unlikely, but possible.

However, both are made of steel and are firmly bolted in place.

I drag the mattress back where it belongs and sit down to scheme some more.

I have a lot of ideas of ways to get Ivan to let me out of the room. But when he finally returns, when he unlocks the door and stands there looking at me, all my plots go flying out of my head. Because I see that his face looks furious, frustrated, and something else . . .

Can it be . . . sorrowful?

Something terrible has happened.

His eyes look darker than ever, wild and haunted. He’s lost that look of confidence and composure.

Stranger still is the reaction this causes inside of me.

I actually feel sorry for him.

I tried to kill this man. He captured me, held me prisoner.

Then he gave me the strangest and most intense sexual experience of my life.

And now he’s making me feel something else altogether—compassion. An emotion I almost never indulge, especially not when it comes to criminals, gangsters, targets.

What’s happening to me?

We’re staring at each other with this insane tension between us. I don’t know what he’s come down for, what he wants.

But I know what I want.

In four steps I’ve crossed the room, and so has he.

We meet in the middle.

He snatches me up in his arms and I put my hands on either side of his face, pulling him down to me.

Our mouths crash together in a kiss that is hungry, desperate, full of need and desire. My lips part. His tongue comes in to find mine. I can taste him, rich and warm and distinct. His rough stubble scratches my face. His massive hands are gripping my flesh, his fingers digging into me.

I’m tearing at his clothes, ripping open his finely-tailored white dress shirt. I hear the sound of buttons popping off and rolling away across the floor. All I care about is the sight of his thick, broad chest exposed to my view once more.

My very first sight of Ivan was in the nude, but I was hardly in a position to appreciate it at the time. Now I can feast my eyes on his smooth, deeply tanned flesh: the sheets of muscle rolling tightly under his skin, the sharp cuts on either side of his abdomen, pointing down to exactly where I want to go . . .

I fumble with the button of his trousers, then yank down the zipper. I slip my hand inside and free his cock, stiff and throbbing against my palm.

I’ve been with enough men to know that the size and appearance of their package rarely correlates with their skill in bed. However, every now and then, you meet with a cock that’s so beautiful that just the sight of it is arousing.

That’s what I find now, in Ivan Petrov’s pants.

His cock is thick, smooth, perfectly proportioned. The same lovely, uniform brown as his skin, and nicely groomed. It looks so good that I do something that I almost never do.

I drop down to my knees and take him in my mouth.

His skin slides silky smooth across my tongue. His cock tastes almost as good as his lips—with the same rich, slightly salty flavor. I fill my mouth with him, my lips bobbing up and down his shaft, while I squeeze the base of his cock with my hand.

Ivan lets out a long, satisfied groan. He thrusts his hands into my hair and holds my head but allows me to dictate the pace and depth of my movement.

I run my hands up and down his thick, muscular thighs while I continue to suck his cock. I can feel him rocking his hips as the waves of pleasure start to build. I’m bringing him closer and closer to climax, my tongue dancing across the head of his cock, lapping at the ridge where the head meets the shaft, then running down the length of it once more.

His legs are trembling. He’s pulling my hair without even meaning to.

I’m willing to take him all the way, but he stops me. He wants much more than that.

With a roar of lust, he scoops me up off the ground and throws me down on the mattress in the corner. He tears off my panties, literally tears them into pieces as if they’re made of paper.

But even in his eagerness, I discover that he’s quite the egalitarian. He positions himself between my thighs to return the favor.

He licks and laps at me so aggressively with his soft, warm mouth and the rough stubble of his chin, that it’s almost more than I can take. I squirm and wiggle, but he grabs my hips and holds me tight, attacking my pussy with his mouth and even thrusting his tongue inside of me.

I start to cum. That only makes him lick harder and faster. I grip his hands where they’re locked around my hips and I explode, crying out twice as loud as I did when he used the vibrator on me.

The first orgasm I had with Ivan was the wildest and strongest of my life.

The second replaces it completely.

I’m starting to worry that I might not survive a third.

Even before I’m done panting and shaking, Ivan loses his last shred of patience. He climbs on top of me and thrusts that thick, gorgeous cock inside of me.

I’ve never felt a sensation quite like it. His cock is like steel encased in velvet. It fits inside me like it was made for me, like its only purpose is to give me pleasure in exactly the ways I want.

I think Ivan Petrov is in the wrong business.

He should make a mold of himself and sell it to women worldwide.

I’ve hardly amused myself with that thought before I’m flushed through with jealousy at the very idea.

I found this perfect specimen, and I want to keep him all for myself.

Ivan slings my limp legs over his shoulders. He plows into me with all his strength. His whole body flexes as he drives deep inside of me, grunting like a beast.

He kisses my mouth, my throat, my breasts. He’s touching me in a dozen places at once, attacking the whole of my body with his. He’s letting out every ounce of that frustration and rage that was bottled up inside of him.

I’ve never been overpowered like this.

I usually fight to maintain control.

But with Ivan, I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to struggle.

I let myself be swept away by him, consumed by him. I don’t feel frightened or confined. Paradoxically, it’s freeing in a way I’ve never experienced before. For once I don’t have to plan or take action. All I have to do is go along with it, experience it.

He’s the brush and I’m the paint. He’s the wind and I’m the bird.

He’s bringing me to climax once more. This time I don’t clench or squirm or try to hold it back in any way. I just let the pleasure surge through every cell of my body.

He wraps me up in his arms. He crushes me against his body until I can’t move at all. The only thing moving is his cock, sliding in and out of me, inch by inch. He squeezes me tighter and tighter as he erupts inside of me. I can’t breathe from how tight he’s holding me, and yet I don’t want him to let go.

And he doesn’t, not even after he finishes. We lay together on that shitty old mattress, with his arms enveloping me.

Only then do I remember that I’m locked in a cell with this man. That I was planning to escape.

Ivan seems to remember the same thing.

He lets go of me and says, “Do you want to come upstairs and take a shower?”

I can’t help my look of surprise and suspicion.

“Come upstairs?”

“Yeah. I thought you’d want to get cleaned up.”

His tone is as gruff as ever, but I see the way he’s looking at me, watching my face, waiting to see if I’ll accept his offer.

He’s trying to be kind to me.

How odd.

“Uh, okay,” I say.

I’m not going to turn down his offer. I’ve been washing off in the sink, but that’s not the same thing as a proper shower with shampoo.

However, now that Ivan’s ripped my underwear, I don’t have a single stitch of clothing.

Ivan seems to realize the same thing.

“Take my shirt,” he says, throwing it to me.

Interesting. He doesn’t care if his men see me coming upstairs—but he doesn’t want them to see me naked.

I put on his dress shirt, which smells like his warm skin and his cologne. The scent sends a little shiver down my legs. I button it up, using the few buttons that remain after I tore it off him. He’s so much bigger than me that the shirt hangs down to mid-thigh, the cuffs covering my hands.

Even though we just finished fucking, Ivan stares at me in his shirt, his eyes roving down my bare legs. He likes the way I look in it.

He pulls on his trousers, then walks over to the door to open the lock with his fingerprint.

I expect him to give me a warning—tell me not to try anything stupid once we’re out of the cell. But he doesn’t say anything at all.

Whatever happened to him tonight, he’s obviously got bigger worries than me running away.