Snow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 2)

It will sound impossibly naive to say that I wasn’t even thinking of sex when I asked to see Snow’s apartment. I was caught up in the discovery of this man, who wasn’t at all who I expected the first time I laid eyes on him.

The first time I saw him, he honestly horrified me. He looked like the biggest and most brutish of all the boxers—the epitome of everything that terrified me about the Bratva’s underground boxing ring.

To find him perceptive, gentle, even kind . . . it seemed impossible.

It intrigued me.

The whole day happened so quickly and impulsively that it swept me away.

Before I know it, I’m standing inside his flat, which is tiny but incredibly clean and well-organized, almost like a military barrack. Not a single dish on the counter or in the sink of the little kitchenette. The bed made with geometric precision. I might have found it cold and sterile, but I’m quickly learning with Snow that the chilly exterior is just his shell. Underneath, there’s so much more to him.

This point is driven home a hundredfold when he takes me in his arms and kisses me. It’s not a grabbing, fumbling kiss like the few I’ve had before. Those were kisses from boys.

Snow kisses me like a man. He’s tasting me, exploring me. And most of all, taking possession of me. Those other boys were like shoppers in a store, poking and prodding. Snow is picking me up and taking me home.

His thick arms circle around me. They are utterly irresistible. He could break me in half if he tightened those arms a little further.

His mouth is hot and insistent. His tongue delves into my mouth. I can feel my lips warming and swelling in response. My lips and tongue become so sensitive that those few inches of skin seem to provide an acre of sensation.

He begins to unbutton my coat and I’m aching, longing for him to slip those heavy hands inside and run them down the length of my body.

Only then do I remember that what happens next has never happened to me at all, except in my imagination.

I don’t know the first thing about sex.

I had boyfriends in secondary school, but they all knew what a goody-two-shoes I was. They never tried anything besides slipping a hand up my shirt, which I usually slapped away.

In university I was willing to go further, but I never had any boyfriends at all. I didn’t have time to date, not with the relentless schedule of classes and exams.

If I’d pictured my first time, it wouldn’t have been in a seedy apartment, in one of the worst neighborhoods in town, with a boxer still bruised and battered from his last fight. For god’s sake, I don’t even know his real name! It can’t be Snow.

But I think his lips must have some kind of aphrodisiac on them, because I’m aroused like I’ve never been before in my life. It’s driving me insane, how much I want this man.

Maybe it’s biological—I know more about sex drives than I do about actual sex. The last remaining logical part of my brain is telling me that I only want this man because he’s the biggest and strongest and most virile-looking specimen I’ve ever seen.

I’ve read the studies on sexual attraction. I know that Snow’s height, his hip to waist ratio, his muscle mass and symmetry, are all silent signals to my brain. And that’s not even mentioning the intangibles like how fucking fantastic he smells. I first noticed it when I stitched up his face. He was dripping with sweat from his fight, not wearing any cologne. Yet the closer I stood to him, and the more I inhaled the scent of his skin, the harder my heart hammered against my breastbone.

I know all this. However, being conscious of something is not the same as being able to resist it. I’m weak with longing for him. Whatever he wants from me, however he wants it, I can only say yes.

He picks me up and throws me down on his bed. He finishes stripping off the tank top he wore beneath his hoodie, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.

Jesus Christ, that body . . .

Muscle on muscle on muscle.

Two smooth, flat pecs the size of dinner plates, above a stack of abs that make me want to rub my tongue over each and every groove. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned—no hair, like most northern Russians. He’s got tattoos running over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest—too many to see what they are individually. I think I see a saint, some gothic lettering, and a bird.

His waist is so tight that his joggers almost hang off it. Beneath his bellybutton he has just a little hair, leading down below the waistband . . .

I had already seen him shirtless before, but that was in public. It’s very different when he’s looming over me, and I’m wearing only a lacy bra and panty set. Thank god I put on nice underwear today, and not the faded cotton set I wore yesterday.

Snow seems to like them. He’s looking me up and down, the smallest hint of dimples showing on either side of his mouth.

He reaches out his big hands, grabbing hold of my suede boot. He unzips first the left boot, then the right, pulling them off my feet. Then he strips off my socks, too.

Now we’re down to the level I’ve never gone past before. No guy has ever seen me naked. My nervousness about this almost surpasses my anxiety about the actual deed that follows.

Snow hooks his index fingers under the waistband of my panties and slides them down my legs. Now my pussy is completely bared to his view, under its tuft of golden hair.

Snow reaches around me, making me think he’s going to climb on top of me. I feel his fingers deftly unhooking the clasp of my bra. He pulls that away too, leaving me completely nude.

He stands back to admire me.

Impulsively, I want to cover my breasts with my hands, but that would be ridiculous. Instead, I try to keep my breathing steady while his ice-blue eyes burn over the length of my body.

“Sasha,” he says softly. “I’ve never seen anything half as beautiful.”

I can feel myself blushing. The color flushes through my cheeks, all the way down my bare chest.

“I tasted your mouth. Now I’ll taste the rest of you,” he says.

Before I can protest, he’s scooped up my legs so my calves are over his shoulders, my heels resting against his broad back. His hands grip my hips, pulling my pussy up to his eager mouth. He parts my lower lips with his tongue, and then he starts to lick me where I’ve never even been touched before.

My god. If I were a poet, I would write a hundred sonnets on the pleasure of that moment. I’ve touched myself before, but much like tickling yourself, it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.

The warmth and wetness and softness of his tongue is nothing short of euphoric. It makes me so instantly soaked that, for a second, I’m afraid I wet myself.

He’s licking and rubbing and probing with his tongue, finding areas of sensation that I didn’t even know existed. Just like he did in the boxing ring, he tracks every squirm and wriggle of my body, finding my most vulnerable places, and hitting them again and again.

I know I should be quiet—from inside the apartment, I heard his neighbors out in the hallway. Which means they can hear me, too. But I can’t hold back the gasps and moans he’s wringing from my body.

He’s relentless, increasing his speed and pressure by the moment. I can feel what I’ve felt before, a climax rising and building inside of me. If what I did to myself was a firecracker, Snow is detonating an atomic bomb. The orgasm rips through my body, obliterating me like a knockout punch.

I lay back on the bed, panting and weak.

Snow lays on his side next to me, watching my breasts rise and fall with each breath.

“You like that, Doctor Drozdov?” he teases me.

“Yes,” I pant. “I like it.”

He reaches between my thighs once more, gently slipping one finger inside of me. I’m still so swollen and sensitive that it makes me shiver, but he can feel how wet I am, how relaxed.

“I think you’re ready for more,” he says.

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

Now he does strip off his joggers and his boxer shorts.

I’ve seen men naked before, in a clinical setting.

I never saw a specimen like this.

His cock is thick, heavy, hanging halfway down his inner thigh. As veiny as his forearm, with a head that looks a bit like a fist.

It’s honestly terrifying.

There’s no way that’s going to fit inside me.

He strokes it with his hand, bringing it to full hardness.

Oh my god, it’s even bigger than I thought. It juts out from his body like a battering ram. That cock is going to kill me.

He climbs on top of me. He’s so heavy that I can feel the bed sinking under his weight. With one hand, he positions the head of his cock at my entrance.

“Be . . . be careful . . .” I beg him.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll take care of you.”

I believe him. My racing heart slows just a little. I close my eyes and turn my face against his warm neck, breathing in his heady, masculine scent.

He starts to push inside me. At first it feels like a solid barrier down there—like it’s not going to open for him at all. Then, inch by inch, he begins to slide inside of me.

I’m still nervous and clenching too tight. I try to take deep breaths so I can relax.

Snow is patient. He stops for a moment, kissing me again. His lips move over mine, then down the side of my neck. It feels so good. Without even meaning to, I arch my back and roll my hips, drawing a little more of him inside.

He keeps kissing me, twining his fingers through mine, where my hands are pressed down into the pillow on either side of my head. I can feel the callouses on his hands, his huge knuckles harder than iron.

He slides in the last few inches, so his body is slotted tight against mine, my legs wrapped around his thighs. There’s no sharp pain or tearing as I’d feared, but I do feel stretched and filled to the absolute maximum. Now that he’s inside, I’m scared of him moving. Seeming to sense this, Snow holds still, letting me get used to him.

Only once I’ve relaxed again does he slowly, very slowly, begin to thrust in and out of me. He does it shallowly, just a little at a time. It creates a sensation unlike anything I’ve felt before—it’s a friction that’s almost like scratching the most teasing kind of itch. But it’s far more pleasurable than that. It creates a warmth, an aching, in places I hardly knew existed.

Soon I’m moving along with him, clenching my thighs and grabbing onto his broad back so I can follow his rhythm. The more I move myself, the harder I squeeze around him, and the more intense the sensation becomes.

I keep going, squeezing harder and faster. I can feel another climax building, but this one is different than any I’ve had before. This one comes from deep inside me. It’s not just centered around my clit—it radiates all around and up on the interior wall where the heavy head of Snow’s cock is rubbing and rubbing against me.

The more it builds, the more desperate I am to tip over the edge. It feels so good and so intense that I feel like I might die if something were to interrupt us right now.

I think Snow feels the same way. He’s driving into me harder and harder, as relentless as a locomotive. He’s grunting and panting, building up to his own release.

I think the apartment building could collapse around us and we wouldn’t stop.

I’m digging my fingers into his back, holding him as tight as I can. He’s so big that I can’t actually reach all the way around him. I can feel the muscles of his back flexing as he thrusts into me. I’m not scared of his size and strength anymore—I’m in awe of it. I’m transported by it.

I start to cum again.

Oh my god, the intimacy of that orgasm . . . it was one thing to cum with Snow down between my legs. It’s quite enough to do it with his lips pressed against mine, our mouths open, our breath going in and out of each other’s lungs. I’m tasting him, smelling the scent of his skin. He’s inside of me, feeling the contractions of my pussy around his cock. He can feel the climax ripping through every muscle of my body as I grab hold of him with all my might.

Just as I’m starting to descend from the exquisite heights, Snow begins to cum himself. And I get to watch it all happen over again, as if the pleasure flowed out of my body into his. He lets out a long moan, stiffening and giving one last deep thrust inside of me. I feel a rush of warmth and wetness as he explodes. I’m surprised how distinctly I can feel this. And also surprised how much I like it. It’s incredibly erotic, sharing this one last thing with each other. He pumps three or four more times, getting out every drop.

Only then does he take his cock out of me, though he’s still holding me tight in his arms.

We lay next to each other, still breathing like we’ve been sprinting down the street.

Snow’s arm is wrapped around me, my cheek pressed against his upper chest. I can hear his heart beating, and the air rushing in and out of him with each breath.

For the first time since coming back to St. Petersburg, I feel safe and at peace. I know it’s probably just the oxytocin flooding through my body, but I don’t care. I just wish I could make this moment last forever.

However, it’s cut short when my phone starts to buzz in my coat pocket, across the room where I abandoned it on the floor.

I know without looking that it’s Yakov.

I wish he would just text me instead of calling. I hate talking to him.

I jump out of the bed, fishing my phone out of the crumpled pile of coat.

“Yes?” I say quickly.

“What took you so long?” Yakov says.

It was only a minute, but he likes needling me.

“I put my phone down,” I say.

“Well don’t put it down,” he snaps back.

He’s talking so loudly that Snow can hear it, even from the bed. Snow is sitting up against the pillows, watching me. I see him frown at Yakov’s barking tone.

“Where do you need me to go?” I say to Yakov, forcing myself not to respond to his rudeness.

“I’ll text it to you,” he says. “Don’t wear anything you don’t want to get dirty.”

I don’t like the sound of that at all.

Once I’ve hung up the phone, I say to Snow, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Was that Yakov?” Snow asks.

“Yeah.”

“Does he always talk to you like that?”

“Yes,” I say. I hastily add, “It’s okay, though. He’s an asshole, but I just ignore him.”

“He doesn’t bother you otherwise?” Snow says.

“Well . . .” I remember the day he grabbed me, and I had to threaten him with the scissors. “No,” I say. “Not usually.”

Snow scowls all the more, seeing me hesitate.

I don’t want Snow getting himself in trouble. He doesn’t have to protect me from Yakov, just because we hooked up once. Honestly, I don’t want him to get me in trouble, either.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, everything is fine.”

I’m trying to get dressed again, as quickly as I can. I’m relieved to see I haven’t made too much of a mess of myself—no blood, thank god. I’m a little sore, but nothing that will stop me doing whatever awful job Yakov has in store for me.

Snow is getting out of the bed too, pulling on his boxer shorts.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks.

“No!” I say. “That’s not necessary. Actually . . .”

I hesitate. I don’t know quite how to say this.

“I really enjoyed . . . what happened. I enjoyed all of today, actually. But I don’t expect anything of you. Don’t think that I . . . just because I haven’t before . . . anyway, you don’t owe me anything. And I think it’s better if Yakov and Krupin and the others don’t know. Not that there’s anything to know . . .”

I can feel my face flaming red. I’m stammering like an idiot.

Snow is just watching me, calm and unembarrassed in his boxer shorts. He waits for me to finish. Then he nods.

“I agree,” he says. “It’s best if Krupin and his men don’t know. That will be safer for you.”

Snow understands. A woman has to be a fortress around a certain type of man. If they think there’s a hole in the wall, then they all want to come inside.

“And,” Snow adds, “I also enjoyed today.”

Now I’m blushing all the harder, but for a different reason.

The idea of Snow and I actually dating is impossible, for a hundred reasons. I can’t get romantically involved with anyone right now, especially not a boxer.

Hooking up with Snow was a one-time thing, a way to blow off steam under the immense pressure I’ve been experiencing.

I know that, logically.

Still, the irrational, immature side of myself, the part of me that hasn’t yet fully accepted my new reality, is alive and well. And that part of me loved every minute of the day we spent together. That part of me wants more.

That part can’t be satisfied, however.

I finish dressing as quickly as I can, buttoning up my gray wool coat and zipping up my boots. Yakov said not to wear anything fancy, but unfortunately, I don’t have time to go home and change.

Snow has dressed as well, zipping up his hoody and slipping his keys into his pocket.

He holds open the apartment door for me.

“I’ll wait for the cab with you,” he says.

As we head down the hallway, I see one of his neighbors poke his head out the door, then quickly close it again.

“I hope he didn’t hear us,” I say. “Maybe he’s used to that though. I’m sure he’s seen plenty of girls come and go.”

I say it teasingly, knowing that there’s no way Snow is as inexperienced as I am. A guy with a body like that will never be lacking for female attention.

Snow just shakes his head.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever brought to my apartment,” he says.

He says it so calmly and firmly that I’m sure he’s telling the truth.

I have no idea what it means, though.