Owned By The Bratva King by Jagger Cole

7

River

For a while,I just buried the story whenever it came up in interviews. I’d dodge the question, or artfully switch to a new subject. I’d make a joke or something. But finally, a few months ago, that thread got picked at again. And this time, the tabloids kept picking until the whole story unraveled.

Then suddenly, what should have been absolutely no one’s business but my own became front page gossip: that “gorgeous, world famous model River Finn” was “bafflingly somehow still a virgin.”

And, I am. But if any of these tabloid headline writers were me, they’d see it’s not really so “baffling” at all.

Ever met a male model? They’re fucking awful. They are insufferably arrogant, self-involved, pompous douchebags. Ask any female model. I have it on good authority that most of them will tell you that “chiseled good looks” and having been in a Dior ad does not a good lover make.

I got into the industry young, at fifteen when I got spotted on the street in New York window shopping with my grandmother. But while a lot of the girls I started in the industry with went hard into partying, boys, and drugs, I stayed focused. I had, and still have, no illusions about this industry. Being a model is not a lifetime career. That’s just the hard facts, even if a lot of models like to gloss over that.

At some point, looks fade. We age; it’s just part of life. So to me, I never saw the point in wasting time on arrogant pretty boys who just wanted to get in your pants to have one more “famous chick” notched on their bedpost. The same goes for partying or drugs.

I got older, and more famous. But that just made it all even clearer to me. The boys who pursued me only wanted one thing. And it’s not like I’m a prude who doesn’t want or have any interest in sex. I mean, yeah, I get horny like most people on the planet. But the longer I held on to it, the more I knew how pissed I’d be at myself for just “getting it over with” with some smug pretty boy.

So I never did.

The thing is, I’ve “dated” some fairly famous male models and actors. The only problem? They were all “image relationships;” fake, constructed relationships to keep your name buzzing in the tabloids. It sounds stupid, and it is. But trust me, it’s way more prevalent in the fashion and entertainment worlds than people think.

So, the story about me being rumored to be a virgin would come up. But then someone would point to the heartthrob of the hour I’d been “spotted with” at some concert. And the idea that said heartthrob hadn’t “gotten me into bed” was laughed at.

Except a few months ago, it finally got traction. Chris Karl, the guy famous for having his abs looming above Times Square on the Gap billboard and for sleeping with more girls than the Rolling Stones, decided he’d found religion. He went on Ellen and renounced his man-whoring ways. Which included making a public apology to the women he’d treated terribly. And then he dropped the bomb: he apologized to me, specifically. Not for sleeping with me and never calling again. But for telling everyone that he did, when it never happened.

After that, the ball started rolling. Another model, Evan Stirling, mentioned off-hand in another interview that he also hadn’t ever slept with me. He’d never claimed he had either. But it was assumed, since he and I had been one of those “image relationships” for tabloids to take pictures of.

Then the landslide happened. Four more guys I’d been publicly linked with admitted they’d never even kissed me. And suddenly, the question every microphone had for me was “was I really a virgin?” I honestly didn’t see the point of lying. So I didn’t.

So there’s my big story. “World famous” “iconic” twenty-one-year-old model River Finn has never hopped into bed with anyone. Big fucking deal.

Except the thing is, it does become a “big fucking deal” when the absolutely gorgeous, dangerous, much older Russian mafia king puts his hand between your legs and makes you ache for more. It’s a big fucking deal when he’s the first person aside from yourself to make you come.

And it’s a very big fucking deal when he plants you on the edge of a bratva conference table, spreads your legs, rips your soaked panties off, and puts his mouth on your pussy until you scream his name.

Yeah, that’s a big fucking deal, and I am now way out of my element…

The helicopter rideback to the yacht is silent. But even without words, what happened back in that meeting room isn’t left there. The entire ride back, Yuri’s hand rests on my knee—gripping it possessively.

I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t send a tremor of heat through my core the whole ride back. The fact that my panties are in his jacket pocket and not on me isn’t exactly helping.

But even still, something grinds at me. It’s an itch in my thoughts the whole ride back. But it’s when we start to drop out of the sky down onto the yacht that I realize what’s bothering me.

That “big fucking deal” of the gorgeous, powerful man sitting next to me with his hand possessively on my knee having just made me scream his name with his mouth between my legs? It wasn’t some explosively hot tryst. It was a business transaction.

I wasn’t forbidden lust he simply couldn’t stay away from. I was bait. I was a pawn used to get what he wanted from a rival. My mouth purses as it slowly clicks into place for me. And suddenly, the glow of what just happened back there fades. The buzz of excitement turns to bitterness.

I spent years saying no to arrogant, good-looking guys because I didn’t want to feel used. And that’s exactly what just happened.

The helicopter is just about to touch down when I reach down, grab his hand, and shove it off my knee. I turn to look out the window. But I can still feel his eyes on me as he turns to look at me curiously. His hand slips back to my knee. Once again, more deliberately this time, I shove it away.

The chopper sets down on the helipad, and the engine winds down. Maksim opens the door and steps out, followed by the few other guards. I go to follow, but Yuri’s hand grips my wrist to pull me back. I turn to glare at him.

“Yes?”

His handsome face crosses with shadow as he narrows his eyes at me.

“You’re angry.”

I shrug. “I’m fine.”

“You’re also not a great liar.”

I sneer as I pull away from him. “Yeah, you actually don’t know much about me at all—”

I gasp as his hand tugs me back, spinning me into him. I whimper as my hands fall against his chest, and my eyes raise to look into his crystal blue ones.

“You are wrong, kiska,” he growls quietly. He leans close to me. “I know things about you that I know no others do.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh?” I droll sarcastically.

I gasp as he suddenly leans all the way down into my neck, making me tremble as his lips brush my ear.

“I know how sweet your pussy tastes, kiska,” he growls thickly.

I quaver, heat pooling between my thighs. But then I grab control back. I take a deep breath and pull away from him again.

“That is not happening again, just so we’re fucking clear.”

He smirks. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t… I honestly don’t know what I excepted his reaction to be. But smirking isn’t it.

“Is that funny to you?”

He grins. “Immensely.”

I glare at him. “Well, I fucking love jokes, so why don’t you share the humor?” I hiss.

“I’m amused because you’ve just proved my earlier point.”

My lips purse. “Which was?”

“That you are a terrible liar,” he growls thickly.

We stand there, glaring at each other. The air between us seems to ignite, burning hotly until I can’t tell if I want to kiss him or slap him across the face. But in the end, I decide on the third option.

Leaving.

With a final glare, I pull away. “I’m not your pawn,” I hiss. “And that is never happening again.”

I turn on my heel, walk down the steps of the helicopter, and march away.