Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King
Chapter 1
MAXIM
Iwas never into blondes growing up. I didn’t like the way that they seamlessly accepted the role of the dumb bitch, the bimbo, the barbie. Hailing from Eastern Europe and moving to the United States was a tough transition because no woman in Russia likes to play dumb.
One blonde in particular has caught my eye, though, and I’m going to do everything in my power to have her as my own.
Ivory Mae, the darling American sweetheart of the greater East Coast, is the daughter of one of the most powerful, savagely rich politicians in the game right now. The man has never known poverty of any kind, especially not that of the people he governs. His oblivious nature would make him an excellent ally to my Family, not to mention my ruthless blackmailing capabilities in the event that he chooses to make a misstep.
I’ve been watching Ivory from a far distance as she wanders the campus of her college. Unsurprisingly, the college is an obscenely expensive private school, primarily for the offspring of entitled, embarrassed multi-millionaires who couldn’t pay their kid’s way into an Ivy League school.
Ivory may be smart, but she can’t be that smart. A pretty girl like her growing up without so much as a single public bus ride can’t be that naturally intelligent. What would she do with a smart brain if she had one?
Based on the group of people she hangs around with most of the time, I’ve gathered that she’s probably majoring in something stupid and worthless like communications or political science. The artificial weight of the course load keeps her at school for the majority of her day, which makes it tricky to spy on her.
The campus is a behemoth of an organization, spanning multiple blocks of ornate, ancient buildings funded by white men with combovers and mail-order brides. I particularly hate it when she chooses to study outside near the theater building because the students who gather there are completely insufferable.
No matter, though.
I can be patient when I want to be.
My master plan is simple: knock up the dumb blonde, then inherit her father’s blessing and, therefore, his wealth. The bar for unplanned parenthood is so low in America that I’ll be hailed as a saint just for sticking around for Ivory and the baby once it’s born. Nothing has ever come to me easier, and being able to anticipate Ivory’s naivete will have her practically eating off the floor if I asked her to.
Today, Ivory’s dressed a little less conservative than usual. Despite the rapidly incoming chill of autumn, she is wearing a short, white tennis skirt and a pink, cropped off-shoulder sweater with no bra. Her hair falls over her shoulders in loose, silky curls. Even if I didn’t have more involved intentions, I could watch her prance around campus like that for a whole day. She’s even a little bit self-conscious, pulling her arms across her chest when her nipples perk up.
I revel in her shyness. I’ll bet she smells like candy or vanilla or some shit like that.
My cock gets hard just imagining being close to her, wondering what her body would feel like as I held her near mine. Despite her petite frame, she doesn’t appear to work out much, which gives her a softer look all around. I would fall asleep face-down between her tits if I could.
I take a deep drag off a cigar as my Escalade fills with smoke. The smoke hitches in my throat, causing me to cough uncontrollably for three minutes or so. It’s a good thing Ivory can’t hear or see me behind the illegal tint of these windows. Occasionally, she’ll step just a little too close to the vehicle, which makes me nervous. I don’t need her to get too close of a look at my car. I have multiple, sure, but they’re all brightly colored or custom-made from overseas. I bought this Escalade specifically to spy on people. It’s luxurious but understated.
It’s about 5 PM now, and I know that this is around the time that Ivory will start her short walk back to her penthouse downtown. Her parents spoil the fuck out of her, so I won’t have the advantage of overwhelming her with gifts and expensive dates.
Other women are so easy that way. They claim to respect themselves, playing hard to get and maintaining the illusion of impossibly high standards for a good man, but as soon as you whip out a platinum credit card and pay $500 for a bottle of wine, they practically faint as the blood rushes to their clits.
Ivory might be a little harder to impress, but I’ve done enough digging into her online presence to know that the guys she’s dated in the past are complete asshats; skinny white boys in Balenciaga who speak terrible Italian, collecting DUIs like cat hair on a black dress. I know already that I’ll make a much better impression than them.
Her sleek little laptop bag bounces on her hip as she walks off-campus, and a breeze picks up as she stops to cross the street, exposing just enough of her light blue panties to instantly make me hard. I’d fuck her brains out right there at the stoplight if I could, but I know I need to be patient. If I come on too strong, she’ll file a restraining order.
Not like that would stop me from pursuing her, but it would add a layer of bureaucratic overhead that I don’t want to deal with.
She crosses the street, totally lost in her own little world of elite showboating and borderline unethical skincare treatments that are only accessible to those of her kind. I watch intently, starting my car and bringing it to a crawl as I continue to pursue her. It’s Friday night, and her social media has been blown up by friends all day, begging her to come out and get shitfaced after classes.
As soon as she’s gone, I’m going to break into her apartment and learn everything there is to know about Ivory Mae.
