Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

33

Ilya has a jet.I mean, of course he does. But even if having access to a luxury private plane seems par the course for the heir to a billionaire crime lord, it’s just a touch outside of my reality.

I feel like a Bond girl as we cruise through the night towards France. It doesn’t hurt that our route here was full-on cloak and dagger.

First, Ilya put a blindfold on me in the movie-theater-style entertainment room in the basement of Lordship Manor. Then, I learned there was another basement—one that smelled like a gym, but also like a car garage. And yet also like an office full of old leather furniture.

I wasn’t expecting to be sat in the passenger seat of a car, either. I wasn’t expecting the thrill of acceleration after not being in a car for a month while at school. At first, there was a dull echo, as if we were in a parking garage.

But when the sound changed, the blindfold came off, and I found myself being driven through the dark English countryside in a sleek black Maserati with Ilya behind the wheel.

“Let’s skip the questions for now,” he’d growled.

After that, it was just the surreal silence of driving through the night with the window down, with The Wolf himself—to Manchester, the private airfield, and now this jet.

“Wait, so where are we going?!”

I know I’m gushing. But I can’t help it. I’m on a private jet that just feels like money. I’m half-reclined in a more of a spa-chair than anything I’ve ever sat in on an airplane before, the decorations make it look like we’re in sleekly modern hotel room, and I’m sipping champagne.

“Your normal person is showing, Red.”

“Hah hah hah,” I roll my eyes at him, bringing the flute to my lips again.

“Just in case you’re not aware, the rest of the world does not travel like this.”

“Oh,” he smiles thinly. “I’m aware.”

“Enjoy lording that over peons like myself?”

“Immensely.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.”

The cabin goes quiet. It’s like we’re both thinking it: that this… thing between us has an expiration date.

It must. I mean, I’m me, and he’s… him. Not even TV sitcoms would venture to write a Supreme Court judge and a mafia king.

But until this inevitably blows up? Well, he’s an escape. A fantastic one, at that.

“So,” I say quickly, clearing the air. “I ask again. Where are we going?”

“Paris, pay attention.”

I roll my eyes.

“Where in Paris. I mean you packed a bunch of stuff in that bag, I just want to know what I should—”

“A lace thong and nothing else,” he grunts.

I blush. Ilya eyes me hungrily.

“Dress up. We’re going out to dinner.”

“Very fancy, Mr. Volkov.”

I take a sip of my champagne.

“And to the opera.”

I almost spit out my bubbly.

“Wait, really?”

He smirks as he turns to look out the window.

“Your regular person is showing again.”

I grin.

“You should get changed. We’re going straight to the theater when we land.”

“When are we landing?”

He shrugs. “Half an hour?”

My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“It’s just Manchester to Paris, it’s not that big deal of a flight. You know, for us at the top.”

I roll my eyes. He smirks at me.

“Catch up, Red.”

I stepout of the private changing area—not even a bathroom, like seriously a changing room on the jet—with a blush.

The dress fits me like a second skin. I feel sexy and yet cultured; elegant and scandalous. And when Ilya looks up as I walk back through the main cabin, I get the impression he feels the same way about it.

His eyes pierce into me, like blades cutting through me. Like he’s stripping the gown from me right there with a gaze.

“You like?”

He growls; audibly. I sit, blushing as I grin and reach for my champagne.

Ilya undoes his seatbelt. I gasp quietly as he leans towards me. His hands land on my knees and start to push the dress up, before I stop him.

“Uh-uh,” I tease.

This time, there’s an edge to that growl of his.

“Excuse me?” He grunts.

“I’m not your plaything, Ilya,” I grin. “I’m not available at your beck and—”

“Yes, you are,” he mutters thickly. “And yes, you are.”

He leans closer, and my breath catches when his lips brush my ear.

“And I know you love being my fucking plaything.”

I shiver. His hand starts to tug at the dress. And I let him. He pushes it up my thighs, and over the lacy thin panties I’ve slipped on beneath it. He pulls away, letting his lips brush the line of my jaw before his eyes drop between my legs hungrily.

“Take your panties off.”

I blush and look up at him. But his eyes just burn into me, and I feel myself nodding. I reach down to slip them down.

“Spread your legs.”

I tremble. He’s not wrong. The demands and the growling tone turns me into a puddle. My skin tingling, I keep my eyes on his as I do as he says.

Ilya drops to his knees in front of me, pushing my legs even wider. I whimper when he lifts them, hooking a knee over each arm rest until I’m lewdly spread open for him. I blush hotly, and I’m about to say something, when he leans between them.

“Ilya…”

His tongue drags through my lips, delving deep into my wetness. My legs shake as he tongues my pussy, teasing higher to curl his tongue around my clit.

“Oh fuck…”

His hands grip the backs of my thighs, shoving my legs wide and up as he drags his tongue over my pussy. He sucks my clit, making me squeal and shiver before he slips lower to push his tongue into me.

Ilya’s hand slides higher, and his thumb starts to roll my clit. His mouth dances lower—dangerously so, and I stiffen.

“Ilya, wait, I—”

My brain goes numb, and my mouth falls open. Filthy pleasure buzzes through me as his tongue swirls around my ass. And when he starts to rub my clit while he does it, I see stars.

“Oh. My. God.”

I moan, wantonly. Eagerly. Desperately. His tongue swipes over my tight hole as he rubs my clit and sinks a finger into me. I claw at his hair, writhing and choking for a breath until suddenly, the bomb goes off.

I throw my head back and moan, crying out as Ilya’s filthy mouth makes me explode in pleasure. The orgasm clenches me, drowning me as I come for him.

He stands, leaving me sprawled there, panting, my legs wide, and my dress around my waist.

“I’m going to change,” his eyes pierce into me as he smirks triumphantly. He nods his chin at my panties lying on the floor.

“Those stay off. And I will check.”

A Maybach limopicks us up at the private airfield. And any possible lingering apprehension of what the fuck I am doing here flies away out the window.

I’m in, all the way; headfirst into the deep end. And I don’t want to look back.

Ilya leads me from the limo at the front of the Palais GarnierOpera House—him in a tux, me in the slinky black dress, a glittering string of diamonds he slipped onto me in the car, and no panties.

As requested. And he did check.

La Bohémeis incredible. But it’s Ilya’s hand that creeps up my dress to slowly and maddeningly rub my clit—keeping me on the edge for an hour before he finally lets me come that steals the show. After, I’m so high on life and all of this that I barely taste the food at L’Astrance, even if it’s a three Michelin star place that’s been rated one of the best restaurants in the world.

But I hit the pause button to stare when Ilya leads me into the hotel room—no, not hotel room, luxury penthouse. It’s even more extravagant and dripping in wealth than any luxury penthouse I can imagine.

And when Ilya opens the big double doors to pull me in. I just stare at the view out the huge French windows.

It’s the Eiffel Tower, all lit up.

I stand by the huge windows, just staring before I feel him come up behind me. I turn, searching his dark face as my heart thuds.

“Why are you—”

“I thought we said no questions,” he growls.

“I’m changing the terms.”

I bite my lips as his brow arches and his jaw ticks.

“Why are you doing this?”

He frowns.

“I never bent the knee, Ilya. And I’m not going to. I know everyone else at that place walks around scared of you or, bending over backwards to please you but I…”

I shake my head.

“Why? I mean you hated me—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Red,” he growls.

His hands slide over my hips, pushing me back against the glass.

“I never hated you.”

His jaw clenches, and for a second, the mask he always wears drops. Suddenly, I find myself looking at the real him: the real Ilya, unmasked before me.

“I like that you defy me. I like that you throw my shit back in my face,” he hisses. “I like that you piss me the fuck off and confound me.”

I giggle. “Oh, do I confound you, Mr. Volk—”

I moan as his lips crush hard to mine.

“Shut up,” he growls. “I like that you aren’t the rest of them. I like that you’re not from the world I am; that it hasn’t broken you and corrupted you.

His hand slides up, twisting into my hair as his eyes glint in the light from outside.

“I don’t hate you, Tenley. In fact, it might just be the opposite problem.”

His mouth finds mine, and I sink into him.

I forget the expiration date.

I forget the conflicts.

I forget about everything as I drown in his storm.