The Hacker by Renee Rose

16

Natasha

I come inside from sunbathing on the deck in the late afternoon and head up the stairs.

Dima’s been a dick all day—he’s back to snarls and not speaking to me. I can’t figure out what’s going on, and I’m sick of the whiplash I’m getting from this guy.

Honestly, his being mean again makes it easier.

We were getting too close. Heartbreakingly close. I could really fall for this guy.

Who am I kidding? I have fallen for him. And as much as I love how comfortable we are together—this friendship thing—I want the full package. And I’ve been clinging to the hope that with a little patience, he’ll realize he wants it, too.

But the closer we get, the more melancholy it seems to make him. His fingers are always on that little ring— twisting it around his pinky with an ocean of pain in his eyes.

“Where have you been?” He appears in the doorway to my room now. I didn’t hear him come up the stairs.

“I was right outside on the deck. What’s up?”

He hands me my phone. “You need to call Alex.”

“What?”

Anger radiates from Dima, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what his problem could be.

He makes an impatient motion with his hand through the air. “You need to make date with him.” His accent is thicker with his irritation.

“No.” I don’t really know what I did wrong here, but I’m not going to let him push me around. My emotions are too raw from a week of the Dima rollercoaster.

“Ravil’s orders.” His lips screw together in a grim line.

Ah. It dawns on me why he’s mad. He’s just the messenger. And he doesn’t like the message. He may not want a relationship with me, but that doesn’t mean he wants me going out with Alex.

Well, he doesn’t need to worry. I’m not dating Alex—ever again. Even if he hadn’t shot Nikolai, I won’t forgive him for making a fool out of me.

“No.” I make my voice even but firm. “I’m not going out with Alex.”

“Natasha.” Dima takes a warning step toward me. There’s a predatory threat to his movement that unfortunately turns me on.

The energy of our explosive punishment-and-reward play rekindles, sending a bold spike of heat straight to my core.

Dima catches my wrist. “Sorry, amerikanka. I don’t like it, either. Not one bit. But it’s not up to you or me. We need to know more about Alex’s motivation and target, and he offered to get together with you to explain. So now you have to go.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have to.” I’m feeling stubborn. More importantly, I’m testing boundaries here. Dima doesn’t want me to go, either. Will he really push me into this?

Dima’s brows dip. He tightens his hold on my wrist, walking me backward until my butt hits the wall. “You do, Natasha. It’s not up for discussion.”

“You can’t make me,” I dare. I shouldn’t push, but I crave his touch again. Relish the moments when he’s caved to his desires for me.

It doesn’t work. Instead of goading him, Dima appears genuinely troubled.

I regret pushing him until he counters with, “I can make you do anything.”

My nipples harden to tight points. Please?

“Natasha, I don’t want to threaten you.” I can hear the honesty in Dima’s words, almost like it makes him sick to think of putting the pressure on me.

Which must mean he’s refusing to engage sexually, the way he “handled” me before.

Disappointment churns in my stomach.

Maybe it really is all over.

I didn’t want to accept the friendship thing. I kept thinking he’d see that we have something together and realize that choosing a living, breathing woman is better than hanging onto a ghost.

But apparently, I was wrong.

“Why are you doing this?” He’s practically pleading for my cooperation. That’s how much he doesn’t want to take me in hand. “This isn’t you.”

He’s right, of course. I’m agreeable, sweet Natasha who does what’s expected of her to keep the peace above all else. Always seeking acceptance and approval.

“I like it when you’re mad,” I tell him. It’s my last-ditch effort to get somewhere with him.

It works. His eyes darken, brows shoot to his hairline. The air between us charges, and I sense every ounce of the friendship we were cultivating drain. We’re back to something else. Opponents in a sex war.

The one where blood is drawn at the same time satisfaction is delivered.

He rips my shirt off over my head in a single, swift motion. Punishment is on.

Tingles race down my arms as he takes in my black lace bra.

“Is that right?”

I press myself against the wall, not that I’m scared. Well, I’m a little scared. Thrilled is more like it. I give him a nod.

“You want me to put you on your hands and knees and spank that ass red?” He turns me around, facing away from him, and unhooks the bra, pushing the straps down my arms until it falls to the floor. He cups both my breasts, pinching my nipples hard. “Pull down your shorts.” His voice is rusty.

I unbutton my jean shorts, and they drop to the floor, too. My panties match the bra—black lace.

That’s the moment Dima must realize how I got a matching set of sexy underwear—Adrian had brought them yesterday with our other things.

“Adrian went through your drawers,” he chokes.

I look over my shoulder to check the level of rage on his face. My tummy flutters. I love seeing him mad—it’s when I get a glimpse of his level of passion for me. I hold his jealousy close to my chest as proof of what I mean to him.

His hand slaps down on my ass. “I’m going to kill him.”

I hide my smile.

“Come here, pretty girl.” He takes my waist with both hands and pulls me away from the wall, then walks me to the bed. “On your hands and knees.”

My pulse races as I crawl onto the mattress and assume the position.

Dima slaps my ass a few times. “You like me mad?”

I make a little sound—not really a whimper. More like a sex sound. The kind that means more.

“Hmm?” He delivers a few more spanks then strokes his hand over my right cheek. “If Adrian thought of you in these panties, I will smash his face in,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I smother a giggle, but Dima catches it. “You think that’s funny?” He delivers a flurry of slaps, warming the lower half of my ass. “No!” I squeal when it gets intense, and he immediately stops and rubs away the sting. “He said Nadia packed my things,” I admit. Nadia is Adrian’s sister.

“I don’t want to send you on a date with that cocksucker Alex,” he growls. “You think I would ask if I didn’t have to?”

I don’t want to think about Alex. I don’t want Dima bringing him up between us now, ruining the moment.

He gives my ass another hard slap. “You can’t refuse Ravil on this.”

I remain still, panting slightly, incredibly aroused.

He grips my hair and tugs my head back. “Natasha.” His voice is firm, demanding an answer.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

Dima relaxes his grip on my hair but keeps it wound around his fist.

“On one condition.” My heart pounds in my ears, at my wrists, in my temples.

He releases my hair completely and delivers three hard spanks. “You’re not making the conditions here, amerikanka.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “I think I am.” I no longer believe anything terrible will happen to me. Dima wouldn’t let it happen, and Ravil gave him responsibility for me. Which means I have the chips to bargain with.

Dima’s eyes narrow. “What is your condition?”

I’ve never felt so vulnerable, and it has nothing to do with the position I’m in. It’s what I’m about to ask. “Tell me why you can’t be with me. Because I know we both feel something.”

Dima sucks in a breath, then his jaw hardens. “No.” There’s no missing the note of stubbornness in his voice. “That story is not for you, Natasha. I’m not for you.”

I fight back the stab of rejection, the flush of shame that climbs up my throat. But no, he didn’t deny what’s between us. He just wants to hang onto his ghost. I still think we’re worth fighting for. “Then I’m not going out with Alex,” I tell him.

His face darkens. “You think you will win this battle with me?”

“Yes.”

Dima won’t hurt me. I’m sure of it. He has feelings for me, whether he’ll admit them or not.

He rips my panties down my legs and grabs my ankles, pulling me toward him until I slide to my belly. He disappears for a moment, stooping down, and when he rises, he has my bra, which he uses to tie my hands behind my back. I’m gushing arousal, so hot and ready for him. I’ve never been tied up before, but I now understand the appeal. The sense of being at his mercy amplifies everything—my desire, my need for him, the heat flooding my body.

He dips his fingers between my legs and strokes over my dewy petals. It feels so good to have his touch where I needed it so badly. I tip my pelvis back and moan.

“Even pleasure can be a torture, Natasha.” His voice is smoky velvet. He slides his fingers inside me at the same time his thumb traces down the cleft of my ass until it reaches my anus.

I moan and hump the bed. I’m already so wound up, and being bound and spread for him just makes the whole experience hotter.

“You think I won’t fuck this cute little ass?”

I undulate my hips to take his fingers deeper. I’m freaked out about anal, but not enough to not want it. I already know from what he did to me downstairs on the kitchen counter how incredible it feels. How much I liked anal play.

I’m feverish, rubbing my bare breasts over the bedcovers, arching and rolling to meet his fingers. He tortures me by removing his touch.

“Move and I’ll use the wooden spoon on your ass again,” he warns.

It takes my sex-addled brain a moment to even compute what he means, but when he leaves the room, I understand. I hold perfectly still as if my compliance with this order will bring me the satisfaction I so desperately need. I listen to his footsteps going swiftly down the stairs then back up.

To keep up the suspense, I don’t look when I hear him come back into the room. He pulls my buttcheek open with one hand and drizzles something between them.

Now I look.

It’s the olive oil. He brought the spoon, too, which actually would be a real incentive for me to cave. I hope he won’t use it on me. At least not too hard.

Dima kneels up behind me, parting my cheeks with the heels of his hands and lining his cock up. I automatically tense up, my anus fluttering at the contact. Dima makes a disapproving sound in his throat and applies a little pressure. “Now you take my cock, amerikanka.”

I moan my agreement. It’s so wrong but feels so right. Especially because it’s Dima. Or maybe only because it’s Dima.

For a moment, nothing happens. I’m resisting him, I guess, but I don’t realize it until he murmurs, his tone far softer, “Open for me, Natasha.”

I don’t know what that means, but I imagine opening for him, and my muscles relax. He breaches my back hole. There’s a burning sensation, but he goes slowly, feeding his length into me, centimeter by centimeter.

“It’s too big,” I protest.

Dima uncaps the olive oil and pours a little more between us. “Take me.” It’s a command, but he delivers it in a soft voice, with a touch of coaxing to it. I knew I was right that he’d never hurt me.

He may play at using sex as punishment, but I’m safe with him. I’m safe, and I can win this battle with my surrender.

I concentrate to relax until he’s fully seated, and then he starts moving slowly in and out.

I moan. “It’s good,” I admit. I tug at my bound wrists because the urge to put my fingers between my legs is overwhelming. My sex feels so empty. So needy. “Dima… please,” I start begging.

“Please what?” He lords over me with that authoritative tone now that I’m begging.

“I need… please…”

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

Fuck. No way. I’m not giving in. No chance.

I don’t answer at first. He strokes in and out of my ass, making me frantic with the need for him to either stop or give me more.

“Hmm?”

“No.” I sound petulant because I know he’s going to deny me what I need.

He thrusts a little harder. “No? I have all night, Natasha. You will definitely do as you’re told by the time I’m through with you.”

Oh, God. His words turn me on. I don’t know why I love it just as much when he’s mean to me as I do when he’s tender. I guess I know the meanness isn’t real. It’s a barrier he uses to hold back from loving me.

That’s the barrier I’m trying to knock down.

Dima thrusts deeper like it’s a punishment for my refusal. It’s too much, but it feels so good.

I moan into the bedcovers, keep my ass up, my legs spread. “Please.” I beg again without even meaning to.

“Da,” he agrees, pounding a little harder.

A little faster.

I’m already lost, spinning into the place of no thought, only lurid sensation.

“Dima,” I pant.

He groans, and the sound of his arousal nearly sends me over the edge.

“Please.”

“Will you be good?” He drills into me, and I’m incapable of speech. Incapable of anything but simultaneously melting and clenching, ready to come unglued at every seam.

“I need to… I need…”

“You need to come, amerikanka?”

“Yes.” Relief streaks through me.

“Say the magic words.”

“Please?”

His laugh is dark. “Wrong answer. This time’s for me, then.” His breath sounds ragged as he thrusts into me, and then I understand his meaning. He’s going to come.

Without me.

My pussy clenches on air, desperate to come with him, but when he does plow deep and shout, I can’t quite muster it.

I dry sob into the bed. “No, no, no, no, no,” I complain. When he pulls out, I roll my hips on the bed and squeeze my thighs together, trying to get enough friction on my clit to orgasm.

“You’re in trouble now.”

I dimly register Dima’s threat as he retreats and returns, using a warm washcloth to clean me. He’s buttoned his jeans back up, fully dressed while I’m fully naked.

Even though I didn’t come, I’m weak with need, limp from being used. I continue to up the bed. Dima takes mercy on me and runs his fingers over my sex until he finds my clit, which he rubs.

I come immediately, the orgasm wrung from me in quick pulses around air.

Dima unties my hands and rolls me to my back. “Like I said, I can keep this up all night,” he swears as he pushes my knees wide and lowers his head.

I moan my agreement to that plan when he licks into me. He’s masterful, licking and sucking my labia, tracing inside them, sucking my clit. He penetrates me with his fingers and somehow finds my G-spot, bringing out another shocking orgasm.

And that’s when things get hairy.

Because he doesn’t stop.

Dima throws one of my legs over his shoulder, turning me on my side, and he uses his mouth until I orgasm again.

And then it’s too much.

I’m a ragdoll, wrung out from the sex, but he won’t stop.

Vaguely, I recall there’s a name for this. Is it edging? No, that’s when you keep someone on the edge of orgasm but don’t let them come.

Forced orgasms. Or is it orgasm torture?

God, I can’t even think.

I try to push Dima’s head away, which only gets my wrists tied up with my bra again. He slides his fingers inside me, stroking my G-spot until energy returns to my core. My belly shudders in and out.

“Please,” I whimper. “It-it’s too much.” I roll my head back and forth on the bed. “I’m so sensitive. Everywhere.” It was true. Every nerve ending was firing. My nipples are hot and tight, my breasts ache. I can’t stop the fever that has me delirious.

He keeps stroking but brings his thumb to my clit, applying pressure to my way-too-sensitive little bundle of nerve endings.

“You know how to make it stop.” Dima’s accent is thick.

“Please,” I moan. “Dima, no more.”

“Nyet. This is your punishment until you obey.”

Tears leak from the outer corners of my eyes. Not from pain, just sexual frustration. I’m dying. “Please,” I beg again, even though it’s just mindless chanting. I don’t believe he’ll stop.

I’m also not going to give in.

My legs kick out. It feels like lightning striking, sending jolts of energy through me as I orgasm again.

And he still doesn’t stop.

“Nooooo,” I groan. I’m boneless. Brainless. Completely undone. “No more.”

He lowers his head between my legs and swirls his tongue around my clit.

“Stop. I hate you.”

Dima goes still, and I swear I can read him perfectly. He’s afraid he’s gone too far.

I manage to raise my head enough to hold his gaze, and I shake it. Of course, I don’t hate him. I’m falling crazily in love with this man.

I watch his shoulders relax. He relents and unties my wrists.

“Is it over?”

“You tell me.”

Godpodi. How far will this man go to avoid my question? “Was my condition… so awful?”

I see pain ripple over his expression before he shutters it. “I… can’t talk about it with you, Natasha. That wasn’t fair.”

“Neither is this,” I counter.

Dima reaches for my wrists, manacling each one in one of his larger hands and pulling me up to sit on the bed. “Come here.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To the shower. I’m going to clean you up and fuck you some more.”

I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry.

All I know is Dima has me out of my mind. He may end up winning this battle after all.

Dima

Natasha is incapable of walking, so I scoop her into my arms.

I love the weight of her soft body against mine, the way she turns her face into me, tucking it against my neck, looping her slender arms around my shoulders. She smells like ginger and peaches with the faint scent of pine and sunshine from her time outside.

I want to lick every inch of her.

And I will.

Because this is the only option available to me as far as I can see. I won’t let Ravil or anyone else put pressure on Natasha. And I’m unwilling to use her pressure points. There’s no way on Earth I could ever threaten her and still be able to look at myself in the mirror.

Hell, I may not be able to after this, but it won’t be because I’ve hurt or scared her.

It will be because of my trampled vows to Alyona.

And that’s why I simply can’t open that box up and unpack it with Natasha. I’ve already done everything else with her. I’ve held her hand. Kissed those sweet, soft lips. I’ve fucked her in several positions. I’ve spanked her, tied her up, had my cock in her mouth and her ass. The only thing I can keep back now is my memories of Alyona. Our bond. Our story. To share it with Natasha seems like the ultimate betrayal, and I can’t do that.

I sit her on the bathroom counter while I turn on the water. Natasha’s hair is adorably rumpled, her eyes glassy bright. While the water heats, I trace my index finger along the delicate curve of her collarbone to the hollow of her throat. Her nipples stand up in stiff peaks. Since I’ve neglected them sorely, I lean down to take one into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it before I give a hard pull.

Natasha whimpers, her hands flapping loosely at my arms.

I strip out of my clothes and then stand between her open knees, palming her ass to lift her to straddle my waist. Once more, she drops her head to my shoulder, as docile as a babydoll. I step into the shower and set her on her feet, keeping a hand at her waist to keep her steady. Her legs don’t seem to hold her. She’s drunk on orgasms.

She blinks, those sea-green eyes tracking across my chest and down my abdominals to the part of my anatomy that’s still thrilled to see her.

I wash, giving her time to gather herself.

“Dima…” she croaks. She drags the backs of her knuckles across my tattooed pect.

Something has shifted between us. I want to bring it back to the dominant sex tease I had going for the last hours, but the way she’s looking at me is too real. Too honest. Too raw.

I don’t mean to be tender, but I can’t help myself. I cover her hand with my own. She touches my fingers, traces Alyona’s ring.

I should pull away. I should stop this whole thing. I’ve already told her we can’t do this. But I don’t. I’m rendered immobile by her closeness.

“Who did this belong to?” she asks. There’s no innocence in the tone. It’s not an idle question. I realize, with a jolt, that Natasha knows more than she’s let on. Suddenly her demand that I explain why we can’t be together feels like a direct attack on my memories of Alyona.

I catch her wrist and step back, under the spray of water. “Don’t.” I turn her to face away from me—looking at her is too much. We aren’t playing games anymore. We’re light-years away from what we just did in the bedroom.

“Who was she, Dima?”

“Don’t.” I raise my voice. My body registers the question as a threat, my heart thudding too fast, the warm shower suddenly too hot.

“I want…” It takes a moment for me to recognize the tears in Natasha’s voice. “I want to be her.”

“No, you don’t,” I say harshly, even though she’s already breaking. “She’s dead.”

“At least she had you.” Natasha turns back around to face me, and I’m hit by the full force of her pain. Those green eyes overflow with it.

Blyad’. I did this to her. I hurt Natasha.

I lean my shoulder against the tile wall, feeling the weight of three elephants sitting on my chest. All the loss I suffered at Alyona’s death seems fresh again, mingled with the guilt and shame over what I’ve done to Natasha’s gentle heart.

And then I just go dead. I can’t function. Can’t choose. It’s all too much.

And my silence, my lack of response seems to send a message to Natasha because she nods and pulls the shower curtain half-open then steps out.

I’m unable to move. To say any words to fix this fuck-up I’ve created.

“I will call Alex now.” There’s defeat in her tone. Something I never wanted to hear. Why, in the fuck did I push her to this?

But no, she’s not broken because of Alex.

She’s broken because of me.

I stand in the shower, numb. I don’t feel the water turn cold, or track how long it’s been since Natasha walked out of the bathroom.

When she returns, dressed and holding the keys to the Land Rover, my brain can’t compute what’s happening.

“I’m leaving,” she tells me. It’s not a dare. There’s no anger in her deadened tones. She knows I’m going to let her walk out of here. Her imprisonment is over because she decided it was. “I can’t stay with you in this place any longer.”

Somehow, I make myself move. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. “I’ll drive you.”

“No. “ She holds up a hand. “I can’t be with you. I just… can’t. I’ll give the keys to Ravil when I get back.”

I go dead as she walks out. Turn into an empty shell of nothing.

My brain barely functions, but when it sparks, I try to tell myself this is for the best. I was destroying everything I had with Alyona and breaking Natasha’s heart in the process.

Except no part of me feels like this is the right thing.

It must be because I can’t think my way out of a paper bag right now that my overwhelming sense is that I’ve let Alyona down.

I’ve let Alyona down by letting Natasha go.

But that doesn’t make any sense.