The Enforcer

Chapter 1-2

Story

I don’t know why it doesn’t occur to me until he hands me the keys that Oleg now has no way of getting home. He left his Denali at the bar!

Well, duh.

Looks like he’ll have to stay the night. Ummmm… weird.

I’m not sorry. I’ve considered taking him home before. I mean, I was one hundred and five percent sure he’d come if I asked. He is my most devoted fan, after all.

He watches me in a way that makes me feel warm and tingly. He protects me like he’s my own personal bodyguard, putting his body between me and any drunken audience members who get too close.

I get excited to play at Rue’s every week knowing the big tattooed guy will be there, that he’s in the audience for me. Knowing he won’t take his eyes off me.

I think the only reason I never pursued it before is because then what we have would be over. It would become another one of my short-lived relationships, and we’d never be able to go back to this. And I kind of love having a silent bodyguard-s***h-fan who is always there.

What if we had s*x and hated it?

Then he’d stop coming. That would make him an asshole, of course, but I’m in a bubble where I can fantasize still.

Or what if he got creepy? I don’t get that vibe from him, but I’m not stupid. It’s a possibility. Somehow, I feel safe with him. Somehow, I feel like he’d never hurt me.

But mostly I don’t want him to become like the other guys I hook up with—date for a few months and then ditch before things get serious. My little sister says it’s a safety mechanism. I leave them before they can leave me. She’s probably right.

Anyway, all I know is that Oleg’s different from those guys. Special.

I consider it now. Do I invite him in? Or tell him thanks for the ride and ask if he wants me to order him an Uber?

Somehow, I know if I chose the latter, he would walk away without trying anything. I mean all these months, and he’s never tried once to get me to go home with him or even to hang out. He hasn’t asked for my number or given me his.

He just shows up. Same time every week.

Dependable like no one else in my life has really been.

And yes, I know he can’t talk to ask me out. Annie, the cocktail waitress at Rue’s had told me that when he first started coming. She said he usually ordered by pointing at someone else’s beer. I didn’t even know he was Russian until his friends came in with him and introduced us.

And it’s that realization that makes me sure he’s safe. He’s not going to get weird. He’d leave if I told him to leave. He’d respect the hell out of me.

I already know that because I’ve climbed this guy like a tree during my performances. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I’ll crook my finger from the stage, and he’ll launch out of his seat and stand below, so I can pull a Dirty Dancing flying leap into his hands. Or crawl on his shoulders or fall into his arms in a honeymoon carry. I can count on the guy to catch me and carry me around while I sing. It’s become part of the performance. The band members and my fans expect it now. I know Oleg would never let me fall.

“Come on,” I tell him.

He hesitates, looking at me with so much suspicion it makes me laugh.

“You have to walk me to the door.” I sound drunker than I am.

I blink. One second he’s fifteen feet away on the other side of the van, the next he’s at my elbow, steadying me when I don’t walk a straight line up the sidewalk.

I unlock the door to the building.

Oleg doesn’t move.

“You have to walk me all the way to my place,” I tell him. “What if someone tried to mess with me in the stairwell?”

His brows slam down.

Okay, maybe I’m not as sober as I think. That sounded really stupid. “You’re my bodyguard,” I affirm.

It’s a fact he already knows since he’s self-appointed.

We walk the three flights up through the old Brownstone to my floor, and I shake out my keys to find the right one. When I get the door open, Oleg takes a step back. He’s huge—wide shoulders, barrel chest, arms like tree trunks. His dark brown hair is cropped close like his beard.

“Do you want to come in?”

His heated brown gaze rakes down my body, but he shakes his head. I’m surprised how much his refusal disappoints me. I mean, I guess I thought he was a sure thing. There’s no way I read this thing wrong, is there?

I face him and lean in, standing on tiptoe to throw an arm around his neck and tipping my face up to his. “Why not?”

He freezes, his big body going rigid.

If I didn’t feel his erection prodding my belly, I would think he wasn’t into it. But he is.

“Why are you holding back?” I whisper. I pull his head down and close my lips over his, tasting him.

He remains rigid for one second.

Two.

“Please,” I ask, needing him to know I want this.

And then he surges to life. My back slams against the wall beside my door as Oleg unleashes the months of pent-up attraction between us. One beefy hand cups my a*s, the other captures my nape, and he claims my mouth like it’s his last chance at breathing.

My core instantly turns molten. I grind down on the leg he thrust between mine, kissing him back with as much frantic need as he’s giving. I don’t feel his tongue, but I use mine—probably too sloppily. He kneads my a*s, helping me hump his leg.

I reach out to open my door then grab a fistful of Oleg’s black t-shirt—the one stretched taut over his broad shoulders and chiseled pecs and try to tug him into my apartment.

Try is the operative word here.

Because Oleg doesn’t move.

The pulse between my legs makes me antsy. “Come inside,” I encourage.

He shakes his head.

What… the F?

“Oleg, come inside,” I say it more like an order now. I mean, this guy’s into me. He’s going to give me what I need, right?

He shakes his head again then mimes drinking.

Aw, f**k.

Really?

“You won’t touch me because I’ve been drinking?”

He nods.

He’s that much of a gentleman?

“That’s… sweet.”

Really, really sweet.

“And annoying. Oleg, you can’t do this to me,” I reason, tugging fistfuls of his shirt. “That kiss just got me all hot and bothered. You can’t leave me all needy. It’s not fair.”

His brows go down again. Jaw clenches. He wipes his lower lip with his thumb, eyes dropping to my mouth. I can see him struggling. The guy who respects me versus the guy who doesn’t want to deny me. And also there’s the guy who’s going to have blue balls, himself. Because I felt his boner, and it was rock hard.

Like before, the moment he makes his decision, he surges into action. He crowds me backward, into my one-bedroom apartment, then kicks the door shut and locks it.

“Yes, Oleg.”

I drop my purse, throw off my jacket and lunge for his lips again. We kiss like it’s a contest to see who can devour the other one first. Still no tongue from him, though. Like he’s too much of a gentleman for that, too. He picks me up, his forearm under my a*s, and I straddle his thick trunk with my legs. He turns in a circle to get his bearings and then correctly chooses the door to my bedroom, where he takes me and drops me in the center of the bed.

The moment I’m down, he tears at the hole in my fishnets—like wrecking them was a premeditated crime—and then drags his open mouth along my inner thigh until he meets the edge of the short-shorts I wore over the fishnets. There, he bites the fabric and tugs, the heat of his breath fanning over my core.

“Eager, huh?” I ask with a laugh. He grunts in reply. That sound… f**k, it makes my p***y melt.

I race to unbutton the shorts, shoving them down my hips. He takes over, yanking them down off my waist, along with the fishnets.

I giggle when he reaches my boots.

He makes a sound of discontent and rips at their ties. In a few seconds, I have them toed off, and I’m n***d from the waist down.

Oleg grabs both my legs and pulls me down the bed. He’s an aggressive lover—so different from what I’d imagined he’d be like—but I love it. I mean, I’m way into it. He nips and kisses my core but for some reason, withholds the tongue. Maybe it grosses him out to lick down there.

Instead, he sweeps one of his large fingers inside his cheek to moisten it and then rubs my entrance.

I’m already wet from the way he’s handled me, and his finger slides right in.

I don’t usually like being finger-f****d. Digits are too small. And not soft enough. Too pokey.

But Oleg’s finger is huge. As big as a normal guy’s d**k. And, oh, does he know how to use it. He thrusts in a couple times, then pushes a second one in and starts petting my inner wall.

My mouth drops open in pleasure when he finds what must be my G-spot. My thighs twitch and slam against his broad shoulders. He strokes and circles the bundle of nerves until I’m a quivering mess, then he starts finger-f*****g me hard and fast.

“Oh God,” I pant, grabbing his free arm like I’m desperate to have something to hold on to while I’m on this wild ride.

He reaches under my tank top and shoves my b*a cup down. I’m shocked when he pinches my n****e—hard. My hips j******f the bed in response, taking his fingers deeper.

I thrash my head on the bed, so close.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat and f***s me faster. His thumb coasts over my clit when he pumps his fingers in, and I go off like a firecracker—exploding into pleasure with my first o****m from fingers alone.

“Oh my God!” I repeat, muscles still trembling and spasming.

Mind blown.

“That was crazy. So good.” I rub the bulge of his c**k in his pants. “I’m definitely ready. That was the best foreplay of my life.”

But Oleg backs off the bed and shakes his head.

“Oh my God! Really?” I get up and follow him in my mostly n***d state. “Why not? Because I’ve been drinking? I’ve sobered up.” It feels crazy to beg for s*x. Not my usual scenario. Not by a long shot.

He walks out of my bedroom into the kitchen/living area. He opens the cabinets until he finds a glass, and then he fills it with water and hands it to me.

I let out a protesting scoff, but I accept it because it’s unbelievably… sweet. Is this guy for real?

The sweetness is so at odds with how rough he was in bed, and I find the combination intoxicating. Like sea salt with chocolate. You don’t think they go together until you try them, and then you wonder why everything isn’t sea salt-chocolate flavored. I want more of Oleg. All of him.

He looks at the glass of water then lifts his chin, crosses his arms over his chest.

“That bossy pose doesn’t work on me,” I tell him, fighting a smile. I want to be exasperated, but I can’t be. My Russian stalker is every bit as respectful and protective as I thought he would be.

I down the entire glass of water and set it on the counter. He c***s an eyebrow as if to say, “See?”

I roll my eyes. “Are we good? You want to come back to the bedroom?”

He shakes his head but moves toward me. My limbs loosen, his nearness turning me to jelly. But then he tosses me over his shoulder, slapping my bare a*s as he carries me back to the bedroom.

“Ooh!” I giggle. “s***k me, Daddy.”

He stoops to pull down my covers then lays me down so carefully I want to cry. My a*s tingles from the s***k.

Who is this guy?

Why didn’t I bring him home sooner?

He pulls the covers back and tucks me in, then brushes the backs of his fingers along my cheek, staring down at me with the same intensity he watches my show. Like I’m the only human being in the entire world. When I’m on stage, it fuels my performance. But right now, it makes my heart thump harder. It’s too intimate. Slightly terrifying.

But then it’s over because he walks out. I know he can’t speak, but there’s no nod or wave. He just leaves. I hear the front door open and close. I’m certain, without checking, that he turned the lock on the handle before shutting it to make sure I’m safe.

I pull the covers closer and curl into my pillows. “Crazy Russian,” I whisper to myself, a smile on my lips. My entire body buzzes from our interlude.

I want more of him. A lot more. But I’m also already disappointed we broke the seal on our relationship because I know from experience, it won’t last long. I’m the type who doesn’t stick. I run as soon as things get serious. I don’t know. I get this anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I consider it my inner guidance for when it’s time to break things off. So I don’t end up destroyed by love the way my mom always was.

And still is.

This thing will play out in a matter of weeks, the way all my relationships do, and then it will be over. And then I’ll never be able to return to the pleasure of going to a gig where Oleg will be there watching. Basking in the heat of his gaze on me all night long.

Knowing there’s at least one person in the crowd who is crazy about me.

Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.