Dirty Grovel: Chapter 24

“Look at this!”

I shove the photograph in Jesse’s face, giving her absolutely no context.

Jesse cringes backwards but accepts the picture, squinting down at it. “Who is she?”

“That’s what I would like to know,” I say. “That’s only one of two other pictures I found sitting on the coffee table in the living room. These are the other two.”

I push both headshots into Jesse’s hands. She examines each one carefully.

“I think I know this woman,” she says thoughtfully, aiming her chin towards the pretty redhead with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Honestly, she looks like a live action Ariel. She’s even got the five-inch waist. All she’s missing is the seashell bra and a sassy lobster friend.

“You do?”

“Not personally,” Jesse explains. “But she has been at a party or two that Oksana has hosted here in the past.”

“Great. So pimping her son out isn’t new then.”

“Oh. Is that what she’s trying to do?”

“What else?” I huff as I start pacing the length of the kitchen. “She hates me, doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son or her family. Why else would she keep these pictures just lying around? She wanted me to see them.”

Jesse grabs a butter knife and makes a jabbing motion with it. “Let’s go cut the bitch.”

A snort of laughter bursts through my nose so suddenly it hurts. “Stop. This is serious. I don’t want to laugh.”

“Does it even matter, Sut? I mean, it’s not ideal that Oksana doesn’t like you—but Oleg’s opinion is the only one that matters.”

“Except that Oleg blows hot and cold. How do I know he isn’t entertaining the idea of marrying one of these three Barbie dolls?”

Jesse rolls her eyes. “Come on.”

“I’m serious. What if I’m just the white trash idiot whose womb he’s renting? How do I know that, once I push out a beautiful, bouncing baby, he won’t just kick me to the curb and replace me with one of his perfect, respectable, wealthy, anorexic bimbos?”

Jesse’s actually smiling. “That’s just your anger talking.”

“It’s a legitimate worry.”

“It’s an irrational worry,” Jesse corrects. “There’s no way Oleg would treat you that way. He may seem like a brute, but as all the kids at the pirate party can attest, he’s a big softie on the inside.”

I chew on my lip, trying to believe what Jesse’s working hard to sell. Oleg’s a good boss; I know that from working in Pavlov Industries.

But no one—not even Jesse—knows what he’s like outside that role.

Maybe not even me.

“If you’re so worried about Oksana and her scheming, then talk to Oleg about it,” Jesse suggests. “He asked for your input for the custody arrangement. You can maybe add a clause or two to protect yourself.”

“How would that clause go? ‘If you even try to supplant me with some idiot blonde, I’ll cut your balls off’?”

“It’s not the worst idea,” she says with a laugh. “And just for the record, you’re blonde, too.”

“Oh, hush. This is not the time for reason or logic.”

“You’re right,” agrees Jesse. “This is the time to stand your ground and demand that your requests be met. You’re carrying his baby, Sutton. That should come with a few perks at the very least—bargaining power being one.”

I nod. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Excuse me,” I growl as my tunnel vision kicks into high gear. “I have a Russian pirate to corner.”

I storm into his office, armed with a half-formed speech in my head. But the words dry on my tongue as I face the empty space.

Typical—I’m packing heat and there’s no one here to shoot.

I try his bedroom, the home gym, even the back gardens—but no matter where I go, Oleg doesn’t seem to be around.

Finally, I run into Ilya, one of his younger vors. “Where’s your boss?” I ask.

Ilya eyes me warily. “You look like you’re out for blood.”

“You’re right. And I’m more than willing to spill yours if you don’t tell me where Oleg is right now.”

Ilya gestures towards the ocean. “Pretty sure you’ll find him on one of his boats. But you better hurry—he’s due to set sail soon.”

“Goddammit!” I say, turning on my heel and rushing towards the boatyard.

No way is he going to abandon me in a house with his mother. I have a feeling one of us will end up dead and it sure as hell is not gonna be me.

I stride down the boardwalk, expletives running through my head as I make for The Water Star. There’s no sign of Oleg topside, so I go below deck and into the main cabin.

It would make for a more dramatic entrance if I just burst in, but in yet another move that the universe does not want me to win this fight, the door is locked.

So I stand in front of the main cabin door and start pounding hard.

I hear a loud curse, followed by Oleg’s heavy footsteps. “Whoever you are, go the fuck away. I’m all talked out for today.”

“Well, I’m not!” I exclaim. “And I’ve got a few things to say to you! Open this goddamn door right n⁠—”

I’m still pounding when the door flies open. I tumble forward, right into Oleg’s hard chest.

I straighten up, refusing to get phased by how damn hard his chest is. Or how good he smells. I wasn’t lying—I’ve got shit to say.

“Are you really going to hide out on your boat while your mother ruins our lives?” I ask, arms akimbo. “This is my life. Your life. Our baby’s life. She doesn’t have the right to waltz in here and insult me just because she thinks I’m beneath her.”

He just stares at me, his nostrils flaring, his eyebrows arching softly.

As usual, I have no idea what’s going on inside his head.

“I may not have had a fancy education. I may not know Dior from a dust bag. I may not have a hundred dollars to my name. But at least I’m not a snooty bitch whose reputation is built on her husband’s.”

The vein in his forehead stands out stark. I may have crossed a line, I’m not sure.

But I also realize that I no longer care.

I’m sick of being treated like a dirty little nobody. I’m sick of being talked at and down to and through, as though I’m a nasty, grubby gold digger who’s only here for an easy life.

‘Cause I got news for the Pavlovs: To know them is to abandon an easy life.

No peace. No tranquility. No calm.

Just chaos and plots and schemes and lies.

“I’m not gonna lie: There was a time I wanted your mother’s approval. Desperately. But now, I realize I will never live up to her impossible standards. Nor do I want to. So, you can tell her from me to butt out of my life. And to keep her opinions to herself. Because I certainly don’t want them and neither—” I poke him in the chest, a lot harder than I initially intended. “—should you!”

“You’re right.”

I feel a couple of my self-righteous bubbles burst. “Wait… what?”

“You’re right,” he says again. Then he grabs me around the waist and pulls me flush against his chest. “The only opinions that matter are yours. And mine.”

Then he takes my mouth.

He claims it.

He conquers it.

I’m breathless, reeling from the sudden whiplash that has me struggling for air and for an explanation, whichever comes first.

But as his tongue wages war with mine, I realize that explanations are unnecessary.

This has always made sense.

He stumbles back, pulling me into the cabin, kissing me like he’s been waiting for weeks, months, years to do exactly this.

We barely make it to the bed. I feel my back hit the edge of the mattress, but then he swings my legs up and pushes me further onto it.

I’m vaguely aware of my clothes disappearing.

He rips my panties off with his teeth. Then he pins my wrists to the bed and enters me with a thrust so forceful that I cry out. My voice echoes across the room, but only the stars can hear me now.

He drives into me hard. Fast. With the same frantic, angry determination with which he claims my lips.

I know with each deep thrust that this is all I want. This is all I will ever want.

And yes, I am aware that Oleg Pavlov is no white knight. He’s no Prince Charming.

He will never be perfect and our relationship will always be a hollow shell of what love is supposed to be.

But right now, with me spread beneath him, filled full of him…

That doesn’t seem to matter.

We communicate only through the sound of our muffled moans, our interlinked breaths. Our bodies come together more than once. Each time he takes me, it feels like he’s transforming me.

I’m more animal than human at the end of it.

And that suits me just fine.

Animals aren’t concerned with happy endings.

Animals don’t worry about the future.

Animals couldn’t care less about the aftermath once the mating has concluded.

After the third round of frantic lovemaking, my body collapses on top of his. I gulp in air as though I’ve been underwater for hours. My skin is still slick with his sweat, my nostrils rife with his intoxicating scent.

My eyelids get heavier and heavier until my head bobs like a wilting flower onto his chest.

He runs his fingers softly over my burgeoning belly. “Things are going to be different from now on, princess,” he murmurs.

I’m so sex-drunk that I almost let the comment go unchallenged. It’s so damn tempting to let myself be seduced by it.

They’re such pretty words, after all. My entire body sings with the need to believe in them.

But the wounded girl inside me rises up angrily, refusing to let this lie.

“I know you believe that now. But I’ve been burned before.”

“This time is different.”

“Why?” I ask, lifting my head from his chest. “Because you say so?”

“That’s exactly why.”

“And why should I believe anything you have to say?”

His nostrils flare. “You could start with a little trust.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep the cruel laughter from spilling out. “You expect me to trust you and yet you have no trust to give me in return.”

“Sutton—”

“You want me to trust you, Oleg?” I interrupt. “Then prove to me that things are going to be different. I don’t want pretty words—I want actions. I want deeds. I want cold, hard proof or else… I have nothing to give.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” he asks dryly.

I have no idea if he means to be funny or not. In the end, I decide it doesn’t matter.

Funny or not, this is no joke to me.

“I’m asking for what’s fair,” I say, rising from the bed and letting the sheets fall away from my naked body. “Trust isn’t a one-way street, Oleg. So walk it with me, or let me go. Those are the only choices left.”