Page 2 of Baby for the Bratva King

And now I feel myself falling back into the same trap as I live in another billionaire's house.

I tuck the flat sheet under the corner of the mattress, feeling my cheeks heat up. Touching his bed feels intimate. Alone with my thoughts, I imagine us in bed together, sheets tangled at our feet as he dominates me… taking my virginity.

He’s all the way on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, and I’m still thinking about him.

He’s notoriously known for being every woman’s sexual awakening. The jet-black suits and tattoos definitely contribute to his sex appeal.

He was born in Russia. People ask him questions about his upbringing, what it was like living on the other side of the world. Felix shrugs the questions off, giving the journalists bare-minimum answers. Life over there was apparently nothing special. His inability to open up has always made me wonder if he has something to hide, if there is a pulse somewhere inside of that rock.

I finish making his bed, holding onto the dirty sheets. The Bleu de Chanel cologne enters my nostrils, and before I know it, I’m sitting on the bed, breaking my own rules as I inhale his scent and fall down the rabbit hole.

I cross my legs, my inner thighs burning with a desire for him to take me without question.

I bite my lip, disappearing into my own world for a while, and flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling like a sexually frustrated virgin, which is exactly what I am.

At twenty-three years of age, I should’ve lost my virginity a long time ago but have always wanted to save it for the right person.

And is Felix the right person? Fuck no.

But the older I get, the more I realize Mr. Right is a fantasy. You always end up settling for less in the end. So if the opportunity presented itself…

Well, I might take it.

But that’s not happening right now.

I drag myself up from the bed, leaving the main bedroom and walking through his ridiculous house. The gilded furniture is so infuriating. So is the gold-plated staircase. This place is straight out of a regency novel, and every time I stand at the top of the staircase, looking down into the grand lobby, I feel as though I’m attending a debutante. Except I’m not dressed for the part. I look down at the white pinafore and remember my place.

Felix Pozharsky is at the top of the food chain, and me? Well, I’m at the very bottom.

It'll always be that way. The rich men win, and the women deal with their shit.

I turn around, heading back through the corridor to clean the bathroom.

“Fuck, Saskia.” I hear a voice travel down the corridor.

I come to a halt, frowning. My heart thumps in my chest at the thought of Felix moaning my name.

What the hell… I know that’s not him.

Unfortunately, I know Felix and I know his type. He goes for supermodels, women who look like they know what they’re doing in the bedroom. I’m the complete opposite of these girls. Wearing a bra is an option for them, not a requirement.

They model and get on VIP guests lists at the weekend. They come from families who actually give a fuck about them.

I’m not Felix’s type, though part of me really wishes I was.

Silence rings through my ears as I stand in the middle of the corridor surrounded by obnoxious art and unnecessary pieces of furniture. I celebrate my birthday by cleaning up after another man and questioning more things about myself.

I glance at the vase of honeysuckles on the table, the bright pink contrasting with the moody lighting.

I admire the arrangement, proud of my work. These flowers are Mr. Pozharsky’s favorite. He’s due back from London tomorrow, so I prepared flowers. I never thought Felix would appreciate flowers, but he apparently loves the smell.

“Sweet with a dark undertone.” I grab a honeysuckle from the vase, twirling the flower through my fingers.

Clearly, I want this man more than I’m willing to admit as I fantasize about him moaning my name. Plenty of men do that in the club, but I only care about those guys when money is involved. A lap dance here and there never hurts. Two minutes shaking ass on a rich man’s lap buys me groceries and a new pair of eight-inch pleasers, but I never feel anything from it.

I feel their cocks shifting under me, but it never turns me on.

And I never used to be turned on by Felix before I started working for him. Seeing a photograph of someone online is very different to living under the same roof as them.