Page 2 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

Not just any man.

A tall, dark, handsome man in a charcoal suit. He has tattoos on his hands, and curving up his neck in a seamless pattern of bones and lines and spots like pools of water. Or blood.

This is my boss. The actual boss of Mortlake, not my manager.

The Bratva Pakhan. Russian, deadly, silent.

I scramble to remove my earbuds, but when they pop out, bouncing onto the floor, the audiobook islouder.

“You’re moist down here,” Athdar murmurs.

I realise what’s happened in a flash of nauseating horror. The Bluetooth earbuds have disconnected, but the audiobook continued to play from the phone’s speakers.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I babble.

No wonder I had to turn the volume up. I was having to listen through my earbuds, not from them.

Making a dive for my phone, my fingertips bounce off it, sending it spinning off my desk and crashing down.

I lunge for the phone and my wheely chair slides suddenly back. My chin slams into the edge of the desk, and I topple onto the floor.

“Oh Athdar!” I cry out in passion.

My shoulder hits the tiles with a thud, but I don’t even feel the pain over the mortification. This audiobook might kill me if my boss doesn’t.

The kingpin saunters casually towards me.

He thrusts himself inside me, pumping his hips like a stallion, and I’m helpless to resist as he grunts and kisses me sloppily.

I HAVE to shut that book up before I die.

Tears of humiliation are prickling behind my eyes. If this is the last thing I see—Markov Lunacharski, the hottest, grumpiest man in the whole of London if not the world, looming over me—it can’t be to the soundtrack of a terrible sex scene.

The noise of our lust reverberates around the mountains, until rapidly, Athdar screws up his face and gives one more, deep thrust, lets out a scream, and comes.

Why did it have to be a spicy bit?! And not even good spice!

Getting the earbuds out has disturbed the uneasy equilibrium of my curly hair, which has floofed in front of my face. That’s lucky, because my cheeks are now flaming. I’m surprised it isn’t singeing my hair, I’m blushing that hard.

Rolling onto my belly, I grasp for the phone. And I nearly reach it, slapping my fingers over the screen.

“Is that all you’ve got?” drawls a voice from behind me.

I try again, managing to swipe over the pause button.

And then, sweet, merciful silence falls, and I sag with relief.

Okay, the worst is over.

I’m alive. I’ve halted the most humiliating moment of my life. So far.

Then a black, shiny boot toe comes down hard on the other side of my phone, millimetres from my fingertips, trapping the little device.

Markov Lunacharski’s boot.

The cold of the tiles seeps into me. Easily washable floors down here.

Shaking, I tip my head up and up to look into his face. It’s awkward, because he’s about eight feet tall, and I’m lying on the floor, which isn’t the best use of my height of five-foot-three-inches.