Page 7 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

EMILY

He reaches for my phone, and for a second, I’m sure he’ll hurl it out of the window.

He’s still inside me.

The moment he taps the answer button happens in horrifying slow motion, like a train crash.

My heart and stomach collide in my throat.

Will the first word I hear Markov Lunacharski say be to my mother, while he’s fucking me? But instead, he quirks up one black eyebrow and places the phone into my hand.

The speaker makes indistinct squawking, and I slowly bring it to my ear.

“Hi,” I croak.

“Oh thank goodness, darling. I’m so unwell today…”

I’m utterly frozen, because Markov eases his big cock out of me and it’s all I can not to moan. I’m throbbing between the legs, made anew, gaped with the space he created for himself inside me. Changed irrevocably. Forever.

And no wonder, because that thing is massive. Huge.

And smeared with creamy white with a hint of pink down the underside. Blood. An involuntary sound of embarrassment emits from my throat.

“Don’t you think?” my mother demands.

“Yes,” I say faintly, and that’s enough to set her off again. A call from my mother is usually how Markov and my mornings end. She’s whatever the audiobook and crush equivalent of a cock-blocker is.

She’s still talking as he tucks the enormous trouser-snake back into his plain black boxer briefs. And I guess there’s just that one pink smear on the side of his cock that he doesn’t see, because his expression remains the same.

I sit up, sweeping my skirt down, my cheeks flaring. Thankfully, Markov doesn’t seem to notice my awkwardness as he calmly does up his belt and leans down to retrieve his tie.

I can’t listen. I can’t think. All my brain cells are fried by the heat of what Markov did to me.

That really happened, and I’m now listening to my mother, the most verbal person in the world. Markov, though, still hasn’t said a word.

I peek up at him and he runs a possessive hand down my side, fingers curling and squeezing my waist.

“Can you believe it?”

The pause in my mother’s speech clearly is expecting a response.

“Yeah, that’s…” I can’t bring myself to say bad, because what if Markov thinks I mean him?

His gaze meets mine, and it’s even more inscrutable than usual.

Markov’s grey eyes dip to my mouth, and he reaches out as my mother continues talking, brushing his thumb over my kiss-swollen bottom lip.

Then he turns, and walks out of the office without a backwards glance, like he has every day since we met.

And my stomach falls to the floor.

I watch him leave even as my clit throbs and my pussy tingles, not having got the message that magic-time is over. I can still feel the echo of him inside me.

I squash my phone to my ear with my shoulder, and pull my knickers up. Immediately, a wet, stickiness seeps in.

Oh god. There is my boss’ semen soaking into the cotton, as I listen to my mother. I attempt to clean the desk of evidence of the fact I was doing not-safe-for-work activities on it, and open the window a crack to get some airflow, because I bet the room smells of sex.

There’s a high probability that I smell of sweat and arousal. The proof of what we did is slippery between my legs, a reminder that’s not entirely unpleasant. That was real.

It’s only when my mother begins on her next topic and I realise vaguely that my phone is hot against my ear that I pull it away and see the time.

Shit. Five to nine. My manager is about to arrive.

Panic spikes my blood.

I haven’t done any of the work I would usually have, because instead of working while we listened to the audiobook, my insanely sexy, older, silent boss took my virginity on my desk.

My head swims.

“I have to go,” I beg.

“Your things are so much more important than I am, I know,” my mother says, sounding hard-done-by and hurt.

Denis will be here any minute.

“It’s work—” God, why do we have to always have this argument? Especially today.

“And I’m your mother!”

A door opens down the corridor, and cold digs into my spine.

“I’ll call you later!” I squeak and hang up. In a second, I’m at my desk, logging into my computer, and staring helplessly at the spreadsheet.

“Did you get the work done?” Denis makes me jump as he lumbers into the archive room.

“Nearly,” I say chirpily, even as foreboding drips down my back. No, because instead my boss rearranged my insides. Remade me as his, forever.

Denis grabs the notebook I’m working on, and sneers. “You must be further along than this.” He taps the number on it.

“I’ll catch up!” I assure him. Seriously, I might not go home this evening because I’m so eager to see Markov tomorrow. A Monday morning has never been as good as this one in the history of the world. Apart from my mother interrupting, but I can’t be upset about that, not really.

But I’ll die if I have to wait longer than strictly necessary to feel Markov’s lips on mine again.

I hide a smile of secret happiness as Denis straightens.

“I’m sorry—” I begin appeasingly.

“You’re sacked.”

My chest seizes up. I must have misheard.

“I was clear in my expectations of your work ethic, and you’ve failed,” he continues.

“You can’t do that?” But there’s a tremulous, questioning uplift to the end of that statement.

“I can do whatever I want.”

“But I’ve done everything else you asked!” This is so unfair I can barely believe it. My body is still tingling and languid from Markov’s attentions. From him being inside me, closer than I’ve ever been with anyone before. But my mind is racing.

“I was expecting more from you.”

My shin crawls, and I get it. But I wish I didn’t. All those suggestions, and in particular, he asked me out on Friday.

“Do I need to call security?” he snaps when I don’t move.

“Call Markov.” The request is out of my mouth without thought.

“I’m your boss. What I say goes.”

“Markov Lunacharski,” I insist.

Denis laughs in my face. It’s a cruel, jagged sound.

My neck prickles, but I push back my shoulders. Markov will understand why I didn’t get all my work done this morning, and he’ll make this right. Markov is the Bratva Pakhan, after all. He wouldn’t have to mention that he took my virginity.

“He’ll tell you…” I realise what I’m saying and trail off, dismayed.

Markov doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, the Pakhan will save you?” Denis mocks.

This is being sneered at by the school bully all over again. Just when I thought I’d grown up.

“The silent kingpin—who you don’t even know—will speak on your behalf?”

But I do know him. I know what makes him smile. I know which scenes will make him lean forwards in his chair and rest his forearms on his thighs as he listens intently. I know he frowns at the bits where the heroine defends someone who has been cruel to her.

And I’m sure that despite everything, I trust Markov Lunacharski more than anyone.

But he’s a Bratva boss, and I’m a girl he fucked and then walked out on. Misery threatens to bubble up, and if I don’t let it, I think it might scald me from the inside out.

This is pointless. I have no clue where Markov’s office is to try to find him, and I’d only humiliate myself more if I tried.

“You’re pathetic.” A bit of Denis’ spit lands on my arm, and I recoil.

Denis is right. There’s nothing I can do, because Markov won’t save me.

Containing my rage and disgust at myself and Denis, I grab up my coat and bag, and rush out. My security pass beeps an error as I scan it to leave—Denis works fast—and I give it to the bored receptionist without comment or eye contact.

As I duck out of the Mortlake building, it’s raining, and my phone rings.

My heart leaps, and I scramble to find the little device in my bag. Maybe…

I don’t know what I’m hoping for—a miracle I suppose—but with depressing inevitability, it’s “Mum” that pops up on the screen.

Not even a spam caller that could sustain the lie that it could be Markov for a few extra moments. He couldn’t contact me anyway. Mortlake work is unofficial, well paid but with no guarantees, including no contracts and HR documents.

I said I would phone her, but there she is, calling me. Like a bad hair day, there’s no escaping her.

“Hi Mum!” My false chirpiness could con the most hardened of London pigeons.

“I don’t understand why you can’t come home. There are jobs here.”

This is where I normally say that I enjoy my job here in London.

But my stomach twists. Possibly there are as many jobs in my hometown as I currently have here. None.

“I just want my baby bird back in the nest,” she adds, and although I know it’s a lie, and she wants to be able to complain to me and not have to cook for herself, there’s a painful tug of inevitability.

Perhaps this is fate. I came to London to lose my V-card and start a new life. I achieved the loss of my virginity, but there’s nothing for me here if I don’t have a job.

“You could come home. Your room is here, and I won’t charge.”

Oh, that’s a wonderful reminder. My rent is due today.

I swallow. This is not subtle, universe.

I haven’t got spare money to pay my rent given I won’t be going to Mortlake to collect the little I’m due for this month, I’m unemployed with no reference, and the one person who wants me is my mother.

Tears prickle behind my eyes.

I’ve failed at being an adult. I’ve failed at a brave new life in London. I’ve failed spectacularly at being the sort of girl that sophisticated, attractive, powerful men like Markov Lunacharski are interested in.

For more than a quick fuck, anyway.

In short, I guess caring for my emotionally needy mother is all I’m good for.

“Okay.” My tone is resigned. I’m defeated.

A tear trickles down my cheek, but you wouldn’t realise because the rain has my face dripping. This isn’t the nice sort of wet, either. It’s cold, bedraggled, and chafing. “I’ll come home.”

“Could you pick up some milk on the way?”

I don’t know why I expected anything else. I look up at the grey sky and the colour is an echo of Markov’s eyes as he looked down at me. That feels like a lifetime ago.

“Sure. I’ll see you later.”