Page 10 of Sexting the Bratva Boss (Text to Touch)

"Now that you've chosen what you want," his warm breath tickled my ear, sending shivers down my spine, "it's time for you to fulfill your obligations, my little actress."

He lowered his head and took my earlobe between his lips. It felt like an electric current shot from my ear straight through my entire body.

His tongue traced the shape of my ear, then traveled down to my neck.

My hands gripped the armrests of the chair, trying to find some anchor in this moment of complete surrender.

But his hands had already found my waist, slipping under my thin t-shirt, his burning palms pressing against my skin and moving in slow, maddening circles.

"Don't—" I managed to get out one word, but it sounded more like a helpless moan than a protest.

"Don't what?" He chuckled softly, his hand sliding under the waistband of my shorts. "Tell me you don't want this."

"Already wet, you little liar."

My body's honest response clearly pleased him. He suddenly lifted me from the chair and, in a few quick steps, had me lying out on top of his massive desk. My back pressed against the smooth, cool surface.

He kissed me hard, his tongue demanding entrance, tangling with mine. I found myself kissing him back, matching his intensity. When we broke apart, I was breathless. He ran his thumb over my swollen lips, his eyes dark with desire.

"Looks like you missed me."

He stood between my legs, slowly removing my shirt and bra. The moment the cool air hit my skin, I couldn't help but shiver.

He kissed my collarbone, my chest, marking my pale skin with red evidence of his possession.

My rational mind was being stripped away piece by piece, devoured by him. I didn't care anymore that this was his office, that anyone could walk in.

The scrape of his stubble against my skin created this maddening mix of pain and pleasure that was driving me crazy. My body had completely stopped obeying my mind, instinctively arching into his every touch.

I could hear his breathing getting heavier. He removed my shorts with practiced efficiency.

"Ruslan," I whispered his name without thinking.

"I'm here," he said, lifting his head. His hair was disheveled, those blue eyes now heavy with lust, his voice so rough it was barely recognizable.

He pulled down my panties, stripping away my last line of defense. Then, I heard the metal buckle of his belt unfasten .

He gripped my ankles and spread my legs further apart. I could feel his hot, hard cock pressing against my wet pussy as he was about to penetrate me.

A sharp knock on the door made me jump like I'd been electrocuted, instantly snapping me out of the haze of desire. Ruslan's movements stopped dead. I could feel every muscle in his body tense like a coiled spring, and this dangerous, violent energy started radiating off him in waves.

He stayed where he was, pinning me against the desk, but slowly turned his head toward the closed door. The look in his eyes was cold enough to kill.

"Boss." Anna's voice came through the door—calm, professional, completely unruffled. "Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Malcolm says he has urgent business to discuss with you. He says it's an emergency."

The office fell into a silence so complete it felt like death itself had walked in.

All I could hear was my heart hammering against my ribs and Ruslan's heavy breathing as he fought to control his rage.

"You should handle your business," I whispered, slipping out from under his arms and scrambling to find my underwear that he'd thrown on the floor.

After I got dressed, I shot him a playful wink. "Besides, we'll have plenty of time later."

Ruslan was still frozen in the same position, and he let out a string of vicious curses. "Fucking Malcolm."

He straightened up and adjusted his belt and collar with sharp, angry movements.

"Go home, маленькая кошка. I'll set you up with an agent."

The day after I left the Yvann Group building, Ruslan's agent contacted me. Erica's voice was crisp and professional over the phone. With her help, I smoothly signed a contract with the City of Sins production team and landed the supporting female role I'd been dreaming about—Lena.

The week that followed was the closest thing to a fairy tale I'd experienced since moving to LA.

Buzzing with excitement about joining the cast, I went back to my old habit of wandering around different neighborhoods, collecting material and inspiration for my acting.

And the thing between Ruslan and me? It became something completely unexpected.

He never mentioned the word "transaction" again, but our relationship had more binding power than any business deal.

Our contact usually started with short, commanding texts that left no room for argument.

Sometimes during the day, when I was riding some stuffy bus after collecting material around the city, my phone would suddenly buzz.

Ruslan: Club penthouse. 1 hour.

He never asked if I was free or if I wanted to come. It was more like an order, a summons. And every single time, I'd get off that bus like I was under a spell and grab the fastest taxi I could find.

Sometimes at night, when I was walking out of the club lobby after my shift, I'd get a message.

Ruslan: look up.

I'd find him waiting by the club entrance, and we'd end up tangled together in the ridiculously spacious back seat of his Bentley.

He never seemed to get tired of my body.

He explored every inch of me, using techniques I'd never even imagined, pushing me to climax after climax until I was completely wrecked.

He loved hearing me lose control under him—the crying, the begging.

He loved watching my eyes go unfocused from the intensity.

In those moments, I could feel that he wasn't just enjoying the sex—he was getting off on the complete control, the total possession.

And I was addicted to it.

A week later, I officially joined the City of Sins cast.

I quit my waitressing job at the club and threw myself completely into the production. I read and reread the script until I had it memorized, filling notebooks with character analysis.

I thought our relationship would continue in that same intense, burning way. But everything cooled down without any warning.

On my first day with the cast, after I'd finished meeting everyone on the production team, I went back to my apartment that evening and automatically checked my phone.

Nothing from him. I figured he was probably swamped. A man like that—every minute of his time was worth millions.

The second day of filming went smoothly. Director Harvey was tough but incredibly talented. When we wrapped that evening, I sent Ruslan a text.

Me: everything went great today. director's really professional.

I waited for ages, nearly falling asleep, before my phone finally buzzed.

Ruslan: great

Cold. Distant. Like he was checking items off a to-do list.

The next few days didn't get any better. Our communication became this one-sided thing where I'd report back and he'd respond hours later with something brief and impersonal—sometimes just a single word.

I started feeling anxious, like I was floating in space with no anchor.

Was he busy? Or had he already lost interest in me?

Once that thought took root, I couldn't get rid of it. We'd started with an accidental transaction. He'd said "until I get bored." Maybe that day had come faster than I'd expected. Maybe he was already tired of my body, tired of this whole arrangement he'd been controlling.

Shit. I couldn't let myself go down that road. I had to pour all my energy into work.

On the fifth night, the cast went to dinner at this upscale restaurant. During the meal, I spotted several big shots from the financial world at a nearby table. And there was Ruslan, right in the middle of them.

He looked completely at ease, listening to whoever was talking across from him. Throughout dinner, I watched him check his phone several times, those long fingers sliding across the screen like he was responding to important messages. My phone stayed silent the entire time.

Back in my apartment, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at our pathetic excuse for a conversation thread. I took a deep breath and typed out a message.

Me: have u been really busy lately?

Half an hour passed. The screen stayed black.

Just when I was about to give up, it finally lit up. I grabbed the phone immediately.

Ruslan: not really

Just those two words.

A wave of frustration and hurt crashed over me like a tsunami.

No, Eva Stone. This isn't you. You're not some pathetic creature who begs for scraps of attention from men.

You have your pride. You have your career.

I turned off my phone and threw it to the other side of the bed, forcing myself to focus on the script.

On the seventh night after wrap, the executive producer—this middle-aged guy named Barry—cheerfully suggested that the main cast should go grab drinks at some high-end bar called Night Wish. You know, for "cast bonding."

From day one, the way this producer looked at me made my skin crawl.

He was always finding excuses to touch me when he was giving me direction—his hand would "accidentally" brush my waist, or he'd give me these overly friendly pats on the shoulder.

I'd dodged him several times, but I didn't want to make waves with the rest of the cast.

The bar was everything I hated—deafening music, strobing lights, and the air thick with the smell of alcohol. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible .

We settled into a corner booth. Barry, clearly drunk, squeezed in next to me until he was practically pressed against my side.

"Eva," he said, waving his drink around and breathing alcohol fumes in my face, "you know, the supporting female role was really competitive. The fact that you got it shows you've got... potential." He emphasized that last word with a sleazy grin, and his hand landed on my thigh like a dead fish.

I shot up like I'd been stung by a scorpion, swatting his hand away in disgust.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" My voice shook with anger. The lead actors wore these blank expressions like they couldn't be bothered to care. People around us turned to look, but they had that jaded "seen it all before" look.

Barry's face turned ugly. He clearly hadn't expected me to embarrass him in public.

"A whore who slept her way to the top acting all high and mighty?

" he snarled. "You think I don't know how you got this role?

You take care of me tonight, and I'll make sure the rest of your scenes go real smooth.

Or—" He let out this gross, suggestive laugh.

"Or what?" A voice cold as ice cut through the noise from behind us.