Page 11 of Sexting the Bratva Boss (Text to Touch)

Ruslan

"...So, Mr. Yvannov, considering the broad prospects for our future long-term cooperation, I believe this price shows genuine sincerity."

Malcolm—the sleazy middleman sitting across from me—made his living trafficking information and brokering deals on the edges of the arms trade.

He loved doing business in loud, crowded bars like this one, claiming it was "camouflage" and made things safer.

I fucking hated everything about this place—the strobing lights that gave me a headache, the pounding music, the whole goddamn atmosphere.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be caught dead in a dive like this.

Malcolm was using that oily voice of his to try and lowball me on high-grade military hardware. The numbers on his quote sheet weren't just insulting—they were practically a joke.

"Malcolm," I finally spoke, my voice cutting through his bullshit, "you call this grocery store haggling 'sincerity'?"

His smile froze on his face.

"I'm dealing military-grade equipment here." I picked up my barely touched glass of Macallan. "This stuff would have people fighting over it just sitting in a warehouse, and you're trying to lowball me with these amateur-hour numbers."

My patience was wearing thin fast. Partly because of this pointless negotiation, but mostly because I couldn't get a certain woman's image out of my head.

Eva Stone.

It had been a full week since I'd contacted her. Not because I'd lost interest—quite the opposite. The disturbing truth was that I'd become addicted to her body.

During those few days before she started filming, I'd indulged myself without restraint. Every time we finished, I felt completely satisfied, but then came an even deeper craving to possess her again.

Me—Ruslan Yvannov, a man who prided himself on controlling everything in his world—developing a dependency on some woman's body.

It was fucking ridiculous. The realization made me feel restless and out of control, which was a dangerous sign.

It meant my famous self-discipline was crumbling bit by bit in front of this girl.

I hated that feeling.

So I'd deliberately distanced myself. I needed time to regain control over my own desires. I told myself that if I just kept my distance for a while, that damned addiction would fade away.

I drained the rest of my whiskey in one gulp.

That's when something in the corner caught my eye.

A girl was being cornered in a booth by some middle-aged asshole, and nobody around seemed interested in helping.

Her honey-colored hair was messy, like she'd been running her hands through it.

Those green eyes blazed with anger and defiance.

Even trapped and helpless, she kept her spine straight—like a cornered cat who refused to back down.

Eva. And that piece of shit had his filthy hand on her leg.

Something snapped in my brain.

A wave of pure rage mixed with possessive fury exploded from my chest, instantly burning away every shred of rational thought. My property. My woman. Some dead man walking was openly putting his hands on what belonged to me .

"Mr. Yvannov, what's wrong?" Malcolm jumped back, startled by the killer instinct that suddenly radiated off me.

I didn't answer. I stood up and walked straight toward that corner booth. The world went quiet around me—no music, no crowd noise, just the sound of my blood boiling and that bastard's disgusting words.

"A whore who slept her way to the top acting all high and mighty? You take care of me tonight, and I'll make sure the rest of your scenes go real smooth. Or—"

"Or what?"

My voice sounded like it came from hell itself.

I saw the shock in Eva's eyes. She clearly hadn't expected to see me here.

"Who the fuck are you, butting into other people's business?" Barry slurred, his words soaked in alcohol.

I didn't bother hiding the murderous expression on my face. I could imagine how terrifying I looked right now.

Ignoring the waste of space completely, I stepped closer to him.

"Which hand did you touch her with?"

But I already knew the answer. Without waiting for his response, I grabbed his left wrist.

Crack.

The sickening sound of bones breaking cut through the noise. Then came his pig-like screaming.

"Ahhh—my hand! My hand!"

"Since you didn't specify which hand, I guess I'll have to break both." My voice was ice-cold.

Another satisfying crunch. Another scream.

With both hands broken, his forearms were forced up at weird angles against his chest, making him look absolutely pathetic. But I felt zero satisfaction—the rage was still burning in my chest.

I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and slowly wiped my fingers clean, like I'd just touched something disgusting. Then I dropped the cloth on his face.

"Get the fuck out. "

He scrambled away on his hands and knees, disappearing into the crowd.

I could feel everyone's terrified stares, but I didn't give a shit. I looked at Eva, who was still frozen in shock, trying to process what had just happened. I took her ice-cold hand and led her out of the bar.

Once we were in my car, I started the engine and pulled smoothly into traffic.

"Where are we going?" Eva finally found her voice, still sounding shaky from the adrenaline.

"Taking you home." I kept my eyes on the road.

"How do you know my address?" She paused, confused.

"Eva, in this city, there are only things I don't want to know." My voice carried the absolute confidence of someone who owned half of LA.

She went quiet. Yeah, what a stupid question. With my resources, finding her shitty little apartment was easier than stepping on an ant.

The car fell into silence.

"Are you scared?" I finally asked the question that had been eating at me.

"Scared of what?" she shot back.

"I broke that man's hands right in front of you. You should be terrified of me like everyone else."

"He deserved it," she said, anger still blazing in her voice. "That's exactly what he had coming."

Hearing that, I actually smiled. The rage that had been building in my chest dissolved like smoke.

"Thank you, Ruslan," she said after a moment, her voice softer now. "I felt so helpless back there."

I didn't respond. I didn't think it was worth thanking me for—as long as our arrangement existed, I had to make sure no one else touched my маленькая кошка. But her words did something strange to my chest, softening something I'd never felt before.

"That man," she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, "is the executive producer of City of Sins. Barry."

I nodded to show I understood .

The car pulled up in front of her run-down Oak Street apartment building, the engine sound unusually loud in the quiet night. I could feel her presence next to me, that clean citrus scent wrapping around me like invisible threads.

"Well, I'm here." She unbuckled her seatbelt but didn't immediately get out. Instead, she turned to face me, her profile soft in the dim streetlight. Those green eyes looked directly at me with a mix of hope and invitation. "Want to come up for a bit?"

My gaze drifted uncontrollably from her eyes down to her lips, slightly parted from speaking, and I could see the pink tip of her tongue.

A wave of heat that could have destroyed my self-control shot up from deep in my gut. I wanted to go up. I wanted it so fucking bad.

I wanted to follow her into that crumbling building, into her private space, and claim her in the most primitive, brutal way possible. I wanted to mark every inch of her body until she belonged to me completely, inside and out.

I could already imagine what she'd look like underneath me.

My throat bobbed involuntarily, and my knuckles went white gripping the steering wheel.

But I couldn't. I'd already lost control once tonight. I had to regain command—over myself and over her.

"No."

My voice came out rough. I forced myself to look away, my tone returning to its usual ice. "I've got more important things to handle."

The light in her eyes visibly dimmed. She murmured something and got out of the car. I watched her disappear into that shabby building, not starting the engine until she was completely out of sight.

I sat in the darkness for a full five minutes before finally driving to my private shooting range.

I put on safety glasses and ear protection, grabbed my HK45 from the rack, and started mechanically aiming and firing.

Bullets tore through the air, releasing the frustration in my chest. I tried to use this to shatter the image of those hopeful green eyes and that unfamiliar feeling of losing control .

But it didn't work. My breathing was faster than usual, my wrist tensed with too much force during the shots, causing my aim to drift. I barely hit the nine ring.

For most people, that would be decent shooting. For me, it was humiliating. It meant my emotions were compromising my control.

I crumpled up the target and threw it in the trash.

Then I walked to the workbench and set my pistol on the gun mat. Instead of reloading, I started doing something I only did when my inner state was extremely unstable—disassembling it.

I dropped the magazine, racked the slide, and checked the chamber.

I broke down this precision weapon into individual components.

Slide, barrel, recoil spring, firing mechanism—every part was carefully cleaned with a gun cloth and arranged in order on the mat.

During this process, Eva's image faded from my mind, replaced only by cold metal representing order.

My breathing gradually steadied. When the last component was cleaned, my mind was clear. I began reassembling, each movement flowing smoothly, every part finding its exact place with satisfying clicks. When the slide was reattached with that final crisp snap, my HK45 was whole again.

I walked back to the firing line, loaded a fresh magazine, and raised the gun. This time, my world contained only three things: the front sight, the rear sight, and that coin-sized red bullseye fifty meters away.