Page 9 of Sexting the Bratva Boss (Text to Touch)

Eva

Ruslan was gone, but the air still reeked of sex and sweat.

My body felt like a broken marionette, every muscle screaming in silent protest. The ache between my legs was a constant reminder of what had just happened—what I'd just agreed to.

This is a mutually beneficial transaction, Eva. I repeated the words like a mantra in my head. He gives you a ladder to your dreams, and you give him your body until he gets bored. Don't mix in feelings that don't belong.

But something bitter and acidic rose in my throat, contradicting my attempt at cool detachment. I thought I could handle this... I thought I could keep it purely business.

I let out a shaky breath and forced myself to get it together. Then I went downstairs to the employee break room, grabbed my purse, and left the club without waiting for Ruslan's secretary.

In the taxi, wind whipping through the window, I finally felt like I could breathe again. I leaned back against the cracked vinyl seat and closed my eyes, my mind a complete mess .

When Ruslan had proposed our "ongoing arrangement," my emotions had been all over the place. Shock and surprise at first, then—if I was being honest—a twisted kind of excitement.

I'd figured that after we slept together once, he'd keep his promise, give me an acting gig, and we'd never see each other again.

But instead, he'd bound us together with this long-term deal.

Having a relationship with a high-quality alpha male like him while getting access to the entertainment resources I needed?

It wasn't exactly a raw deal. But there was this hollow feeling growing in my chest—from now on, we'd just be business partners.

I'd be nothing more than his on-call mistress.

Whatever. I couldn't forget why I came to LA in the first place. I was going to climb my way up. I was going to make my acting dreams come true. I couldn't afford to second-guess decisions I'd already made.

"Miss, we're here," the driver said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I opened my eyes, paid the cash fare, and grabbed my purse.

Back in my shitty Oak Street apartment, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed face-first onto the bed. I needed to text Ivanka, tell her she'd given me the wrong number, and figure out how to explain that I'd either completely fucked up my life or stumbled into the opportunity of a lifetime.

I reached into my pocket. Empty. Tried the other one. Also empty.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I jumped off the bed and turned my small purse inside out. A few crumpled bills, some loose change, my keys. That was it.

My phone was gone.

"Fuck!" That phone had cost me nearly eight hundred dollars—money I'd saved by living on ramen and skipping meals for months. Now it was gone, and my already pathetic bank account couldn't handle another hit like that .

But the real panic set in when I realized what this meant: I'd lost my only way to contact Ruslan.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling like all the energy had been sucked out of me.

The taxi—it had to have fallen out in the taxi.

But I'd been so scattered I hadn't even looked at the license plate or noticed which company it was.

In a city the size of LA, finding a phone lost in a random cab was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I'd fucked up the deal before it even started. Like a complete idiot.

What would he think? That I'd gotten cold feet and bailed? That I was playing some kind of hard-to-get game?

Or maybe he wouldn't think anything at all. A man like him probably had women throwing themselves at him left and right. I was just a forgettable blip in his otherwise boring life.

I buried my face in my hands. A deal that could have changed everything was about to end in the most ridiculous way possible—and I hadn't even gotten my role yet.

I spent the next day and a half making the rounds—lost and found at the transit authority, three different police stations. The response was always the same: "We'll keep an eye out, leave your contact info." All I could give them was my apartment's landline.

Just when I was about to give up hope, the phone rang the next morning. LAPD had my phone.

I practically sprinted to the station.

When the heavyset, friendly-looking officer handed me my phone, I almost started crying right there.

"You should really thank this cabbie," the cop said, patting the driver on the shoulder. "Stand-up guy. Found it when he was cleaning out his backseat, tried to call the owner directly, but you had it password protected."

I thanked the embarrassed-looking driver about fifteen times, then ran back to my apartment and plugged my phone into the charger with shaking hands.

The moment it powered on, my heart jumped into my throat.

Three unread messages from Ruslan.

Two were from yesterday around 12:30 PM .

Ruslan: u home?

I could picture him sending that—all casual authority, like he owned the world.

The second message made my heart do a complete 180.

Ruslan: let's talk about your acting career. got several Hollywood studios looking for actresses for major roles. pick a script you like and let me know.

My emotions went from rock bottom to cloud nine in about two seconds.

The most recent message was from this morning:

Ruslan: u there?

My fingers flew across the screen.

Me: sry, lost my phone in a taxi. just got it back from the police station.

I had to explain why I'd gone radio silent—make it clear I wasn't playing games.

Then I hesitated for a moment before typing the question that would determine my fate:

Me: that thing about picking a script... does it still stand?

I stared at the screen after hitting send, barely breathing.

Less than thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed.

Ruslan: Yvann Group office. 30 minutes.

Standing at the base of the gleaming tower, I felt like a speck of dust. The Yvann Group headquarters was one of the most recognizable landmarks in downtown LA—a monument to power and money that seemed to scrape the sky itself.

The lobby was obscenely luxurious, all polished marble that reflected my nervous face back at me. Men and women in expensive suits walked past without a glance, their heels clicking authoritatively on the floor.

I approached the reception desk, where a woman with perfect makeup and a practiced smile greeted me .

"Good afternoon, how can I help you?"

"I'm—I'm here to see Mr. Ruslan Yvannov." My voice came out drier than I'd intended.

Her smile faltered for just a second before she looked me up and down with obvious judgment. My cheap t-shirt and loose jeans stood out like a neon sign in this temple of corporate power.

"Mr. Yvannov is extremely busy," she said, her tone still polite but now ice-cold. "Do you have an appointment? Or are you perhaps an associate of one of his business partners?"

The way she said "associate" made it clear what she really thought I was.

"No, but he told me to—"

"I'm sorry, Miss Stone." A crisp female voice cut me off. I turned to see a woman in a sharp black suit walking toward me, all business and efficiency. "I'm Mr. Yvannov's secretary. You can call me Anna."

As Anna walked past the receptionist, she said in a flat, emotionless tone to another employee, "Call HR to process her final paycheck. I want her out of this building in five minutes. Yvannov Group doesn't employ front desk staff who lack basic courtesy."

The receptionist's legs nearly gave out, and she grabbed the desk for support. I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

Anna led me to the elevator, and I could feel curious, speculative stares boring into my back from every direction. She took me all the way to the top floor. At the office door, she knocked softly.

"Come in." Ruslan's voice—deep, magnetic, unmistakable.

Anna opened the door for me, gestured for me to enter, then quietly disappeared.

I walked in to find Ruslan behind his massive desk.

He didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge my presence.

He had one hand holding a phone to his ear while the other drummed slowly, rhythmically against an open file.

He was speaking Russian—the harsh, clipped syllables and cold intonation combined with his deep voice created this aura of dangerous authority.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, surrounding him with a golden halo.

He wore an expensive white dress shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, showing off strong forearms. A couple of buttons were undone at his collar, giving him a relaxed look that was completely contradicted by the calculating coldness in those blue eyes.

I couldn't understand what he was saying, but the tone was unmistakably commanding. I could only imagine the pressure whoever was on the other end of that call was feeling.

"Sit." He finally hung up and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

He pushed several scripts across the desk toward me. "Take a look. Pick whichever one you like."

I picked up the top script. City of Sins was printed on the cover. I flipped through the pages, immediately drawn in by the story and especially by the complex, tragic female supporting character.

"This one." No hesitation.

"You sure?" He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the remaining scripts. "Any of these leading roles could make you famous overnight."

I looked him straight in the eye. "Yes. I like this script, and I like this character."

The corner of his mouth curved into a slight smile.

He stood up and walked around to my side of the desk, slowly prying my fingers away from the script one by one before pulling it from my hands and tossing it carelessly back onto the desk.

Then he leaned down, bracing his hands on the armrests of my chair, effectively trapping me between him and the seat.

The pressure was immediate and overwhelming.