Seven: Gianna Is Kitten?

Dmitry 

I punch the air with glee. Day one, or night one, and I already manage to get under her skin. That can only mean one thing. Gianna still loves me.

She’s fighting it. I can feel it, deep in my bones. I can’t even blame her for trying. But there’s one thing I know for sure. She wants that kiss just as badly as I do.

Fuck Kevin.

I shove her door closed behind me and head to my room with far too much energy, my mind racing. There’s so much to take care of. Her loans, for one. That alone makes my jaw tick.

The buzz in my pocket cuts my high short.

I barely make it into my room before pulling my phone out. Fuck.

Mama.

I lock my jaw so hard it aches. I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary before answering.

“Zdravstvuy, mama,” [Hello, mum]. I greet in my Russian tongue, my voice already cold.

I don’t want to talk to her. She has a talent for pissing me off without even trying.

“Ah, moy malchik,” [my baby boy]. she coos, her voice sickeningly sweet. “How are you?”

I scoff under my breath and move toward the bar, grabbing the bottle of bourbon. “What do you want?” I ask, pouring myself a glass.

“Dmitry Orlov,” she snaps, her tone sharpening. “That is no way to speak to your mother.”

My fingers curl around the glass. Ending the call crosses my mind more than once.

She isn’t my mother. Not really. She’s just the woman who raised me with expectations I can never meet, no matter how much I give. My time, my obedience, my money. None of it is ever enough.

She wants to own me.

Too bad, only one woman owns me.

“Well,” she continues, clearly deciding to ignore my mood, “I wanted to know if you would be coming home soon. The Smiths are throwing a party and they would love for you to attend.”

I let out a sharp laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “Are you fucking joking? The Smiths?”

“Yes, baby,” she replies lightly, as if she hasn’t just ruined my night.

I close my eyes, take a slow drink of bourbon, and wonder how the hell she still thinks she has a say in my life.

I let out a rough chuckle. “I already told you. I won’t be coming back home.”

Then I lower my voice.

“Ne bez neyo,” [Not without her]. I say in Russian.

I hear a low curse from the other end of the line.

“You’re still obsessed with that gold-digging leech? Dmitry, Car—”

I don’t wait for the rest of it. I end the call and toss the phone onto the bed.

I’ve had enough of her crap. So what if Gianna doesn’t fit our family name? What does that even matter?

I down the drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to calm the tension coiled in my chest.

That’s when I notice movement at my door.

Someone is peeking through the small opening.

“What did I say about staying away from my room, Gianna?”

Just then the door opens fully, revealing a rather beet-red Gia, in shorts and a tight-fitting singlet.

Fuck.

The way the singlet clings to the soft curve of her neck, everything about her is insanely perfect. Infuriating too.

Her hair is up, strands falling carelessly, just enough to make her look… irresistible. I clench my fists, feeling that familiar need curling in my chest.

I want to rip everything off her body. Christ, that’s vile, fucking vile, but I am a man insane with lust and she—she is the reason why.

“Can you stop staring at me like that! It's weird.” She finally chokes out, staring anywhere but at me.

“You invade my privacy despite my clear warning,” I say, my voice dropping with each word. “In this little nightie all the same… did you wear it for me, Gia?”

Her cheeks flare crimson. She tries to straighten her posture, cross her arms, hide herself, but the effort is futile. I can see everything, and she knows it.

“I’m not—” she starts, but I cut her off with a smirk.

“Then why are you here?” I whisper, stepping closer. I can hear her breathing hitch with each step I take. “I bet you’re still thinking about me. I can feel it. Every breath, every heartbeat—”

She takes a small step back, though it barely matters. “Stay away from me, I’m only looking for the kitchen because I’m thirsty.”

Thirsty… I stop in my tracks, barely holding back the urge to cage her here in my room.

“Get a robe or something, you shouldn’t wear this,” I murmur, letting my fingers brush a loose strand of hair from her neck. “It’s… unfair.”

She huffs, trying to regain composure, but the tiny shake in her shoulders gives her away.

“Good thing I don’t care what you think,” she snaps softly, though her voice wavers.

I let out a low chuckle, leaning just enough to let her catch my scent. “If you say so, Gia.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, a mix of defiance and something else I haven’t seen in years—pure desire.

My grin widens. I can play this game for as long as I want. I have all the time in the world… and she has no escape.

I speak too soon because one moment she is standing there, and the next she is scrambling backward like the floor is lava.

“Don’t—” she starts, but the word trips over itself as she turns, nearly colliding with the doorframe in her haste.

I watch her fumble with the handle, fingers clumsy, breath coming out uneven. Panic does that to her. It always has. When things get too real, too close, Gianna runs.

Interesting how some things never change.

“Relax,” I drawl, not moving an inch. “I’m not chasing after you.”

That earns me a sharp glare over her shoulder, eyes flashing with something between fear and annoyance. “Good,” she snaps. “Because I’d scream.”

I smirk. “You always were dramatic. Screaming in my house would do you no good, but I'll indulge you.”

She yanks the door open, turns to me, huffs, and flees into the hallway, bare feet slapping softly against the floor as she goes.

The sound echoes, then disappears, swallowed by the house.

I exhale slowly, rolling my neck once, twice, trying to shake off the image of her standing there in my doorway like temptation itself. Christ.

Running her hands through her hair. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The way she looks at me like she wants to stay and hates herself for it.

I don’t get to see Gianna when I wake up and I make sure to wake up early.

Her room is empty, bed properly made, and there’s no sign of her in the other parts of the house.

“Donny.” I yell, signaling my favorite guard, not like I'd ever tell him.

Donny doesn’t waste a beat to appear right in front of me. He’s a stern-looking man, bald, strong-faced, and really buff.

“Where’s the girl?” I ask, lighting my cigarette.

“Miss Gia left pretty early this morning, a black BMW picked her up.”

I nod, taking a drag from the cigarette to cool my gnawing anger.

Kevin.

And if I’m not mistaken, they probably go back to her place to collect her things.

I signal for Donny to leave.

She’s doing everything in her power to make sure we aren’t alone. I already told her we’d do that today, and yet she chooses some fucking stranger.

I press the butt of the cigarette against the chair, letting the burn die out.

A short scoff escapes my lips.

What the hell am I even thinking?

I retreat to my office. Work is the only thing that ever manages to shut my head up.

Three monitors are already on as I loosen my cuffs and sit down.

Grandfather made sure to leave a ton of work for me before passing away. The asshole just knows how to rile his grandson up.

I chuckle lightly at the thought.

I just start reviewing a report when my phone vibrates against the desk.

One New Notification

I frown, glancing down. It’s from girlgonewild.

Kittenxo just drops a new post.

My fingers hover around the notification.

I don’t get any pleasure from kitten if I’m being honest.

A couple of years ago, during a late night in Toronto, an associate listens to me whine about how much I miss Gia to the point he gets tired, creates this account, and tells me to go through it.

I forgot all about the account until months ago when I stumble on kittenxo. There’s something so familiar about her.

She became the only one I followed and up until that night in that bloody cat suit, I didn't give a shit about her. But she looked so uncomfortable instead of sexy, so I did what anyone with eyes would have done, I paid her twelve grand to turn the live off.

I turn back to my phone, clicking the notification. I watch the image load slowly, nearly dropping my phone at the full image:

Kittenxo, in what should be a fucking birthday suit, her skin glowing, and as usual her face partially shadowed, lips slightly parted, and her blonde hair covering a nipple.

The caption sits beneath the photo, reading:

Catch you at tonight’s live 💋

I stare at the screen completely gobsmacked at what’s in front of me, but then my eyes catch a glimpse of a tiny toy at the edge of the bed.

My stomach drops instantly, two fingers flying to my phone screen, zooming into the picture.

I know this room. I bought the shit used to decorate this room.

A cold sweat drops on my screen as the realization slams into me like a punch to my ribs.

Gianna is kittenxo.