Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov Page B

seemed to mind that she wasn’t actually a woman. In Pavel’s case, that might be because of the vodka. And Vasily—Sergei assumed the sniper didn’t care what exactly he put his dick in as long as it breathed and didn’t go “baaah.”
    In any case, Vasily kept her mouth busy, sticking his tongue almost down her throat, while Pavel kissed and licked and nipped at her long, strong neck, one finger hooked into the D-ring at her col ar as if to make sure Vasily wouldn’t grab her and carry her off.
    Sergei twisted the rearview mirror so Vanya wouldn’t get distracted, and kept watching their surroundings. Running into cops was the last thing he wanted. Yesterday’s shooting was all over the news, and some newspapers were speculating wildly about the cause of the attack. It was definitely drawing heat to that Italian motherfucker, and with the interest of the press and the police awakened, Marino would have to keep his head down. Which suited Sergei’s objective just fine.
    However, neither he nor his men were inconspicuous, which meant keeping a low profile, eating in fast food joints, leaving no paper trails, no witnesses, no potential trouble. Sergei didn’t mind being a ghost so much, hovering at the edges of society; after all these years, he struggled imagining being anything else.
    The safe house was a bit out of the way, in a rundown part of the city, with no direct neighbors. Just a closed-down printing shop to one side, and to the other a boarded-up apartment building awaiting gentrification or a wrecking crew. This part of the city was holding its breath for rebirth, but would only succumb to cancer.
    The car stopped and Sergei stepped out. He watched while Vasily composed himself and got out of the car, raging erection pushing against his fly. Pavel was no better, but he didn’t grin as gleefully as Vasily and actually helped the already disheveled hooker out of the car.
    Vasily winked at him. “You’re gonna be first?”
    “Yeah.” Sergei usually didn’t pull rank, but she’d come to him, and while that decided nothing really, he figured it was important to show who was leading. Besides, she’d made that possible; his body responded readily to hers.
    They escorted the hooker to the nondescript two-bedroom house. Sergei had claimed the master bedroom for himself (having his own shower seemed like the height of luxury), while the rest shared the other double bedroom, or had until Vasily had complained of Vanya’s snoring and moved onto the couch in the living room. It was the shared bedroom they were heading to.
    The hooker reached the bed, glanced at it, and turned to Sergei, looking nervous. But then she stepped closer, met his eyes for a long moment, and went down on her knees. Sergei inhaled sharply when she opened his fly and rubbed him through his boxers before pul ing down his trousers far enough to pull his boxers down, too.
    She didn’t tease much—straight to business, her lips parting for him and taking him in without reluctance. He grabbed her neck, her smooth, long movements much like he’d jerk off when he had time and wanted to make it last. His gaze fell on Vasily, who stared at her face, her lips, and of course at Sergei’s dick, eyes glowing with cold, calculating lust.
    Pavel made a rude comment in Russian, while Sergei stepped out of his boots and trousers, allowing the hooker to keep jerking him off while he undressed. “Get on bed now.”
    She stood and plucked the silver handbag from her shoulder, then fished out a tube of lube and a long strip of condoms.
    Vasily scoffed. “I’m not putting one of those on,” he said in Russian.
    She seemed to catch the gist of that protest and looked at Vasily, her dark eyes steady and not afraid at al . “I’m not worried about you,” she said, “but you might want to be worried about me. I fuck men for a living, not you.”
    Sergei huffed laughter and responded in Russian. “You put that on. I’m not nursing you through some