Synopsis: "I like to pull on your hair, see you struggle to breathe, watch you reach your climax, and then stop you from reaching your high." He said all of that without stopping and that made me shake in my fucking boots.

"I-I, no?" I wasn't sure what to say when someone approaches you for a job and says that.

"I don't like when people say no to me. I will be respected. You, Miles Stevenson, will respect me." His voice was cold as ice. His stare froze my insides. He got up from his desk and walked over to me in strong strides in a matter of seconds.

He was dangerously attractive, his voice and tone were filled with a Russian accent, but it was barely there. Online, it read that his family was from Russia, he was born here but moved to America at the young age of 3.

"You're a cute, small pet. I think I'll be taking you." He talked with no fear in his voice, he was straightforward when he talked. His large hand came up to my face and his thumb stroked my cheek and then moved back to my hair and tugged on it a bit. I nudged my head back as a moan came out my throat and past my lips.

"There we go, you little masochist." He licked his lips and came down to my neck, kissing my sensitive skin. My hands flew up to his chest but he smacked them away and grabbed them.

Placing them above my head, his smirk only grew when I closed my eyes and groaned as his leg went up against my growing manhood.

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That got Hot. Maybe you should read the rest and find out what happens between a 22-year-old and hot Russian Millionaire Don. Or the one with a cute genius boy who just got out of a long-term relationship comes for a job as an assistant with an older Russian Millionaire who doesn't take shit from anyone. {Gayyy, Slight S/m & Russian hotties)

Property Of a Millionaire

<p>In the shadows, his face was so close to mine that I could smell the sweet fragrance of the drink he had been drinking, and then my lips were on his pink plump ones. In all truth I had not invited this ideology of a tongue; turning, I had merely wished to look at his face, expecting only that the expression of aesthetic pleasure I might find there would correspond to what I knew was my own. But I did not even catch a glimpse of his face, so instantaneous and urgent was that tongue. Plunged like some writhing shape into my gaping mouth, it all but overpowered my senses. It had the power in itself to force me, or somehow get me back, against my office chair, where I lolled helplessly with my eyes clenched shut, in a trance of tongue.</p>

Chapter17