It's been a busy May and June for me. Part from writing and publishing 'I Am Eve', I've also written a novella, my first Daddy Dom. It's in editing. You'll LOVE Misha and Carrie.
A little snippet - just for you:

Los Angeles has a kind of heat that doesn't agree with me. I like boots, black jeans and heavy leather jackets, I like a thick wool suit of high quality. I prefer fog and rain and cold. I like a sad accordion playing in a dank alley. I like granite and pine trees.

Snow.
I miss snow.
Everything here is bright and lean and so fucking streamlined. Everyone is trimmed until there’s no soul left in their bodies, no meat left on their bones, not a wrinkle on their faces. 
I miss the old world, but I’m a man of honor and I’m here to pay off my family’s debt. My idiotsky younger brother likes his vodka a little too much, American women in excess, and doesn't always make the best decisions. He got himself into a significant gambling debt and a deal had to be struck. We brought Piotr home, and I took his place. For six months I will do the dirty work of the local rag-tag branch of organized crime. I’m not impressed with anything I’ve seen, but I’m here to shut up, do what they tell me, and execute anyone they point me at.

I’m good at what I do. They made a prime deal.
Six months, then my brother’s debt is paid off and I will go home to the motherland and smack that little bastard over the head for putting me through this and forcing me to America. 
I was offered a car, but I declined it, raising a couple of eyebrows. I’m used to driving a motorbike and found myself a beautiful old Harley Davidson that I will have shipped home to Russia when this is over. It makes me more vulnerable, but I’m also never dependent on traffic. I can always get through a jam, always find a place to park. And I’m fast.
It’s the only time I can clear my head of the clutter that inhabits it, when I ride along the highway with no houses in sight, my hair fluttering around my head, and the wind whipping.
I’m still finding my way in this sprawled out city of angels and sigh with relief when I find a road sign that matches the name of the street I’ve been looking for. It’s a sleepy neighborhood with not much going on. It’s about an hour to the city center and it seems most people have taken their business somewhere else. There’s a corner cafe, a Laundromat, a little grocery store, several paneled-up store fronts, and then there’s the bookstore.
‘Sugar Princess’ it says with pink rounded neon letters along the facade. On one side of the sign is the outline of a book, on the other the outline of a cupcake. The store is no more than a hole in the wall, and the whole front is floor to ceiling windows that doesn’t cover much of what goes on inside. A young woman moves between crowded-up mismatching armchairs of various sizes and little round tables in between them. On the window are painted in pastel in an arc ‘Sweet Heroes and Spicy Heroines. We have a flavor for everyone.’

Behind the chairs and tables are shelves filled to the brim with books of all sizes. Hardcovers, paperbacks, coffee table books. Both standing up and lying on top of the standing books, passionately squeezed in to fit as many as possible in a seemingly disorganized manner. I don’t mind the messy display. There’s love behind it. That pleases me. I appreciate reading. It’s weight lifting for your mind, and I like staying in shape.
I don’t understand the shop’s concept, though. Is it a bookstore or a cafe? Well, it’s not my business. I’m here to collect.
Stopping right outside, I kick down the support and jerk up the bike so that it locks, then I pocket the key and march up to the door. Collecting protector money was something I did when I was twelve. At thirty-nine, I would have figured those days were past me, but thanks to my brother here we go again. Usually, I would go in with a bat when I introduced myself for the first time, smash up some shelves, and then let them know how much worse it would be if they didn’t pay us to stop thugs from ruining their stores.
I don’t come with a bat today, though. Usually my appearance and my name are enough when I do business, and my work has long since stopped revolving around threatening small business owners. Except today is the day when I go back to the juvenile phase of my life.
Pulling the door open, I step inside and take a deep breath. It smells of baking and vanilla, not musty old books like I’d have expected. Before me, the girl freezes with her back to me. I raise an eyebrow, appreciating the knee-long, wide, deep red skirt that ends in the waist with a broad, light brown leather belt, creating an alluring hour-glass shape. Her red and white polka dot blouse sits snugly around her chest and when she turns around, I have a hard time pulling my eyes off the plunging neckline and the shock of smooth-looking, creamy white skin it reveals. Her honey-blonde hair is tied into two braids that rests one in front of, and the other behind, her shoulders. Round blue eyes widen as they travel my body and her intense scrutiny is an almost physical sensation. She looks as taken aback as I feel myself.
I don’t remember what I had planned to say. The mouthwatering scents of something edible, something equally sweet as the girl before me, make all coherent thoughts fly out the door. My gaze finally lands on the glittering tiara that rests on top of her head, worthy a princess. Her heart shaped face opens into a smile that reveals deep dimples. What do they say, the Americans? Cute as pie. That’s what she is.
“How do you do, sir?” she asks, pulling me out of the near-trance.
Sir.
I like that she is polite. I hope she’s obedient and will fold like a cheap lawn chair when I put pressure on her. I’d be a shame to have to come back and wreck her little shop. I’m sure she’s worked hard for it.
“Is that coffee I smell?” I take a step closer. She takes a small step back. Her instincts tell her something is off, but the polite veneer doesn't wear off just because everything inside her screams at her to be careful. She is first and foremost a shop owner and I am a customer.
“Ehm, yeah,” she stutters as a blush creeps up the sides of her cheeks, making her round features adoringly peach-like. “I just put it on. It will be a few minutes. Did…did you come here looking for something special?”
I sure did, and she’s not going to like it one bit.