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“This pussy is mine now,” Avros growls, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. “No other man will have it. Say it, Sydney. Tell me that this sweet wet pussy is for me, and only for me.”
"Yours," I gasp out between moans, his raw, possessive dominance and dirty words making me whimper with arousal. “My pussy is yours, Avros. Only yours."
His rhythm falters for a moment, a flash of something almost vulnerable crossing his face. But then it's gone, replaced by a look of fierce determination. Avros hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts. The new position has him hitting that spot deep inside me with unerring accuracy, and I cry out in ecstasy.
"That's it,krasotka," Avros urges, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own orgasm. "Come for me again. Let me feel that sweet little pussy squeezing my cock.”
His words, combined with the relentless pounding of his hips and the skilled fingers that find my clit once more, send me careening over the edge. My second orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, even more intense than the first. I'm vaguely aware of calling out Avros's name, my nails raking down his back as pleasure consumes me, my inner walls clenching him so tight that I’m afraid I’ll nearly pass out from the force of it.
Avros follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself inside me. The feeling of his cum, hot and pulsing, prolongs my own climax until I'm a trembling, gasping mess beneath him. Knowing that he’s in me, that he came in me, that my body alone sent this powerful man over the edge, fills me with satisfaction.
We stay like that for long moments, both panting and sweaty, our bodies still joined together, wetness and warmth pooling between us. Avros peppers soft kisses along my neck and jaw, murmuring endearments in Russian that I don't understand but feel in my very soul.
As the fog of pleasure begins to clear, however, a cold realization hits me. We didn't use protection. The potential consequences of our actions settle over me like a lead weight, and I tense involuntarily.
Avros must sense the change in my mood because he pulls back slightly, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You look… tense.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "We... we didn't use anything," I manage to whisper, unable to meet his eyes. "What if something happens?"
Understanding dawns in Avros's eyes, followed quickly by a possessive heat that makes my breath catch. He pulls me closer, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "Don't worry, my sweet little kitty cat. I'll take care of everything. I’ll take care of you. You are mine now. You’ll never want for anything again.”
The mixture of protectiveness and ownership in his tone sends a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I’ve never been claimed so thoroughly, possessed so intimately, by anyone, much less a man with duffel bags full of cash and secret rooms full of guns. I close my eyes, burying my face in the crook of his neck. How is it possible to feel so safe in the arms of the most dangerous man I've ever met?
As Avros holds me close, murmuring soft reassurances as he softens and slips out of me, I can't help but wonder what I'vegotten myself into. This isn't just a fling or a moment of passion. I can feel it in my bones. Whatever is happening between us, it's far bigger and more complicated than I ever could have imagined.
And as much as it scares me, I know with absolute certainty that I don't want it to end.
12
Avros
The weight of the Glock 19 is familiar in my hand as I methodically clean the weapon. It's a ritual that usually centers me, but tonight, my mind wanders from the task. I can't shake the memory of Sydney's soft skin under my fingers, the way she arched into my touch, hungry for more.
I growl, setting the gun down with more force than necessary. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm Avros Petrov, feared Bratva boss, not some lovesick teenager. And yet, here I am, distracted by thoughts of a woman when I should be focused on saving my brother.
The thick manila folder on Lance Halloway lies open on my desk, a stark reminder of the task at hand. I force myself to focus, leafing through pages of personal information until I find what I need—his likely current location, based on his typical schedule.
My phone buzzes. A message from my informant:
"Target on the move. Window closing fast."
I reach for my phone, dialing a familiar number. When it connects, I speak quickly, my voice cold and authoritative.
"It's me. I have a job. Lance Halloway. I'm sending you his location now. Make it clean, make it fast."
I end the call, a grim satisfaction settling over me. In a few hours, Lance will be dead, and Miron will be one step closer to freedom. I am sworn to protect my brother, no matter the cost.
As I close the file, my eyes land on a framed photo on my desk. It’s Miron and me as children, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning. I remember the vow I made then, to always keep him safe. I can't falter now.
But as I lean back in my chair, Sydney's face flashes in my mind once more. What would she think if she knew what I've just done? The thought shouldn't matter, but for some reason it does, especially now that she’s seen a glimpse of the man underneath the surface. If she knew what a ruthless monster I was, would she stay, or would she just walk away?
I stand abruptly, needing to move, to shake off this unfamiliar feeling of doubt. I've made my choice. Lance's fate is sealed. All that's left now is to wait for confirmation that the job is done.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my brooding. "Come in," I call out, my voice rougher than intended.
Sydney enters, a vision in a simple sundress that clings to her curves in all the right ways. My body responds instantly, desire coiling hot and heavy in my gut.
"I thought you might need a break," she says softly, holding up a tray with coffee and what looks like freshly baked pastries. "You've been in here for hours."
