Page 55 of Bratva Sacrifice

But I did have to pause, briefly, when Anatoli came in for a brief, stilted conversation with Alexei in Russian. Two minutes maybe, and he didn’t look at me once.

“He does not,” Alexei confirms. “He thinks you are bad for business. Tomorrow he leaves for Moscow. He is annoyed I do not go with him for this.”

That’s right. Moscow is Alexei’s home; a significant part of his criminal empire is based there. “Why not?” I ask. “Don’t you have”—criminal operations to oversee?—“things that need doing?”

Alexei shrugs, and his fingers curl over my hip. “Anatoli can do these things,” he says. “I do not want to leave you behind.”

“Could I go with you? Oh, but I’d need a passport.” I’ve never been out of the country. “Maybe a visa?”

He slants me a chiding look, and I realize that if he did take me with him, it would not be an official, government-sanctioned visit. No going through immigration and customs, no stamp for the passport I don’t have. Probably he’d be traveling with contraband. Drugs, or guns, or undeclared cash. “No,” he says. “I don’t want to take you to Moscow.”

Ouch. The brusque refusal is unexpectedly painful. Stung, I pull away from him, retreating to the far side of the couch. “Okay. Fuck me for asking, I guess.”

He makes a rough sound beneath his breath. Rolls his eyes at my sharp tone, and reaches out for me. “Katya—”

I slap his hand away. “You don’t have to be such a dick, you know.” It’s not the first time I’ve said it, and I doubt it will be the last. More often than not, it’s almost playful. This time it isn’t. This time, my voice is scratchy and tears sting my eyes. I’m genuinely hurt, because—what? The mobster won’t take me to Moscow with him?

Pathetic. It reeks of an attachment I shouldn’t have. One I don’t want to admit to. I swipe the back of my hand over my eyes, disgusted with the sheen of tears. And then I slap his hand away again when he reaches for me once more.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, and rips off the soft throw blanket I’ve wrapped myself in, casting it to the floor. His fingers seize my ankle and drag me back across the couch.

“Stop!” I screech, kicking out at him with my free foot. Flipping over onto my belly, I dig my fingernails into the arm of the couch, mooring myself to the side I’ve chosen. “Let go!”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. His fingers tighten around my ankle. He mutters something in Russian that sounds foul and furious. And his free hand slices through the air and lands with a stinging swat on my ass. “Don’t be a brat, Katya,” he says.

It’s rough, grating. A shiver coasts down my spine as goosebumps rise on my arms. I know that particular tone of voice. It’s a little angry. Mostly it’s turned on. Worse still, I think I’m becoming conditioned to it. Like a Pavlovian response I can’t control. My nipples peak as the sting of the slap fades into a tingle. Heat blooms between my thighs.

Ugh. I kick my leg again, trying to shake his hold.

He lets me pull my legs beneath me to rise to my knees as I make for the opposite side of the couch again. And then he releases my ankle only to grab my hips instead, anchoring me in place as he rises behind me. His weight falls on my back, caging me in. I’m trapped, pinned against the arm of the couch.

“Calm down, koshechka,” he says against the back of my neck, and indignation simmers along my skin at the condescension heavy in his voice. “You misunderstand this.” One of his hands slips beneath me, cupping my breast. His thumbnail scrapes my nipple, and a satisfied laugh rumbles in his throat and vibrates across my nape.

“Oh, fuck you!” I buck, but I don’t have the leverage to throw his weight off, and the hand he holds fast to my hip only pulls my ass against the length of his dick, already hard beneath his jeans.

With his fingertips, he rakes the hem of my nightgown—a silky one that only comes to mid-thigh—up over my ass. His blunt fingernails graze my skin as he drags down my panties, leaving them tight around my thighs, constricting my movement further.

“I like when you are spicy, Katya,” he says in guttural voice near my ear. “But I like best when you are soft and sweet for me.” He palms me between my legs, his fingers sliding easily through my wetness. He muffles a groan against the back of my neck. I can feel his dick throb against my ass. “Are you going to be sweet for me?”

“No!” My heart is hammering my ribs. I steel myself against the friction of his fingers as he rubs my clit in smooth circles designed to excite me further. And he chuckles as I grow wetter against his fingers anyway.

“So stubborn,” he says as I press my face into the arm of the couch to stifle my whimper as he slides his fingers inside of me. “Okay, Katya. I like you spicy, too.”

I hear the rasp of his zipper. Feel him as he positions himself, notching the head of his dick against my entrance. A long, slow thrust, feeding himself into me an inch at a time until I’m a shuddering, trembling mess. Struggling not to clench around him, not to rock back into him. “So good,” he rasps in a thick, satisfied voice. One hand pets my ass as if in praise. “There is nothing like your pussy, koshechka. So hot and wet for me.”

My breath saws out of my lungs as he slides out, then rocks back in just as slowly. It’s torture. It’s glorious. It’s infuriating.

“I don’t want to take you,” he says on another smooth stroke out, “because I do not want to be there myself. I have never liked it there.” Harder stroke in, pressing so deep that my toes curl. “And I do not want you to see things you should not see.” Faster thrust. I’m panting, my lungs straining to draw breath. “Things you do not want to see. I do not want to burden your conscience with these things I cannot control there as I can here.” His hand caresses my spine, gentle and soothing as his hips pound into mine. “And I do not want to leave you,” he admits. “So Anatoli goes alone. And I stay with you.”

That vicious knot of hurt in my chest relaxes. The resentment fades.

The pleasure mounts. Each plunge makes me desperate for the next. My fingernails scratch across the arm of the couch. “Alyosha,” I whimper.

“Fuck,” he utters as I clench around him. “You want to be sweet for me again, koshechka?”

“Yes. Yes.” His hips punch into mine, brutal stabs jabs that rock my whole body forward. A vicious climax shimmers just out of reach. I want it so badly.

“Come hard for me,” he says, and slides his hand beneath me once more to rub my clit. I shatter in seconds, burying my face in the arm of the couch to smother my cries. Alexei grunts something in Russian, slamming hard and deep until I feel his dick pulse inside me, the liquid heat of his come pouring into me.