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The mats are soft enough to cushion my knees from the force I hit the ground with. I stare up at Vasily. From here it’s easy to see the ridges of his muscular body beneath the shirt he’s wearing, the promise of an unforgiving orgasm within reach.

My hands rise toward his thighs.

I stop and peel the light gloves off quickly. The Velcro is loud in the room, and I lick my lips. Vasily palms his cock again, giving it one, two strokes.

“You were so good today,” he murmurs, reaching out with his other hand to tip my chin up. “So strong, so smart. A perfect little lawyer for me.”

On my knees, I squirm, surprised at the gush of wet heat between my thighs.

No one has ever praised me before; not like this.

Not in a way that mattered.

My lips part, and he presses a thumb to the bottom one. “Good girl, Matilda.” The pad of his thumb swipes against my tongue, salty but clean. He smells like soap.

He cleaned up before coming down here. How long was he thinking about this? Planning it?

Did he hunt through the whole house looking for me, wanting to fuck?

It feels like more than that, though, somehow, even though he’s tugging his cock through his pants and letting out light grunts as he stares at my mouth. My hands come up and brace on his thighs, fingers curling into the rough fabric to try to spur him on.

Please.

“What was that?”

Damn.

I said that out loud? Or at least, I made a sound that was close to a plea.

“I…please, can I taste you?” I ask, surprised by how easily the question slips from my mouth. Vasily holds my jaw again, considering me with a knitted brow.

“That’s what you want, Matilda?”

When I nod, his fingers deftly pull at the string of his trousers.

“Окей,” he affirms, the Russian equivalent of agreement. “Because you asked so nicely. Because you did so well for me today.”

Slowly, he pulls his heavy cock out as he shoves his trousers down with the other hand. He’s throbbing already, fully hard, the head dark and beaded with pre-cum. I lick my lips again, unable to stop myself from shuffling forward on tender knees.

The tip is like silk when it touches my lips.

I swipe my tongue over the head, collecting the salty pre-cum and dipping forward just slightly. Just enough to pop him over my lips, give a light slurp, sit back and ground myself against his thighs.

“Umnitsa,” he praises.

A part of my brain registers the Russian from the time I’ve spent in the presence of other Bratva members. Clever girl.

Again a rush of heat, of wetness. At this point my panties will be soaked through.

Leaning forward, I lick a line up Vasily’s inner thigh until I reach his balls. They contract under my tongue, and he groans, head dropping back, a hand wrapping loosely around my throat.

“Hvatit.”

Enough.

I go still, swallowing against his palm.

The trust is still there between us; fragile, rooted. It doesn’t escape me that my life is literally in the hands of an East Coast gang leader as he catches his breath in a hiss, looking down at me.