Page 25 of Bratva Sacrifice

It’s not a lot of room to maneuver, but if there’s even a sliver of an opening, I know already that Alexei will find it. And he does, his fingers sliding effortlessly beneath the tight elastic leg of my panties to slip between my thighs. The pressure of his knee between my legs deepens, forcing them wider as he strokes my pussy, fingertips sliding easily in my wetness.

My fingernails prick his shoulders as my hips lift into that intimate touch. I hear myself make an embarrassing sound; weak and needy. His answering growl shivers over my skin as his teeth pinch my nipple, the sensation just this side of painful.

My skin feels fever-hot. Arousal is a sharp ache in my belly, an itch in desperate need of scratching. I need to move, to satisfy the electric jolts that pull at my muscles, but the weight of his chest keeps me pinned.

One long, thick finger slides inside me and my back arches as a ragged, wild sound claws at my throat. My eyes flash open, the bright overhead lights burning my eyes. It’s not the light that gives me pause.

It’s the windows. The massive windows with their curtains thrown open. Where anybody could see in. In the fading light, I can’t tell the difference between what might be shadows cast by the setting sun and what might be the movement of some unknown figure lurking outside, peering in.

A shiver climbs up my spine. Anxiety ties a knot in my chest. My fingernails dig into his shoulders, harder than I intended. “Alexei,” I whisper as my shoulders pinch tight with distress.

“Alyosha.” The gruff correction is delivered with a sharp graze of his teeth on my nipple, and my toes curl.

“Alyosha,” I squeak. “The windows…” I hear the rake of my nails across the fabric of his shirt. “Not here. Please.” Not where anyone can see in. Not where I don’t know who might be watching. Who might be waiting.

With a menacing sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, he lifts his head at last, and his weight over me eases as he braces one hand on the couch. His green eyes burn into mine, hungry, avaricious. And his finger thrusts deeper inside me; a sharp, punishing plunge. It doesn’t hurt. It does make my thighs clamp together around his knee, make my blood pound in my veins.

“I would kill anyone who dared to see you like this.” His voice is thick, guttural. His finger withdraws; his whole hand palms my pussy and the heel of it presses my clit and sends a vicious pulse of pleasure skittering along every nerve. “This is only for me.”

I’m so close to coming, but fear swells over arousal. “Please,” I whimper, even as my hips buck into the pressure of his hand. “Please.”

He gives an abbreviated sigh, displeased to have been interrupted by something he considers beneath his notice. A muscle twitches in his jaw. Once more he grips me, as if to impress his ownership upon me. “Okay, koshechka,” he says, in a sulky, faintly resentful tone as his fingers withdraw at last.

I shouldn’t be so grateful for the concession, I don’t think. But I am—I think because he makes it despite himself, placing my wishes over his own.

Sort of. I breathe a sigh of relief as he shoves himself off the couch, and I can suck in a lungful of air at last. That sigh turns into a short shriek as he grasps the cuffs of my jeans and yanks them off of me with such force that it takes my ankle socks off with them.

I don’t even have time to cover my breasts before he manhandles me off the couch in one smooth motion and slings me bodily over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he stalks from the room.

And still, I breathe a sigh of relief.

I trust him.

Chapter Thirteen

Alexei

Katya is wearing polka dot panties.

Fucking polka dots. I’m accustomed to silk and lace crafted into barely-there thongs. Why the fuck do these goddamned pink polka dots scattered across her ass in plain cotton make me so feral? I want to let her slide down from my shoulder and fuck her on the stairs.

Her legs dangle over my shoulder; her upturned ass within biting distance. Her little bare toes curl as I climb the stairs. The vivid purple polish on her toenails is chipping, just like the sunny yellow on her fingernails.

She squirms over my shoulder, braces her palms on my back. “Alexei,” she says, her voice plaintive, conciliatory.

“Alyosha.” I hear the annoyance in my voice. I’ve told her this three times already. “You don’t listen, Katya.” This time, she will. My free hand strokes the cotton polka-dot covered cheek of her ass for a moment as I ascend the stairs, and then, as I reach the top—a sharp strike, my open palm cracking against her soft skin.

A wild, throaty gasp. Her little nails dig into my back like claws. “Alyosha,” she pants. “Alyosha, Alyosha.” Like a mantra she repeats to herself.

Good. I want my name seared into her mind. I want her to have nothing but thoughts of me.

I kick open the bedroom door. The curtains are drawn. There is only the glow of the lamp on the nightstand.

I swing her down from my shoulder into the middle of the bed, where she bounces as she lands, her breasts bobbing. She comes to rest there and maneuvers up to her knees. She wraps one arm around her breasts as if I haven’t already seen them. As if her nipples aren’t still wet from my tongue.

Those fucking polka dot panties. My mouth waters.

With her free hand, Katya picks at the hairband binding her hair into its ponytail, and then at last I see it come tumbling down around her shoulders. Her white teeth gnaw on her lower lip. “I, uh—I’m on birth control,” she blurts out.