Page 83 of Bratva Sacrifice

“That never stopped you before.”

“That never stopped Alexei before,” he says. “Aleksandr has morals.” His thumb rubs across my nipple, massaging the peak to berry-firmness. He buries a groan against my shoulder. “Inconvenient ones.”

“I want—”

“Koshechka, you can have anything you want. In the morning. When you are sober, and I am not jetlagged to hell and back.”

I want to argue. But for the first time in months, I truly feel drowsy. Like sleep isn’t an impossible goal I have to fight to achieve. It’s a gradual, soft feeling. I didn’t know how much I missed this. Warmth. Being held. There’s been an empty space next to me for months, and now—now I feel whole again. Like those broken bits of me have been reunited with their missing pieces.

I can feel myself drifting off to sleep, but it’s gentle. Pleasant.

Peaceful. At last.

Chapter Forty Four

Aleksandr

I wake up to a cold cup of water dashed into my face.

“I thought you were dead!” Katya screeches at me. The cup meets a swift demise as she throws it against the wall, and it shatters into hundreds of tiny shards. “You let me think you were dead!”

This. This is why I refused her last night. Now, with the last of the wine gone from her system, she is not the soft woman she was. There are too many words left unspoken between us. Too many betrayals. Too many secrets and lies. I knew she was going to be angry—even if she did not.

But this is also good for her. This is a good anger; a cleansing anger. An anger she owns instead of one which owns her.

I scrape the water from my face and shake off the last remnants of sleep. Jetlag is a bitch.

“More tantrums, koshechka?” I like her spicy. I had forgotten how much. And it is a notable change from the despondence in which she has been mired. Her anger, I know how to deal with. And Katya burns so brightly when she is furious. Water drips from my hair, and I use one hand to slick it out of my eyes. “I have told you before. You want to smash things? You do not do this barefoot.”

“You don’t get to give me orders anymore!” Her shriek could raise the dead. Almost certainly it would result in complaints from her neighbors…if she had any close by. Fortunately, the houses on either side of hers are owned by shell corporations, which Anatoli now controls.

“Wrong again.” I let my gaze rake her from head to toe, noting her disheveled hair, the thin sleep shirt that comes down to the middle of her thighs. It is still cold in the room; there is the prickle of chill bumps along her arms. She does not know that I have seen her every day she has been away from me, shrouded in cozy flannel pajamas like they are armor. She does not know that I know she bares herself to me like this deliberately.

Katya always has to push. She likes it when I let her—but she likes it more when I don’t. She likes to be dominated, just a little.

I thump my chest with my palm. “Come here, koshechka.”

Her eyes flare. There is anger there, yes, but there is also desire. Her nipples are hard little peaks beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. That stubborn chin notches higher. A dare. A challenge.

I rise to the bait, just as she intended. My reflexes are swift; I can see she has forgotten just how well-honed they are. Jetlag is not enough to throw me off. Fortunately, her side of the bed is free of glass shards, and she gasps as her shoulders hit the wall behind her, pinned with the length of my naked body.

An exploratory buck of her hips; she wants to know if I can be thrown off so easily. My fingers grab a handful of her soft ass, dragging her hips into the thrust of mine. “Ah, Katya.” I press the words into the softness of her throat. “I had such plans for you. I was going to be gentle with you, but now I think maybe you don’t want this. Maybe you want it hard, hm? Maybe you need me to fuck all the sweetness back into you?” Christ, I can feel her heat just inches away from my fingers. I press a lingering kiss against her throat, and she shivers. I know that shiver well. Aggravated arousal.

“Get off me, you asshole!” It’s a clipped, tart sound, and she bucks again—which only serves to push her hips against my cock.

“You had your chance for sweet, koshechka,” I chide, and my palm slides down the curve of her ass. “Will you be wet when I touch you, I wonder? If you are—” My fingers creep closer, and her whole body catches in a sinuous arch. “If I find you wet, I will know what it is you want.” Her needy whimper sears the air between us as I nip her earlobe. “And then I will give you what you need.”

She’s beyond wet. She is dripping for me, hot and tight and so fucking ready. But she can be both angry and turned on, and she shows it by kicking her leg out, a feint with her knee toward my balls. I deflect the pitiful blow easily with a short chuckle, and back a step away.

Color burns in her cheeks; passion, fury. She is glorious. Beautiful. I have missed this. Missed her.

“This morning I feel generous. I will give you a head start,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “One.” And then I lunge. Like a startled rabbit, she leaps away, and I let her slide through my hands as she careens through the door. Her footsteps shear down the stairs, and I am already hot on her heels. I like the chase—but I like it best when it is over.

Her sleep shirt is loose, fluttery. It is easy to snare a shred of the hem between my fingers and drag her back toward me as she flees through the living room. I have timed my catch well. The paper-thin fabric shreds in the brutal clutch of my hands and as she struggles to free herself from the threads of it, she trips over her own feet. I use her momentum to shove her over the back of the couch. She is small—possibly, if she were just a few inches taller, she would have a fighting chance. But the back of the couch hits her in the stomach, and her legs flail, unable to find purchase. She tips forward, and this is to my advantage. Now she has only enough leverage with her arms to shove her face out of the cushions.

She shrieks her outrage, her fists pounding the cushions. But her flailing is good for something; it is not hard to wrench her thighs apart and step between them. I cannot help my groan as my cock slides through the copious wetness there. She gives a ragged gasp. Her thighs tremble in my grip. Her hips tilt, and my cock nudges against her entrance.

It is everything I can do not to press home. This is a heaven a man like me should never have been allowed to touch. I lean over her, rub along her spine. “Submit, koshechka.”