This guy couldn’t do it any better. I love his dirty talk as much as I love his huge heroic heart. His boundless capacity for accepting me as I am. A trait his sister and friends seem to share as well.
“I know you thought sex in Antwerp was boring. I was just letting you rest up. Because now I’m going to use and abuse you for the rest of your life.”
I come again. Screw Delaney and resolving my daddy issues. I think they’re working out just fine for me. Perfectly, actually. I can’t imagine anyone loving vanilla sex as much as I love this.
“That’s two, dietka. You’d better come again when I tell you, or there will be hell to pay.”
“I will,” I gasp, aftershocks running through me.
He pulls out, and I moan at the loss, but it’s just to tug my legs straight, so I’m flat on my belly. I spread them for him, tilting my ass a little. He reenters, and I moan again in satisfaction. “You like that, malysh? You like being filled by me?”
“Yes, Master.”
He slams in harder, and I love it–the deep strokes a different angle this time. I reach between my legs and touch my own clit. “Kat…Kit-Kat,” he chants, his movements growing jerky. “You’re mine now…I won’t let you go.”
Somehow, he knows to say everything I need to hear.
“Please,” I beg, already needing to come again. Already desperate to receive his pleasure as a full completion. A full claiming. A complete actualization of who we are as a new couple.
“Blyad’,” he curses, his breath holding then gusting out then holding again. “Kat…Kateryna…yes!” He shoves in deep, his cock pulsing inside me as he empties his balls.
I shake with sobs of ecstasy, my own muscles seizing around his member, drawing him deeper, milking his finish. “Please,” I whimper, even though he’s already come. He’s already given me everything I crave.
He lowers his body over mine, kissing my nape, biting me, showing me it’s not over yet. It’s not ever over with us.
I’m dissolving in his arms–floating away as tiny bits of energy into the universe. And yet, I’ve never felt so collected. So held and absorbed. “Don’t let me go,” I whimper, not wanting this moment to end. Wanting to keep it forever.
“Never, Kat,” he says fiercely. “Not ever, ever.”
“I love you,” I murmur.
“I’ll always love you,” he answers.
A deep breath of air rushes in–deeper than I knew possible. For the first time in my life, I can breathe.
And Adrian is my oxygen.
My center axis.
My everything.
Epilogue
Adrian
Bratva tattoos are given as a ritual. They are used to represent status within the organization. Even though Ravil has dropped or ignored some of the brotherhood’s traditions, inking isn’t one of them.
Our souls and our skin bear the mark of our crimes. We remember each act and measure it against our contributions to our brothers. Balance in brotherhood. These were the words our pakhan spoke after I killed four of Poval’s men when I broke into the sofa factory and freed my sister. He spoke them again when I returned to burn the place down. Each crime merits a marking on our skin. Some wear them with pride. Some as penance.
Today I complete the one I bear for kidnapping Kat. I wear it as my penance. So that I never forget her sacrifice and forgiveness that brought us together.
Stepan, our tattoo artist, takes every story into consideration when he creates his art, including our own emotions around the event. The tattoo he gave me for burning down the factory was proud and powerful. This one is more tender. He used knotted rope to depict Kat’s captivity. It coils around my shoulder, then snakes around my arm to form a manacle around my wrist–a symbol of the bond we now have. I captured her, but now I’m forever tied to her.
Kat wanted her own markings, which Stepan finished last week. I wouldn’t allow her to ink her skin with anything related to her father, but she accepted the symbol of manacles–to show she’s been claimed by me–forever owned, kept, and cared for. She wears twin cuffs drawn as rope with a knot in the shape of a heart on the inside of each wrist. A perfect place for me to kiss every time I hold her hand.
Stepan sits back now and nods.
I’m surrounded by the senior members of the bratva–Ravil, Maxim, Oleg, Nikolai, as well as my friend Maykl, and several other members. Gleb, a seventy-year-old bratva brother who’d been part of a different cell and recently found his way to us, pours vodka all around.
Ravil clears his throat, and the room falls silent. “Our souls and our skin bear the mark of our crimes. We remember each act and measure it against our contributions to our brothers. Balance in brotherhood.” He raises his glass.