The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

“What is that?” I ask, trying to pull away, but the restraints hold fast. He shakes his head and places it on the bed behind me so I can’t see it. I notice a black length of silky fabric in his hand.

“No more speaking,” he orders sternly, as he loops the fabric around my mouth and ties it behind my head. “I don’t want to be distracted by the sound of your voice.” I close my eyes and taste the fabric with my tongue. It’s soft but tight, so it pulls back the corners of my mouth. I suck in air around it, but find it easier to breathe in through my nose. I take in one deep breath, then let it out again. A second. A third. But I can’t relax. I’m too tightly wound.

I was scared when he took me, but now… my whole body quakes, tremors rippling through me as if I’m naked in the cold, but I’m comfortably warm.

I hear the rustle of fabric. Craning my neck to look, I watch Kazimir slowly removing his shirt, his stern gaze fixed on me like he’s a professor and I’m the naughty student he’s about to punish. Jaw tight. Lips thinned. Eyes crackling with heat.

Why is he angry? Why does he look at me like I’ll pay for the sins committed against him?

He starts speaking to me, but it’s in Russian and I don’t understand a word. When he shrugs out of his shirt, he stands before me in just a t-shirt. The stark white contrasts against his swarthy skin, covered in a map of tattoos before he tears his t-shirt off. The skull stares at me with foreboding, another one a head with an open-mouthed scream. They run together so they’re barely distinguishable, the black rose the only reminder of his humanity.

Taking the white shirt in his hands, he folds it neatly in a little square, smoothing out the edges while his eyes are on mine.

Daring. Warning.

My belly dips and my pulse races. He hasn’t touched me, but he holds me in his power—the fabric in my mouth, his belt holding me in place, the throbbing line of fire where he spanked me, the degrading metal between my ass cheeks. My whole body is under his control, though he stands a few feet apart.

Reaching down to place his shirt on the bedside table, I watch the large muscles in his neck and back bunch together. When he stands straight again, I’m struck with how magnificent his body is. So strong. So powerful. He towers over me vibrating with energy. I take it all in—broad shoulders, bulging biceps, sculpted abs with a dark line of hair that dips low, tucked into his pants. My gaze travels downward when I notice his erection. I turn away, suddenly shy.

Again, he speaks in Russian, like he’s saying an incantation, reminding me that I’m a stranger in a foreign land, and even speaking English to me is only a kindness he grants when he wishes. He controls every bit of this, including my comprehension. I have no choice but to bow my head and wait.

When he picks up something off the bed, my body tenses. Waiting. Fearing. The prick of metal on my shoulder makes me yelp, but the sound is muted against the silk in my mouth. He wraps one large hand around my mid-section, holding me in place, while he traces the prickly metal along my shoulder. Goosebumps rise on my skin and I shiver, line after line of bristles trace along my back. He sweeps the hair off my neck and traces the metal on the tender skin. It’s such a surprisingly erotic move, my back arches and I throw my head back. I freeze when his lips meet the primed, prickly skin, and he sucks my flesh into his mouth. The hand on my abdomen skirts up, and one rough knuckle brushes the underside of my breasts. I whimper.

Then he’s back to the prickly metal, zigzagging it along my back to the very top of my bottom, back and forth, my flesh crawling at the feel of it. My breasts swell, and suddenly I need him to touch me. There’s pressure between my legs that’s almost painful, and even though I’ve never had sex, never even brought myself to climax, I instinctively know I need him to. I can’t fully breathe until he does.

Ragged breaths and trembling limbs. Arousal. Fear. All swirls together in an incomprehensible cocktail he stirs in me. After he’s thoroughly primed my skin, the pressure builds, the metal spokes digging deeper into my skin. On and on, the slightly painful prickles scour my body until I imagine angry pink railroad tracks dotting my skin.

And then he stops. I tense. Waiting. I have no idea what he’ll do next.