The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

Shaking my head, I follow. This woman will end up over my knee before the day is through.

I walk to the bathroom and open the door, but she pushes it from the other side.

“Hey!” she shouts. “There’s a door here for a reason.”

“And that reason is to give me privacy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Open.”

She’s not foolish enough to outright defy me, so the door falls open and she stands on the other side, her arms crossed over her bare breasts. “Well, that’s a double standard,” she says.

“Of course,” I agree. “Our entire relationship is a double standard. Your point?”

She throws up her hands. “Fine, then. Watch me shower.” When she spins to turn to the shower, I reach for her hand and tug her over to me. I sit on the edge of the toilet seat and stand her between my legs. I capture her jaw with my hand and secure her gaze with mine.

“Do you wish to wear a plug between your cheeks when you meet my brothers?” I ask.

I watch the delicate skin of her neck as she swallows. “No, sir.”

“Do I need to spank you again?”

Both curiosity and fear light her eyes at that. My cock stirs. “No, sir.”

I reach my hand to her breast and grab her nipple, making her cry out in pain. She tries to push me away but I hold fast. “Then that’s the last time you speak back to me, Sadie.” I twist, her nipple heating between my fingers.

“Yes, sir,” she cries out. When I let go of her nipple, I send her to the shower with a sharp crack to her ass. A red handprint blooms against her pale skin. I watch as she looks around the bathroom, gathers up a towel and washcloth, and gingerly places them on the small table beside the shower. This is a large bathroom, with a whirlpool tub and full shower all in white marble and gold, a vanity and matching table housing the toiletries she’ll need.

“After you’ve showered, I’ll call Nikita up to come help you dress and prepare for the day,” I tell her, as billows of steam rise in the shower. I can see she opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t reply, Good. Perhaps she actually listened to my warning this time.

I watch her wash between her legs, and imagine what it would be like to be the one touching her there. My cock tightens in my pants. Steam rises, and my clothes are getting damp, but I don’t care. I can’t tear myself away from her as she lathers her entire body.

“Is this razor in here mine?” she asks, picking up the pink handled razor I chose.

“Mine aren’t usually pink.” I shake my head and I swear I almost hear her giggle. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her laugh before. The sound intrigues me.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. “It’s time you got ready.”

I hear a noise outside the door indicating our breakfast has arrived. I tear myself away, wishing instead I could strip off my clothes and join her.

Hell. Maybe I will. But when I glance at the clock I realize I don’t have the time I thought I did.

“Let’s go,” I yell into the shower, after I’ve arranged our food.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she pulls a chair out, but I shake my head at her.

“Have you already forgotten how this goes?”

Apparently, she has. She nods her head and walks to me, still wrapped in her towel. I stand her in front of me and with a flick of my wrist, divest her of the towel cloaked around her body. “Wrap it around your hair,” I instruct. “I don’t want to get my clothes wet. Then sit on my knee.”

When she’s done what I instructed, she sits on my knee and places her hands in her lap.

I take a bite of egg on a fork and bring it to her mouth, but she wrinkles up her nose. “No, thank you.”

“I thought you ate eggs every day, “ I say.

“I don’t eat them fried,” she says, a little furrow of consternation knitting her brows. “And how do you know?”

I don’t answer her question. I hired an investigator to tell me everything about her so I’d be prepared. “How do you eat your eggs?”

“Scrambled,” she says. “Or like in an omelet.”

“Well, we can have that another day,” I say, pushing the eggs away and bringing the porridge over. She takes small bites of the creamy concoction. She eats in silence until I break it.

“When I was a child, I’d never have denied food like this,” I tell her, correcting her.

“I wouldn’t have either,” she responds. “But I’m no longer a child.”

“You would eat them if I forced you,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I would. But I also might vomit them back up and then we’d have a mess to clean up, wouldn’t we?” Even naked on my lap and eating from my hand, she’s feistier than most women I’ve had in this position.