The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

With clumsy, jerky movements, I yank off my top, He fumbles at my bra clasp a second before my breasts swing free. I push down my pants and he grasps my panties, yanking them down my aching backside. Within seconds, my clothing lies in a torn, ragged heap on the floor. Shoving his pants down, his cock springs free. My mouth goes dry in anticipation. He’s only fucked me once, and I fear he’ll take it slow this time. I don’t want him to.

Grasping my hips, he lifts me so that my legs straddle his waist, his cock at my entrance. I brace myself with my arms around him. I tuck my head against the hollow of his neck, so ready for him to claim me. Pulling down my hips, he glides into me.

“You’re sopping wet,” he groans in my ear. “Someone liked her whipping.”

I can’t respond beyond a garbled, whimpering mphm.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Fucking hell. You’re so tight.” His voice trails off in reverent, heated Russian before he speak in English again. “Jesus, Sadie. You’re perfect.” Thrust after thrust sends me soaring toward ecstasy, his words distant and garbled, but two words I hear with utter clarity.

“My wife.”

My pleasure rises and I’m going to burst apart.

“Kazimir,” I groan. “I’m going to—” I gasp when a savage thrust takes my breath away.

“Come, krasotka,” he orders. I throw my head back and give myself over to ecstasy as he roars his own release. Spasms of hopeless pleasure devour me. I hold onto him as if he’s my lifeline, our sweat-slicked bodies molded together as one. When we’re both spent, he slowly eases us to the carpeted floor. Panting. Exhausted.

Here in the quiet is when we should whisper our hopes and promises and vows of devotion. But we don’t.

We don’t need to.After our lovemaking session in the library, things begin to change with the two of us. Kazimir is no longer distant but present, even if at times he returns to his brooding self. The days become weeks, as we fall into the most unorthodox married couple routine ever. He brings me crochet hooks and yarn, and lets me bring books up from the library. I enjoy my favorite pastimes when he doesn’t have other plans for occupying my time.

“No more wearing clothes,” he orders one morning, waving a hand at the clothing Nikita has left for me. “Put them away unless we’re going downstairs.”

Instead of fighting it, I smile to myself. I like that he wants me naked. I like that he loves my body.

I sit happily on his lap while he feeds me breakfast and gratefully take the food from his hand. He makes sweet and savage love to me in the morning and evening, until my body longs to be filled by him, and pleasured by him. He lays me out on the bed spread-eagled and secured while he anoints my body with hot wax. I trembled at first, but soon come to crave the heat and sting followed by pleasure. Every time I feel his pain, even when he punishes me, my body reacts with wanton, erotic need. Every time he brings me to ecstasy, my heart belongs to him just a little bit more.

Sometimes, in the evening, he sits in the overstuffed chair in the living room, reading. He doesn’t let me near him then, and it hurts me a little at first. But when he’s done reading, he tucks his book away and comes to me, his tone softer, his gaze knowing. I begin to wonder what it is he reads.

“Stay in the bedroom,” he orders one morning. “No snooping around in my absence.” A stern furrow of his brow makes my heart flip before I nod.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

I’m dying to know what the book is that he forbids me to look at, but I know where sneaking around got me last time. Still, I fully contemplate disobeying him when he’s gone, when a wave of nausea hits me so badly I double over, clutching my stomach.

How can I be sick? I’m never around anyone but Kazimir. He ate the same food I did, and he’s fine.

But I can’t dwell, because soon I’m hurtling myself to the bathroom and kneeling in front of the toilet. I empty the contents of my stomach, then lay my face on my sweaty-arms. My skin feels clammy and weird, and the room spins around me. I stumble back to bed and reach for the phone he left for me, programmed so that his number is the only one I can call.

I’m sick, I text, then I drop the phone and close my eyes to stop the room from spinning.

I hear the phone beep in reply but I’m too nauseous and dizzy to read it. I close my eyes and lay there until I hear the door open and his heavy footsteps entering the room.