The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

For a second time, a wave of regret runs through me about getting to know Oleg better. He’s definitely not the kind of guy to make a boyfriend, not that I ever last more than a month or two with boyfriends, anyway. Now we’re headed down the path toward this thing ending, and I don’t want it to end. And I didn’t want it to change.

Except that’s a lie. Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the rough way Oleg took me—and he didn’t even take me-take me! But I still feel his hands on me. The way he shoved me up against the wall and palmed my pussy like he owned it. The way he ripped open my fishnets to get to my skin. That bald hunger in him. The dominance.

I crave more of it. I’m definitely seeing this thing through. I want all the sex I can get before it ends.

But end, it must.

Endings are a given with any guy, and Oleg’s profession makes it a certainty.

Which is too bad. Because I like the way I feel with him. Like I can be me.

All of me. Unfiltered me.

It’s just easy with him. Even with the communication disrupt.

I like Oleg. I press my body against his, asking for an embrace. Like always, he gives me what I ask for. I bite his giant pectoral muscle—only because it seems so inviting.

He surprises me by fisting my hair and tugging my head back. He lowers his mouth slowly, watching me intently, like he’s looking for a sign of displeasure. I lift my lips. He brushes his across my mouth twice, then nips my lower lip. Then his fingers release my hair to cup the back of my head, holding me in place for a real kiss. A demanding kiss.

I miss the tongue—my heart fucking bleeds for Oleg and his injured tongue—but even without it, it’s a better kiss than I’ve had from any guy, hands down.

It’s the energy behind it. That raw, rough desire. That sensation of being both claimed and honored at the same time. It makes my knees weak.

Unfortunately, it has the same effect on Oleg. No, that’s probably the concussion. He stumbles a bit and breaks the kiss, catching the wall.

“It’s okay. You should probably lie back down. But you owe me,” I warn him.

He cocks his head, like he requires an explanation.

I run my hands across his chest and down his washboard abs. “I’m going to need some of this before you go.”

Oleg tugs me by the nape back up to his face and gives me a soft, exploratory kiss. Heat flares everywhere. I want him now, but I know that’s impossible. When he pulls away, I bring both hands to cup his face. “Can you eat some more food?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head, turning back to the bedroom.

“I’ll bring you some more pain killers,” I tell him.

He doesn’t acknowledge my words, but when I bring him the ibuprofen, he downs the pills obediently and drinks the whole glass of juice, same as every time. I push away the creeping anxiety that I should’ve taken him to the hospital.

Oleg

Story’s scent surrounds me. I dream I’m grinding against her ass, one hand possessively cupping her breast.

No, not a dream.

I blink in the morning light. I’m in my little lastochka’s bed with a raging hard-on shoved between her legs like a heat-seeking missile going for home.

She’s awake. I know because she pushes her ass back against my lap and moans softly. I pinch and rub her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pluck it into a stiff peak. My hand is under her tank top—apparently it sleep-walked there. My dick is still in my briefs, fortunately.

I’ve never wanted to speak so badly. Fourteen years since my tongue was clipped, and this is the moment that gives me the most pain. Because I have all manner of dirty-talk swimming in my head, and I don’t have a way to get it out. To check in with her. Make sure she wants to get what I want to give.

But she told me earlier, didn’t she? She made it clear what she wanted.

I bite her neck and slip my hand down her belly and into her pajama bottoms. She opens her knee for me. I suck in a breath when my fingers stroke past her silky landing strip and over her slit. She isn’t wearing panties, and she’s hot and wet for me. I run the pad of my finger through her juices, dragging them up to swirl around her clit. It stiffens and lengthens under my touch.

The memory of making her come the last time gets me harder than stone. I want to take my time with her now, but I fear I won’t have the finesse. Not with my head still aching and my stamina so low.