The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

She arches, her head dropping back as she thrusts her hips up to take me deeper.

Blyad'. She needs more? I’ll give it to her. I cage her throat with my hand. I don’t squeeze at all—not even a little bit, but the position itself is dominant. I hold her throat and shove my cock in with a hard thrust.

“Oh my gawd.” Story’s mouth opens wide, her body undulating beneath mine, responding to my thrust.

I ease back then arc in again with force, keeping her from sliding up with the hand around her throat. Her core contracts around my cock. With my free hand, I pinch her nipple then squeeze her perfect breast.

I go slow and hard for a while, punctuating my in-strokes with a pause to let her feel my full length, to get used to me. But both of us soon need more. Story starts reaching for me, holding my sides to pull me in sooner, so I shorten the strokes and increase the pace, leaning one hand against the wall behind her head to brace myself.

“Oleg,” she pants. “Oh my God, yes. Oleg.”

Hearing her chant my name sends my ego on a victory march before it’s even over. The most human part of me that had shriveled up and died turning on a little more each time I drink in her goddess-beautiful face.

Story. I want to chant her name back to her. My lastochka. I shift to lift her legs up to my shoulders, holding the fronts of her thighs, so I can plow deeper. Her cries get louder and more frequent—almost a constant stream of vocalizations.

I pause and arch a brow. You like that, shalun’ya?

Spank me, Daddy. Remembering her squeal when I put her over my shoulder Saturday night, I pull out and flip her to belly, giving each buttcheek a sharp slap.

“Ooh!” She arches her back like a cat, offering her ass up to me. I deliver another two slaps before I push back in, and she moans her contentment.

I hold her by the nape and ride her from behind, glorying in each delicious, dizzying stroke. The room swoops and swims, but it’s from ecstasy not pain. Nothing feels so right as being inside Story.

I stroke down her back with the fingertips of my free hand. Admire the umbrella tattoo on her shoulder blade. Grab a handful of her ass. Hold her hip. I pull her cheeks wide to get at her cute little hole, and she lets out a stream of frantic, garbled encouragement. She doesn’t last long. Four more stokes, and then she comes, her legs straightening and jerking, her inner walls squeezing my cock like a fist.

I fuck her harder and faster to bring on my own finish, and it comes immediately. I plunge deep and hold, reaching my hand under her hips to rub her clit and coax out the rest of her climax. It works. Another gigantic tremor runs through her, and the muscles pulse again, squeezing more cum into the condom. Sparks of light dance behind my eyes. I pull out and topple to my side, my head splitting but my heart, my spirit—something I thought long dead—soaring like a fucking kite.

Story, I want to croon in her ear. Beautiful story. My crazy, wild, naughty girl songbird. What a fucking priviledge to be in her bed. I settle for a soft hum. The sound for how she makes me feel.

I manage to remove the condom and throw it in the trash by the bed before I close my eyes and pass out again.

Story

I’m just out of the shower getting dressed when a knock sounds on the door. Oleg is passed out on the bed, poor guy.

Poor him, lucky me. The guy is a freaking stallion. That was by far the best sex I’ve ever had. It wasn’t any special technique, it was just… Oleg. I love feeling his strength and power. The roughness and dominance to his movements. And yet I’ve also never felt so safe with a guy. This guy is dependable. He comes to every show. Sits in the front with the energy of a bouncer or protector. I never once felt nervous when he was manhandling me. I knew if I said stop, he’d stop. I could relax and enjoy it.

I yank on my sweater run for the door. No one rang the buzzer downstairs, which means it must be a neighbor. Hopefully not to complain about our morning sex session. Not that I was that loud. Or was I? My throat does feel rather raw.

I swing the door open, but when I see the two tattooed guys behind it, I immediately narrow the gap until only my face shows through. “Yes?”

“Hey, Story,” the brown-haired guy says. “I’m Maxim, a friend of Oleg’s. This is Pavel.” He indicates his blond friend. “We met at your show? My wife Sasha talked to you—the redhead?”