The Soldier (Chicago Bratva 4)

"Beautiful, blossom." I pull her off me and flip her on her belly. Her ass is still pink from the spanking I gave her and seeing my handprints gives me a surge of pleasure. I straddle her thighs and enter from behind, wrapping my hand loosely around the front of her throat.

I don't need long. Watching her come is the most powerful aphrodisiac there is. I’m ready to go off the moment I’m inside her. I tug her throat, making her arch her back or get choked.

She lets out a cry—there’s a little protest in the note but also a stark need, like she could come again in a heartbeat.

“Come again without permission, and I’ll use my belt,” I warn her.

“Please!” she gasps, sounding frantic.

I’m desperate, too. I don’t answer, more because I’m so close to orgasm myself than because I want to make her suffer.

“Please. Master.”

“Come.” I force the word out as my balls draw up tight. I’m surprised to hear a gutteral sound come out of my mouth—it’s not like me to reveal too much. But that’s what this woman does to me.

I can’t help it. The release is too great. I slam home and fill her channel with the small amount of cum that’s regenerated since the last time I fucked her. It’s a hundred times more pleasurable than the first time, but there’s no taking mental pictures or standing back to observe because I’m as far gone as she is, letting her sweet pussy squeeze every last drop of cum out of me as she milks me for more.

As my consciousness seeps back into my body, I flinch when I realize my hold on her throat might be too tight. I instantly relax my fingers. I will punch my own face if I bruised her neck.

Could she even breathe?

Yes. Yes, I remember she was begging to come. She cried out with me. Panted with me. I lower her torso to the bed, following. I kiss between her shoulder blades, shift her pale hair away from her nape to brush my lips along the side of her neck.

“You okay?” I ask between the tiny kisses I shower along her jaw.

“Yes. Yes, sir,” she remembers to add. She’s not so far gone this time.

I pull out and roll her to her back, so I can inspect her throat, fighting back the sick feeling in my stomach at what I could’ve done. I run my finger across the faint marks. “Did I scare you?”

That’s the last thing I want with Kayla. Nervous, sure. Eager to please. But never scared. Everything hinges on her trust.

That she gives it so blindly, so easily, often makes me want to smash things. I don’t deserve the trust she puts in me, and I use it to hurt her.

But she likes it. That’s what I remind myself on a daily basis, every time I’m ready to walk away from this madness.

Her eyes are unfocused, but she finds my face, shaking her head. “No, Master.” As if she senses my inner dilemma, she assures me, “I loved it.”

Fuck.

This beautiful little flower.

6

Kayla

I’m still shaking when Pavel wraps me up in the soft blanket he brought and produces our dinner. I never heard the knock, but then, I was a little busy.

He left the plug in my ass, leaving me still enervated and horny, despite my—how many times did I orgasm? I can’t even think.

Pavel places the tray beside me, uncovers my plate, and sets it on my lap, somehow knowing that my fingers aren’t steady enough to pick it up yet. He leaves his own plate untouched, moving the tray away to sit beside me, drawing me against his side.

I lean into him, needing his strength to steady my wobble. This is the most terrifying part of every scene. It’s not the nerves leading up to it—although those kill me. It’s not the surrender—that part’s easy for me. It’s not the pain, when there’s pain. And humiliation doesn’t bother me.

It’s the vulnerability when it’s over. The sense of having been cracked open and poured out, like a raw egg in the mixing bowl. That’s when the separation of our bodies—the distance between us, no matter how small—feels too great.

The night Pavel won me at the roulette wheel, I totally lost it when he pulled away.

He knows better now.

He stays close. Holds me until I stop clinging. And this is when I get the real Pavel. At least, I’ve decided this is the real Pavel. He doesn’t show his cards often—his expression is usually dark and brooding or inscrutable and blank. He can be a dick. Honestly, I think that’s his natural state. But after he’s bared me, pulled me apart, shattered my defenses, after we’ve both come, when I’m in danger of crashing hard, that’s when he turns tender. Grateful. Terribly protective.