The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

My response earns me freedom from the cuffs. The click of the key tells me he approves, just before I’m able to move my arms freely. Taking me by the hand, he leads me to the bed and drapes me over the edge, back down.

“That is a very good answer,” he says, his eyes darkening as he lowers himself to his knees in front of me. “Such a good little kitten you are.”

And hell, in that moment, I almost fucking purr, because he’s lifting my legs and parting them, his hot breath warming the insides of my thighs. After being punished and fucked, my clit pulses, my very core still aching from being taken by him. He cleans me with a warm washcloth, stroking through my tender folds before he pats me dry. I want to hide from this, it’s so intimate, but at the same time I can’t turn away when he brings his mouth to my inner thighs once more.

“I’ll have you purr like the little kitten you are,” he says, just before he teases me with the very tip of his tongue. I’m so ready for this my back arches and I part my legs further, needing more. Harder. Deeper. As if he reads my mind, he buries his face between my legs and laps lazily then hungrily, teasing and working my needy body closer and closer to bliss. His fresh, masculine scent invades my senses, making me more needy for this as his tongue, impossibly supple yet solid, invades my body with wicked power.

I arch into his mouth when his thumb circles my asshole, so invasive I inwardly cringe, even as I pulse against his mouth. This is better than my own fingers, better than anything I’ve ever felt before. My core aches to be filled with him as he licks and suckles my clit, and as if reading my mind, he plunges thick fingers in my wet pussy. I moan, deep and ragged and needy, as he works me toward climax with masterful strokes of his tongue and fingers, lifting his mouth just long enough to say, “Come, kisa.”

My eyes flutter shut, my back arches, and I fly into ecstasy.

Stars explode behind my closed lids, black and yellow like fireworks as he milks my climax from me like a lion lapping a bowl of milk, slow and steady yet powerful. I writhe and scream, giving way to full pleasure, both hot and cold, so blissful and intense it almost hurts. And when I’m done, when he’s finally wrenched not one but two orgasms through my body, my limbs are numb. I lie in bed, one arm draped over my head. Paralyzed.

My head whips back when he yanks my hair, dragging my gaze to his.

“As if you couldn’t get any more fucking beautiful,” he says, and why is he angry again? Or is it something else?“Chertovski krasivo.”

He trails one finger across my collar bone then higher still to my neck, as if imagining a collar there.

“Up,” he says softly, tugging my hand and bringing to my feet, but my knees are weak and I can barely stand. Effortlessly, he lifts me in his arms, close to his chest, and walks with me to the bathroom. Holding me with one arm, he turns on the shower with the other, then glides me down his body and into the hot, steaming stream of water where he joins me. He spins me around and lathers my hair, then washes my body with a thick, soapy washcloth. In my mind, a little part of me balks at this. I want to wash myself, but I can’t make my arms move. They’re heavy and leaden, and it honestly feels nice having him clean me like this.

I let him do this. I like the way his eyes roam over my body with a fierce possession as he cleans me. I’m a little disappointed when he’s finished, and he shuts the water off, but then he drapes a towel over my wet body and lifts me in his arms again. He holds me with a tenderness that belies the fierceness in his eyes, a firm grip that claims utter possession.

When we go to the room, he carries me to the bed, sits on the edge, and towels me off between his legs. Silent. Brooding. Determined. I hold onto his shoulders and let him. First one leg, then the other, every inch and crevice carefully toweled dry. Without a word, he lays me on the bed to wait while he fetches my clothes. I don’t protest or resist, but silently allow him to dress me. He told me he would. I’m too weak to do it myself.

Today, I’ll be the little kitten that purrs for him.

Stockholm syndrome, my mind warns.

Fuck off, I respond.Chapter 10The training of Calina Brague is the fucking pinnacle of my career.