The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

But he should. I just defied his rules for me. If he knew what I’ve done…

His fingers tangle through my hair, yank my head back, and he slams his palm against my ass so hard I come up on my toes and whimper. Again, he spanks me and again I cry out. Relentless swat after swat lands, hurting worse than I thought it would. The room is quiet save my whimpers and the smack of skin on skin.

“You’re a bad girl that needs to be punished?” he asks. “You need a good, hard lesson from your master? I should whip you and then leave you on the Sybian to drag every threat of defiance from your sweet, naked body.” He spanks hard, and I lean into this, needing to feel this pain. “But I like the way your skin feels on mine,” he says. “I love the way your ass welts with finger-shaped marks from my punishment.” Again, he delivers a searing swat to my bare skin until my ass throbs from the punishment. My skin is too tight, too hot, but I’m lost to this. I can’t think of Calina or Glen or tallies or rubles or Amaranov or fucking anything but the way his palm slams against my ass and pain blossoms in its wake.

I moan without meaning to when I hear him unzip his pants. He grips my hips so firmly it’s painful, bruising. He’s hard and soft, silk-sheathed steel when he pushes at my entrance. I brace myself for the first thrust, but I’m not prepared for the way he splits me in two.

“I’ll fuck every memory of any man who’s ever touched you out of your mind,” he growls in my ear. “I own this cunt. I own this ass.” He trails off into hoarse Russian. The only phrase I catch, the only one I can decipher, “Vse moye.”

All mine.

My climax is building. I’m tremulous and powerless.

Heart racing. Sweaty palms still grasping the desk. Ass throbbing, pussy clenching.

He’s dominated my mind, my body, my heart. And as he lashes into me, marking me with his hot release, I bend to his mastery over me. I writhe and tremble, climaxing so hard I can’t breathe or think, my pussy spasming and gripping him until we’re panting and spent.

“Go to bed like this,” he whispers in my ear. “In my arms. Naked and marked.”

Turning me to face him, he gathers me in his arms and holds me to his chest, I let my head fall to his shoulder. My mind is a blank canvas, clean and fresh with no worries or fears to plague me. Tonight, I belong to him.

Tonight, that’s all that matters.I wake up with the knowledge that this is my wedding day. This is the day I wear a dress I didn’t pick and stand in front of a crowd and say I do. And it surprises me that I don’t care. Hell, I’m eager for it. Maybe it’ll distract me enough to keep me occupied for one more day. Maybe he’ll pay me well.

I’m over my freak out. My life is not mine to live anymore. I’ve given myself over to the Bratva for Calina, and there are worse things he could do to me than marry me.

And the reality is… could I even stop it if I wanted to?

I turn over and blink in surprise. He’s not here.

I look around the room and finally hear him outside the door, clicking on his keyboard. I yawn, stretch, and crawl out of bed. For some reason, I need to see him.

I find him sitting at his desk, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, typing away on his computer. When he hears me approach, he wordlessly lifts an arm for me to sit on his lap. It would be a lie to say I didn’t like this.

I perch myself on his strong thighs and rest on his chest while he works. Occasionally, he drops gentle kisses to my forehead and shoulder and when he’s finally done, he closes the laptop and turns me to face him.

“You did well with Amaranov,” he says. “That was exactly what we needed to do, and Filip says Amaranov is pleased. It seems we’ve won his favor over our rivals.”

“Who are your rivals?” I ask, playfully playing with the little, coarse tendrils of hair on his bare chest.

“The Thieves,” he says. “Also Bratva, but not part of the same brotherhood.”

“How does that work? What are the rules?”

For some reason, he chuckles. It’s so rare to hear him laugh that I start in surprise and look up at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ask like it’s a game of chess,” he says, gliding his hands up and down my bare arms.

I smile back. “I just want to know.”

“The militaristic operations started after the fall of Stalin,” he begins. “Several groups of organized crime began, all rooted in Russia yet with various leaders. Dimitri’s grandfather founded one such group, his great uncle another.”