The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

Except I don’t want to stop the sexual advances. They are what frighten me the least about this man.

He’s already proven himself an attentive lover. He gave me the best orgasms of my life.

And I haven’t been with any man since.

So I opt for the truth. “They’re cooler than regular hose.”

“Cooler.” He practically purrs his approval. He strokes his palm around the left globe of my ass. “Yes. That would be important.” He arranges the skirt of my dress above my waist and nudges my feet wider. I wobble, still halfway in one heel, and he bends down to slip it off.

Like a modern-day Prince Charming, only his form of charming is quite a bit more terrifying.

“Your feet are swollen,” he remarks gruffly. “No more heels for you, kitten.” He tosses the shoe down the hall.

I’m tempted to challenge his right to make rules for me, only I’m afraid to discover his response. He certainly believes he has a right to one.

I’m inclined to believe he might.

His hand claps down on my ass with a surprising smack.

“Hey!” I jolt upright and try to swivel my hips away from him, but his hold around my waist makes it impossible.

“Hush, kotyonok. Punishment is in order.” Somehow he makes it sound more like a delicacy than something to be feared. But then, I have submitted to his dominance before. Another smack, this time on my other cheek. He smacks hard—hard enough that the place where the first slap landed starts to smart and sting.

“Ravil,” I gasp, and he strokes his palm over my offended cheeks.

“I like to hear you say my name, lovely Lucy. We did not exchange names last time, which seemed a great shame.” His hand leaves my ass, and I brace for another smack. It comes, followed by a rough, claiming squeeze.

“But of course the biggest shame is this.” He strokes my belly. “Not that you’re having my son, but that you wanted to keep him from me.”

I get dizzy hearing he knows I’m having a boy. It supports my theory that he has laid a trap, and I’ve already stepped in it. Dammit! Why didn’t I take charge of the situation in my office this morning?

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I don’t believe you.” His accent grows thicker. He smacks my ass again, three times, hard, then slides the satin of my panties down to my thighs.

“I’m sorry I offended you,” I amend. He’s right, I’m not sorry I tried to keep the child from him. I still wish he didn’t know.

And with good reason, as I’m now the subject of his punishment.

Not that there isn’t something deliciously erotic and pleasurable about it. Especially when he slips his fingers between my legs and runs them over my extraordinarily wet folds.

“That may or may not be true, kitten.” He continues to explore between my legs, gliding a lubricated finger up to my clit and tapping.

I let out a breathy moan. I don’t mean to—I was just trying to exhale, but it has a wanton sound that makes Ravil rumble approvingly.

“But I will make sure you are well-punished for the offense you gave me.”

Tap-tap-tap.

I squirm at the touch on my clit—suggestive and not enough.

“And believe me, kitten, if you ever want to come again, you’ll do as I say.”

My heart thunders because I know we’re not just talking about sex here. There is unmistakable danger in his voice, even though he only threatened to withhold my orgasm.

“Y-you need to leave now,” I say, but I don’t move from the position he put me in. I don’t jerk away or clamp my legs closed or do anything at all physically to show I don’t want his touch.

Because I do want his touch.

Rather desperately.

I have to say that pregnancy hormones have turned me into the horniest, most unsatisfied female in the entire state of Illinois. I spend my nights with my laptop open to porn and my fingers between my legs, but I’m never satiated.

And I blame Ravil for my choice of porn. BDSM—preferably Russian. And believe me, there’s a lot of Russian porn out there. I never had the slightest interest in either before Valentine’s day.

Tap-tap-tap.

I whimper.

“I will leave, kitten. And you will come with me.”

I start to shake my head, but he chooses that moment to increase the pressure on my clit, slowly circling it with the pad of his finger.

I whimper again.

“I-I’m not going anywhere with you,” I assert.

We both know it’s a lie. I’m just not sure yet how he plans to make me.

“Open your legs wider.”

The fact that I obey says everything. He holds all the power here. Not because of his threats—he hasn’t made them yet although I’m sure he will.

But because of the magic of his fingers.

I want more.

Need more.

So desperately.

He shoves my panties lower, like he needs them out of the way. “Take them off,” he orders. His voice is rough and guttural. He’s not unaffected by what he’s doing to me.