Page 39 of The Bratva's Nanny
Again, he wasn’t joking.
I had come to learn that Roman Varkov was a man who had integrity in his word. He held on to it fiercely and honored it to the last letter.
If I told him to stop, he would.
“Don’t,” I rasped.
And he claimed my lips once again.
He tasted sweet and toxic, like the finest of wines or a mix of exotic fruits and cigars.
He wanted a tackle.
I tried to tackle.
But he just didn’t let me win.
He explored my mouth and ravished it with his tongue. Kissing me like our lives depended on it, he only broke apart for air. I shut my eyes because looking at him made my head swim and my heart squeeze. He was so beautiful. So dark. So delicious. Like a fucking fantasy.
His tongue flicked, licked mine, tasted me, and his teeth nipped, nibbled on my lower lip, and sucked like I was the last honey plum on planet Earth.
Exciting tremors ran through my blood, and I gripped him by the jacket to brace myself. Soon, his hand on my thigh changed direction. It went up to the button on my jean shorts, and he unclasped it.
He growled very darkly, “Take it off.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Under his watchful, sinful gaze, I shimmied out of the denim and let it drop to the carpet with a soft plop. I sat there, bare before him, covered in nothing but a ridiculous teenage boy-band t-shirt and, from my waist down, cotton panties. Goose flesh rose on my skin. Anticipation tingled like tiny electric zaps. But a warning rose at the back of my head.
This was wrong.
This was very wrong.
But his fingers traced the inside of my thighs, instantly shutting up my protest.
My chest heaved—up and down, up and down—like I was in a marathon, and my heart thrashed against my ribcage. When he got to the junction between my legs and stroked the thin piece of fabric shielding my throbbing sex, I clenched my fingers into the couch.
He made a low noise like a hum at the back of his throat, shifted the fabric aside, and, without any warning, slid a thick finger inside me.
I arched, and my head fell back, a raw cry leaving my lips.
He reached up and pinched my swollen clitoris, then started to stroke it, his fingers moving in and out with the proficiency of a businessman who had five minutes of free time before his next board meeting.
He leaned over me, near enough for me to feel the pressure of his weight looming above me but not close enough to crush me. Even if I would have liked that.
He worked me, pumping in and out with an unshifted focus. Stroked me, like that was what he wanted, what he craved. He watched me squirm under him. Watched me buck my hips to match the rhythm of his finger inside me, breathing raggedly from his mouth, with his nostrils flared.
No time to breathe or think or form coherent words.
The climax rose and drove me to the edge, not promising a cushion to guide my fall. Blood roared in my ears. My thighs clenched around his finger.
“Oh, God—” I gasped, choked, moaned with no reservation.
Blinding spots clouded my vision; the ground underneath me, by the cliff, gave way, letting me sink. When I came, it was with a scream.
The contractions were aggressive and racked through me without remorse. I held onto him and didn’t let go until the throbbing slowed down.
I collapsed on the couch, opened my eyes, and felt my cheeks warm up at the sight of his dark jacket glinting under the light with my juices splashed all over him.