Page 26 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Alexei

I lifted her from my lap in one smooth motion, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, like her body already knew how we fit together.

The small gasp she made when I stood—half surprise, half need—went straight to my cock.

Her mouth found my neck immediately, not kissing but breathing against my skin like she needed my scent to survive.

"Hold on, little one," I murmured against her hair, though her arms were already locked around my shoulders with desperate strength.

The walk down the hallway stretched longer than the physics of time should have allowed.

Every step made her shift against me, her breasts pressed to my chest through that thin sweater, her core hot against my stomach even through our clothes.

She made these small sounds—not quite moans, not quite whimpers—that tested every ounce of control I'd built over fifteen years of leading the bratva.

This hallway had been off-limits since she'd arrived.

She'd tested that boundary exactly once, on day three, and the consequences had been swift enough that she'd never tried again.

Now I was carrying her into my inner sanctum, the place where Alexei Volkov stopped being the pakhan and became just a man with specific needs, specific hungers.

Her teeth grazed my neck, not quite a bite but close, and I squeezed her ass in warning. "Behave," I growled, though we both knew I didn't really want her to.

"Can't," she whispered against my throat. "Need you too much."

Christ. This woman would be my undoing. Twenty-three years old, sheltered, inexperienced, and she'd already figured out exactly how to destroy my carefully constructed walls with a few choice words.

I shouldered open my bedroom door, and her soft gasp against my skin made me harder than I'd thought possible. She lifted her head from my neck, taking in the space that even my brothers had never seen.

The room was my truth laid bare. Black silk sheets, chosen because I'd wanted to see pale skin against dark fabric.

Dark wood furniture built to withstand considerable force—the bed frame alone was reinforced with steel beneath the antique Russian oak veneer.

The subtle hooks in the ceiling that looked like part of the crown molding unless you knew what to look for.

The St. Andrew's cross in the corner, currently draped with a silk robe so it appeared to be merely an unusual coat rack.

But Clara saw it all. I watched her eyes track across every detail, understanding dawning in her expression. This wasn't just a bedroom. This was a carefully constructed playground for very specific games.

"Alexei," she breathed, and I felt her pulse accelerate where her chest pressed against mine.

I set her on her feet beside my bed, keeping my hands on her waist until I was sure her legs would hold her. She swayed slightly, looking up at me with those hazel eyes blown dark with want and just a hint of fear.

Good.

She should be a little afraid. She was about to give herself to a man who'd killed without hesitation, who'd built an empire on blood and discipline, who had very particular ideas about ownership.

"Last door to walk through," I said, framing her face with my hands. Her skin felt fever-hot against my palms, and I could feel her trembling—not from cold but from anticipation. "Once you're in my bed, there's no going back to how things were."

Her pupils dilated further, her breath coming in quick little pants that made her breasts rise and fall in a rhythm that hypnotized me.

"I'm already yours," she whispered, turning her head to press a kiss to my palm.

"No." The word came out rougher than intended.

I traced her lower lip with my thumb, watching it part automatically for me.

"That was paper. A contract. Words and signatures and agreements.

This is possession. This is me claiming every inch of you, marking you inside and out, making sure you never forget who you belong to. "

She shuddered, and I felt the movement through my whole body like an electric current.

I stepped back, needing distance before I lost control completely and just tore her clothes off. That would come later. First, I wanted to savor this—the last moments before everything changed irrevocably. I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide, the position of a king on his throne.

"Strip for me," I commanded, voice dropping to that register that made her knees weak. "Slowly. I want to see what belongs to me now."

Her hands shook as she reached for her sweater hem, then stopped. Color flooded her cheeks, and she looked down, suddenly shy. This wasn't the defiant woman who'd thrown plates at my wall or called me Daddy with mocking sarcasm. This was Clara stripped of armor, vulnerable and unsure.

"I've only . . ." She paused, swallowed hard, tried again. "There were just two boys in college. They didn't—it wasn't—" Her voice trailed off, but I understood.

"I understand," I said. “Understand something, davochka—you are not being judged. There are no expectations. You will learn, but so will I. Doesn’t matter how many people you’ve been with—the learning never stops.”

She gave me a smile, held my gaze.

“Trust me,” I said, “and I swear you will not regret it.”

The sweater dropped to the floor without even a whisper. The whole world went silent, like it had stopped turning. She stood in black lace that had definitely been chosen with intention this morning, trembling like a leaf in a storm, and I'd never seen anything more perfect.

Mine, every cell in my body roared. Finally, completely, irrevocably mine.

"The panties stay," I commanded when Clara hooked her thumbs in the waistband, the slight desperation in her movement making my cock throb.

She froze immediately, hands dropping to her sides, waiting for instruction like she'd been trained for this her whole life instead of just signing a contract twenty minutes ago.

"You'll earn the right to be fully naked," I said, standing with deliberate slowness. The way her eyes tracked my movement, like prey watching a predator, sent satisfaction through me dark as aged whiskey.

I moved behind her, taking my time, letting her feel my presence without my touch.

Her breathing changed immediately—shorter, shallower, anticipatory.

"Hands behind your back," I instructed, voice close to her ear but not quite touching.

"Chest out. When I inspect what's mine, you display it properly. "

She obeyed without hesitation, clasping her hands at the small of her back.

The position forced her breasts forward, spine arching slightly, and I took a moment just to appreciate the picture she made.

Black lace against pale skin. The faint tremble in her thighs.

The way her nipples were clearly visible through the delicate fabric, hard and begging for attention.

I began my inspection with one finger, starting at the nape of her neck where baby-fine hair had escaped from her ponytail.

She shivered at the contact, such a small touch drawing such a large reaction.

I traced down her spine vertebra by vertebra, watching goosebumps rise across her shoulders, down her arms, everywhere my finger traveled like I was writing ownership on her skin.

"Your body tells me everything," I murmured, continuing my exploration across her shoulder blade, down the delicate wing of her scapula. "How wet you are—I can smell it from here. How your nipples are hard just from my voice. How you clench when I call you baby girl."

A small whimper escaped her at that, barely audible but I caught it.

Filed it away with all the other tells I was cataloging.

The way her breath hitched when I traced the edge of her bra.

The involuntary flex of her fingers when I skimmed her ribs, her clavicle.

The tiny sway toward my touch when I pulled away.

My hand cupped her breast, thumb circling her nipple through the lace with the lightest possible pressure. She arched into my touch with a moan that made me impossibly hard, her whole body seeking more contact, more pressure, more anything.

"Ah, neposlushnaya , naughty, naughty," I said sharply, hand stilling immediately. "Did I say you could move?"

"No, Daddy," she gasped, the title falling from her lips like it had always belonged there. No more sarcasm, no more testing. Just submission so perfect it made my chest tight with something I refused to name.

"Then be still." I resumed my touch, even lighter than before, barely-there contact that I knew would drive her insane. "You move when I allow it. You make sounds when I permit them. Your responses belong to me now."

The effort it took her to remain still was beautiful to watch.

Every muscle tense with the need to move, to seek more stimulation, but holding herself frozen because I'd commanded it.

Her breathing became ragged as I continued my exploration—the curve of her waist, the sharp point of her hip bone, the sensitive skin of her inner thigh where it met the edge of her panties.

I could feel the heat radiating from her core, see the damp spot that had already formed on the black lace. But I didn't touch her there. Not yet. That particular pleasure would have to be earned through perfect obedience.

"Good girl," I praised when she managed to stay still despite my fingers tracing patterns on her inner thigh, so close to where she needed me but never quite there.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the praise, a soft exhale escaping like I'd just given her a gift. And maybe I had. Twenty-three years of being ignored by everyone important in her life, and here I was noticing every breath, every shiver, every minute response of her body.