Page 53 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

Clara

" T ake off my tie, little one." His voice came out guttural, rougher than the cultured tones he'd used at the gala. This was the Pakhan's voice, the one that had commanded rooms full of killers, now focused entirely on me.

My body responded before my mind caught up, arousal flooding through me so fast it made me lightheaded.

He looked devastating standing there—controlled violence wrapped in Italian wool, watching me with the focused intensity of a predator who'd already caught his prey but wanted to play with it first.

He didn't move from the doorway. Didn't step forward to meet me halfway. Just stood there, waiting, making me come to him. Making me choose this, every step of it.

My bare feet whispered across the plush rug, each step measured and deliberate.

I could feel his gaze tracking my movement, cataloging every breath, every tremor, every sign of how badly I wanted this.

The champagne had left my fingers cold, and they trembled slightly as I reached for his tie—deep burgundy silk that probably cost more than most people's rent.

The fabric was warm from his body heat, soft between my fingers.

I had to rise up on my toes to reach the knot properly, bringing me close enough to smell his cologne mixed with the faint trace of champagne on his breath.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. Close enough that if I leaned forward just an inch, I'd be pressed against him.

But he wanted me to focus on the tie. Only the tie.

The knot was complex—a full Windsor, tied with the same precision he brought to everything.

My cold fingers fumbled with the silk, trying to find the right angle to loosen it.

He could have helped, could have tilted his chin to give me better access, could have at least guided my hands.

Instead, he stood perfectly still, a statue of patient dominance, forcing me to navigate the intimacy myself.

"That's it," he murmured when I finally found the right loop to pull. "Such careful fingers. So good for Daddy."

The praise made my hands shake harder. I had to stop, take a breath, steady myself before continuing.

The silk whispered as I worked it loose, each tug revealing more of his throat.

My knuckles brushed against his skin—just the barest contact, but enough to feel his pulse, steady and strong where mine was racing.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

I lifted my eyes to meet his, hands still working the tie by feel alone. His gaze was molten silver, desire and control warring in those depths. But he held himself still, held himself back, making this moment stretch like taffy between us.

"Good girl," he said, and I nearly moaned at how those two words could undo me so completely. "My perfect little one, undressing Daddy so sweetly."

The tie was almost free now, the knot completely undone, just the length of silk around his collar keeping it in place.

I had to slide my hands up, fingers grazing the sides of his neck as I lifted the fabric over and around.

He tilted his head just enough to allow it, the first movement he'd made since giving the command, and somehow that tiny concession felt like a gift.

The silk slithered free all at once, pooling in my hands. Without it, his collar hung open, revealing the strong column of his throat, the hint of tattoos that started at his collarbone and disappeared beneath white cotton.

"You did so well," Alexei said, his voice dropping even lower, rumbling through his chest in a way I could almost feel across the space between us. "Such a good girl, following Daddy's instructions perfectly."

The room seemed to shift around us, the soft pink walls darkening in my peripheral vision, the gentle lighting taking on a more intimate glow.

Even the air felt different—thicker, charged, alive with possibility.

The sounds of the city forty floors below faded to nothing.

There was only this room, this moment, this man who could command my body with four simple words.

"What do you do with Daddy's tie, little one?" he asked, and I realized I'd been standing there, frozen, just holding it like some kind of talisman.

"I . . . I don't know," I admitted, honesty being the only option when he looked at me like that.

"Put it on the vanity," he instructed. "Fold it properly. Show Daddy you know how to take care of his things."

I moved to the vanity on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his eyes following me.

The tie wanted to slip and slide, but I managed to fold it into a neat rectangle, placing it precisely on the white-painted wood.

When I turned back, he'd finally stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded like a promise.

"Come here," he said, and I went, drawn by invisible threads he'd been weaving around me since the moment he'd carried me out of my father's penthouse. "We're just getting started."

When I stood before him, close enough to feel his breath on my face, he gave the next command.

"Undress me." Simple words that carried the weight of ritual. "Piece by piece. Take your time."

He stood perfectly still as my hands went to his shirt buttons, a statue of controlled power that I had to navigate like a supplicant before an altar.

My fingers shook as I worked the first button free, then the second, each small disc of mother-of-pearl slipping through its hole with a whisper of fabric that seemed impossibly loud in the charged silence.

With each button, more of him was revealed. First the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. Then the beginning of the bratva tattoos—Orthodox crosses and Cyrillic script. The ink was beautiful and terrible.

Lower buttons revealed scars. A puckered mark near his ribs that had to be from a bullet. A thin white line across his abdomen that spoke of knives and close calls. Another scar, jagged and angry, disappearing into the waistband of his pants.

No matter how many times I saw his body, it was still a thrill.

I was his. Had chosen to be his. Was choosing it again with every button I freed.

The shirt hung open now, revealing the full canvas of his chest. Muscle corded and defined from years of controlled violence, skin marked by both ink and injury, the kind of dangerous beauty that should have sent me running.

Instead, I pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting the expensive shirt fall to the floor in a whisper of white cotton that neither of us moved to retrieve.

"Good girl," he murmured, but stayed still, making me acknowledge what I'd unveiled.

Then he did something that shocked the breath from my lungs. He dropped to his knees before me.

The Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva, the man who'd never knelt to anyone, was on his knees on the plush rug of the room I'd designed. His hands went to my feet with a gentleness that seemed impossible from fingers that had dealt so much death.

"These pretty feet," he said, lifting one to cradle in his palm, "have been hurting all night."

He removed my heel with the same careful precision he brought to everything, then began massaging my arch with strong thumbs that found every ache, every pain from hours in those torture devices.

I had to grab his shoulder for balance, my fingers finding warm skin and solid muscle, grounding myself in his physical presence while my world tilted on its axis.

He worked my foot with methodical attention, pressing into the spots that made me gasp, smoothing away the tension until I was practically purring.

Then he switched to the other foot, giving it the same treatment, the same reverence.

The man who could have anyone, who commanded an empire, was on his knees massaging my feet like I was something precious.

My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. Between my legs, I throbbed with an arousal so intense it bordered on pain. Every careful press of his fingers sent sparks through me, building something wild and desperate in my core.

"Stand up straight for me," he commanded, still on his knees, and I obeyed even though my legs felt like jelly.

He rose with fluid grace, towering over me again, and his hands went to the zipper of my gown. The sound it made coming down was obscene in the quiet room—a long, slow descent that made me shiver. The silk pooled at my feet in a puddle of midnight blue, leaving me in just my lingerie.

"This skin," he said, running one finger down my arm so lightly I might have imagined it, "belongs to me."

The stockings came next, his fingers finding the clips of my garter belt with practiced ease. He rolled each one down with excruciating slowness, his palms following the silk down my thighs, my calves, making me step out of them one at a time.

"These legs that shake when I touch them," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee that made me gasp, "mine."

The garter belt itself, unclipped and discarded. My bra, reached behind to unhook with one hand while the other steadied me at my waist. As it fell away, his eyes darkened to storm clouds.

"These breasts that ache for my touch," his thumb barely grazed my nipple, making me arch toward him desperately, "mine."

Each word was a claim, a promise, a prayer. He was mapping my body with ownership, but it didn't feel like possession. It felt like worship. Like recognition. Like coming home.

His hands skimmed down my sides, barely touching, raising goosebumps in their wake. When they reached my hips, he hooked his thumbs in the elastic of my panties, and I tensed, ready for him to remove this last barrier.

But he didn't.

His hands stilled, then withdrew, leaving me standing there in just black lace that was soaked through with my arousal. I whimpered at the loss of his touch, at the denial of that final unveiling.