Page 22 of Bratva's Secret Girl

Then I pull both fingers all the way out, and shove back three.

Hard. Deep.

Her body spasms around my fingers, she really screams this time. She comes and the bite of her nails drawing blood on my shoulder and her tugging my hair only makes it sweeter as I feelher orgasm in the clenching on my fingers and the twitch of her clit.

12

HAYLEY

I’ve dissolved. I can only conclude that I am soluble, because Maxim’s saliva has destroyed me.

As he stands up, he catches me in his arms where otherwise I swear I’d fall over, and murmurs that I’m such a good girl as he puts us both under the spray of the shower, washing off where he licked me. I’m helpless to do anything but accept his care, but can barely focus on his hand between my legs as he cleans me.

Where I’ve become a puddle, he’s hard. He magnificent and not at all soft. His whole body is the hot steel of unyielding muscle beneath velvet fur, with just enough rough hairs over his skin to make it clear he’s all man. And that pierced cock? It presses against my lower back as he holds me, the bars on the underside making my tummy do flips.

Shutting off the water, he grabs a fresh fluffy white towel—leaving the one from earlier discarded on the floor—and drapes it around my shoulders.

He uses the ends of the towel to pull me in for a kiss, still naked, and dripping with water. It’s a light kiss this time, just a press of his lips to mine, small compared to the filthy way he kissed me earlier. Like he wanted to devour me.

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he draws back, and I lean forward. Two orgasms and my body is still buzzing, but I crave more.

If I’d known nearly being killed by my sister’s boyfriend would mean my boss would get naked with me, I’d have seriously considered stealing from Ivan.

I don’t mean to, but I let out a pathetic whimper as he steps away.

“Hayley,” he says my name with a strangled laugh and tugs me close again, using the towel.

Perhaps I was getting a bit too used to Maxim on his knees for me. He murmurs something in Russian, and kisses my forehead.

It’s even sweeter, just, almost caring and paternal like a… daddy. Not that I’d know what that felt like.

And obviously excluding the fact he’s naked, tattooed, has an erection, and is old enough to be my actual father.

Tucking the towel around me, Maxim gives me a sweeping look head to toe, and turns away, grabbing up another towel and carelessly drying himself off as he pads into his bedroom.

I gulp as I get a full view of his back. There are two circular tattoos of a clock face with the shadow of a skull in it, and a detailed maritime compass. Covering his shoulders, arms and hips there are dozens of smaller tattoos and his thighs… Oh my gosh, they’re…

Powerful. Scarred. And the scars are a feature, with a long, curved white line as the skeletal backbone of a fish. Scattered stars that have circular scars at the centre. At his ankle there’s an anchor, another scar making up the rope, trailing up the back of his calf.

Arousal uncurls low in my belly. This man has lived. He’s a work of art, and I can tell that some of the tattoos are fresh—the colours bright, the black deep—and others are old and havea stretched quality, as though he got them before he stopped growing, or putting on muscle.

I just stare, taking him in as he slides open a discreet wardrobe, then pulls on black boxers.

“I…” My mouth is dry, and I grip my towel, suddenly shy. “I came into your room to ask about clothes.”

I didn’t come to perv on, then exchange orgasms with my boss, though that was the result. And I’m only here because my sister is in danger, I mustn’t forget that again, either.

“Ah.” He looks up. “Yes.” He moves to a row of pristine white shirts, and pauses before snagging two down, and offering me one. “Sorry, I don’t have anything else.”

He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and electricity zings between us.

I’m so conflicted. I’d like to watch him dress, but I’m embarrassed about him watching me. I needn’t worry though, because Maxim quirks an eyebrow at me, then puts his shirt aside and takes mine back.

He’s silent as he holds my gaze and reaches for the towel, giving it a tug. I squeak as I let it fall.

“Arms up,” he commands softly.

My body remembers the last time he told me what to do, and heats all over again. I raise my arms, and he slides the shirt over my head.