Page 53 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“What point?” she asks.

I smirk. “That a vibrator isn’t better than the right man.”

Her laugh is soft, satiated. “Point taken.”

I help her sit up, smoothing her dress back down her thighs. Her hair is a mess, her makeup smudged. She’s never looked more beautiful.

I should feel victorious. Satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. Instead, I feel... tender. Like I want to wrap her in my arms and keep her there, safe and warm and mine.

It’s dangerous, this feeling. Unplanned. Unwelcome.

Chapter 13 - Yulia

Last night floods back in flashes the moment I wake—the emerald dress, the gala, Trifon’s mouth between my thighs.

Oh God.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, as if I can somehow erase the memory of how easily I gave in.

I don’t know what’s worse. That I let him touch me like that. Or that I want him to do it again.

I have no recollection of how I ended up in bed.

He must have carried me up here after I fell asleep on the couch. Mortifying. I groan into my pillow, heat crawling up my neck as I remember how I’d practically begged him.Please.

My own voice haunts me.

I should get up, face the day, face him. But how? What’s the proper etiquette for the morning after your kidnapper-turned-husband gives you the best orgasm of your life?

Shower first, think later. That’s the advice I give myself.

Maybe I’ve gone insane. Because, despite everything, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I slide out of bed slowly, sore in places I didn’t expect to be. My body remembers him more vividly than I want it to. Every nerve feels… rewired. As if he had flipped some hidden switch I didn’t even know existed.

All this time, I thought people were exaggerating about sex. Friends in college, coworkers whispering behind hospital curtains, and even my cousin once hinted at it as if it were some life-altering revelation. I rolled my eyes after I had sex the first time.

It fell flat of the expectations that had been laid bare before me.

Now? I get it.

If it’s with someone who knows exactly what they’re doing—God. I get it.

Unfortunately, that someone happens to be a 44-year-old Bratva king who essentially owns me now.

And it wasn’t even sex.

If he can do that with his mouth and hands alone? I groan as I turn on the water in the shower. What the hell can he do with his…cock?

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.

I need to stop thinking about this. About him. I need to—

My thoughts drift.

Back to his voice in the dark. That low growl against my ear. The weight of his body pressing me down just enough to make me feel worshipped.

My thighs clench.