Page 24 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

“I can’t wait to feel you squeeze my cock,” I snarl, trailing kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, inhaling her scent mixed with her arousal. As I circle her clit again, there’s a fresh surge of wetness against my fingers.

“More.”

She gives another breathy gasp as I stroke her, her eyes meeting mine in silent appeal. The power I feel at that moment is headier than any rush I’ve experienced.

“Please,” she begs, arching into my hand, seeking release.

“Patience,” I reprimand, hooking my hands behind her thighs to lift her, pressing her firmly against the wall with my body, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist.

“Yakov.” Her voice is lower than before, roughened by desire.

I could have her right here. We both need the release like our next breath.

But I want to savor her, extend this moment for as long as possible.

I claim her lips once more, hard and fast and desperate.

She presses back against me, her tongue probing into my mouth, seeking a closeness that threatens to obliterate any shred of remaining restraint.

“Tell me you’re mine,” I growl, grinding against her to relieve some of the pressure, willing myself to remember the dangers facing us. “And I will give you exactly what you need.”

Her answer comes in the form of two small hands gripping my face, her dark eyes wild with lust and certainty. “Yes, only yours. I’m yours. Now fuck me. Please.”

“Begging for me so soon,” I murmur, moving my fingers tantalizingly slow, grazing the slick folds of her pussy, her hips grinding shamelessly against my hand.

Just a bit higher, and—there—I got her, the sensitive spot just above her entrance.

I’m rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a moan as I use slow, steady circles to coax her need higher.

“God,” she breathes, words coming between heavy breaths, her hands gripping my shoulders so hard I wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises later. “More.”

I give her exactly what she asks for, finding her entrance and sliding two fingers deep inside. She’s hot and impossibly tight, her entire body tensing as she adjusts to the pressure.

“Like that?” I tease, relishing the power of this moment.

In response, she rises and lowers herself onto my hand, using my solid grip to create leverage, a rhythm all her own.

When she does it again, I press a finger against her clit, maintaining the rhythm she’s set, kissing and nipping at her mouth, her neck, anything within reach.

I can already feel the building tightness, can feel the first spasms of impending orgasm.

She increases the pace, moans now escaping with every breath. In response, I put more pressure on her clit, matching her speed with my fingers.

“God,” she gasps. “I’m so?—”

That’s all she gets out before her muscles spasm, pleasure crashing over her with enough force that her nails dig sharply into my shoulder.

The sight of her orgasm threatens to send me over the edge. I breathe carefully, willing the mounting pressure inside me to hold, to wait, to fully appreciate the gift she’s just given.

When she finally comes back to herself, I pull my hand from her, waiting for her eyes to clear before offering her a taste.

She watches me intently, holding my gaze as her pink tongue swirls over her juices, sending a shudder of anticipation through me.

The taste seems to spur her into action because she releases my wrist and kisses me, her lips insistent.

She slips her hand beneath my waistband, and I nearly lose it when her palm wraps around me.

“Jesus,” I hiss, pulse pounding, dick throbbing with need. “Just?—”

I don’t manage the full thought, but it doesn’t matter because she gives an experimental stroke, rendering speech impossible. She watches my reaction, a small smile touching her lips before her gaze flicks lower, appreciating what her touch is doing.

It’s more than I can bear.

Without releasing her, I pivot and carry her to the bed.

I drop her on the mattress, then efficiently remove her shoes, peel off her jeans.

I lift her up and pull the quilt and the duvet from under her, and place her back on the sheets, soaking in her gaze as I leisurely remove my pants and underwear.

“Ready for me, little doctor?”

She nods, her eyes assessing me—all of me—in one brief moment of connection.

I watch her closely, waiting for signs of hesitation, of discomfort, of sudden regret.

But then she gives a quiet, rough moan of desire that goes straight to my core.

Slick and ready, she groans, tilting her hips in search of friction.

“How do you want me, milaya ?” I demand as I stroke myself.

“Yakov, I’m begging you, please,” she mewls. “I need you inside me.”

Staring at her, I’m a ball of tense desire, measuring her need. Then I grab her suddenly and flip her over. A surprised gasp escapes her. Her hips are in the air, and I can’t resist but slap her cheek hard.

Before she can react, I plunge into her mercilessly, leaning over her and pushing her down on her elbows, granting me deeper access.

She cries out, from the slap or from the sudden assault, but she comes instantly, pulsing around my cock, almost sending me over the edge.

I still, willing myself to maintain control.

“You like it when I manhandle you,” I grind out as I start thrusting into her. She’s tight, and the sound that emerges from her lips has a tinge of pain. I slow my pace and pause, allowing her time to adjust. As we stay frozen in this moment, she looks back at me, and our gazes lock.

“Mila, I want you to come again,” I hiss through clenched teeth, resuming my strokes, and her body soon responds, convulsing around me in another climax. I cover her mouth with my hand; we can’t afford to be too loud; or the guards might come to check on the noise.

Feeling my orgasm build too soon, I withdraw and flip her onto her back, trying to hold out longer.

“Look at me,” I demand as I line up my cock up with her entrance. “I want your eyes on me when I claim you.” She obeys, lifting her gaze to mine, and I sink into her in one powerful thrust that pulls out a muffled cry from her.

Then her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin desperately.

“More,” she pants loudly. “I can’t get enough of you, Yakov. Harder.” Her eyes drop to where our bodies are connecting. “Look at what you’re doing to me,” she whimpers, locked in on the sight.

With a low rumble of pure lust, I follow her sight, then withdraw and slam inside her again. She takes me willingly, without hesitation, her lips parted in ecstasy as the last remnants of pain melt into pleasure, her hips rocking while I’m buried deep.

She feels hot and wet, a perfect fit, as if her body has been made for mine.

I drive into her with steady strokes that are too desperate to build anything resembling rhythm or technique, and I find myself unable to look away from her face, the tiny furrow between her brows, the parted lips, the sheen of sweat across her face.

Each thrust of my hips brings new sounds from her throat, moans and sighs and gasps that coax me higher until I’m on the edge, my vision blurring, my breath ragged and unsteady.

“Come for me,” I command. “Now.”

And she obeys.

Her muscles tighten around me, the spasms milking me deeper until, with a wordless groan, I find my own release. The orgasm stretches on, and her name is on my lips as I empty into her, the intensity, rightness and relief of this moment almost more than I can bear.

“Mila,” I gasp, shuddering against her, clinging to her like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver.

The orgasm leaves us both drained, her heartbeat thundering against my chest where we’re still entwined. After a few moments, I roll to the side, pulling her against me. We lie together in silence, the weight of what just happened settling between us.

I should feel satisfied. In control. I got what I wanted—her surrender, her trust, her body yielding to mine.

Instead, I feel something I didn’t expect. Something that resembles…contentment. And that’s dangerous.

Mila shifts in my arms, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, and I observe the movement with more attention than it deserves.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, voice still rough.

I consider the question, weighing how much truth to give her. Too much honesty is a weapon she could use against me later. Too little, and she’ll sense the lie.

“That this complicates things,” I say finally.

She stills against me. Not the answer she was hoping for, clearly.

“You could say that.” She chuckles, the sound muffled in my chest.

“You leave tomorrow. I have to stay here.” I keep my voice level, matter-of-fact. “The dynamic changes.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

I almost smile at her naivety. “It already has.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture too tender. “This was inevitable from the moment you walked into that therapy room. We both knew it.”

She studies my face in the dim light, looking for the lie I’m not telling. “What happens now?”

“Now you go back to your apartment. Resume treating other patients. And I continue my rehabilitation here.”

“Just like that?”

“What did you expect would happen? That everything would be simple?”

I see the words land harder than I meant them to. Her face closes off.

“I suppose I didn’t think past tonight,” she says quietly.

Planning too far ahead is a luxury most can’t afford in my world anyway.

“I should go,” she says, already moving to sit up.

I catch her wrist. Not roughly, but firm enough to make my point. “Not yet.”

“I have to.”

“The guards change shifts in two hours. And…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not done with you yet.” The words are a demand, carrying a weight that has nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with forever.

It’s possessive. Territorial. A claim I have no right to make, but I can’t stop myself.

Something flickers in her eyes that looks like relief.

“A little bit longer,” I say, pulling her back down against me. “Then we figure out what comes next.”

She settles against my side, tension slowly leaving her body. But I can feel her thinking, processing, analyzing what just happened between us.

Let her. She’ll come to the same conclusion I have, that there is no going back from here.

As her breathing evens out against my chest, I stare at the ceiling and do what I do best. Plan. Calculate angles. Consider variables.

Because whatever this is between us, it’s not over. Not even close.

Despite every rational calculation, every strategic consideration, every survival instinct screaming warnings…

I need her.

Not just want—need. And that terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve ever faced.

The question isn’t what I’m willing to risk to keep her.

It’s what I’m willing to become.