Page 24 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

The moment the bathroom door slammed close behind him, Maeve pressed a trembling hand to her lips and closed her eyes like they hurt. Maybe they did. They had to be after seeing him—the whole of him—just right there, staring back at her.

Of course, he had an impressive cock. Of course, he was big and thick and long enough to make her wonder if he’d fit inside her. She’d never thought a penis could be beautiful till she saw his raging erection, the veins that snaked around his shaft, the round engorged head.

He was unapologetically hard for her and made her a witness to it. To what she did to him.

God, she was so turned on it was a miracle she could see straight.

She’d never been so thirsty for a man, so goddamned needy.

Her breasts felt heavy, her puckered nipples ached for something—his mouth, his fingers, anything at all.

Her skin felt hot to the touch. Her cunt was slick with heat, her clit throbbing with a hunger only he could satiate.

The rush of the shower filled the space around her from the bathroom.

Maeve collapsed onto the bed, nearly suffocating herself with the pillows as she scolded herself for feeling this way.

But it had reached a point where she was no longer in control of it, of her physical desires for him.

She had acknowledged it already, and there was no point in pretending they didn’t exist.

But she couldn’t let them distract any further than they already had.

At least one thing was clear from all of this—her husband was as attracted to her as she was to him.

Now that she thought about it, she realized the attraction had always been there.

It had been in his eyes on the first day she saw him, while he was still posing as Jonathan Riley.

He had stared at her that day as if he’d never seen a woman before, and Maeve remembered just how disgusted she had felt by it.

But then he shed his disguise on their wedding night, and regardless of the fear, uncertainty, and hate she felt towards him, there was no denying his good looks, the distracting dimples on his cheeks when his smile was broad, his perfect teeth, and equally perfect features.

And then it happened—the seeds of an idea blooming into a full plan within the twinkle of an eye. She was sitting up now, wheels churning in her head as her brain came up with a plan that looked a little too close to perfect.

Seduction was basically the easiest trick in the book.

She’d use his attraction towards her to her advantage, and she’d seduce him into giving her whatever information he might have about the Bratva’s plans for Aleksander. As easy as it sounded, it was the riskiest thing her brain had ever come up with.

There was no denying how smart Fedya was.

He was cunning and easily saw through her bullshit, especially when she wasn’t strong enough to pull herself together as quickly as possible.

Not to mention that it was detrimental to her as well, since she wasn’t a rock.

She was attracted to him as well, so a game of seduction was a dangerous game.

Yet, it seemed like the most feasible way to get whatever information her father might need from him. And she could still be selfish enough to have fun with it, couldn’t she? She could seduce him to the satisfaction of her own pleasure and still get whatever she needed from him.

Maeve felt wicked. The thought of using him made her feel guilty, but she pushed it to the farthest parts of her mind, choosing to focus solely on the task ahead of her.

They lived in a cruel world anyway. At some point in everyone’s lives, they would be used by someone or something. Fedya just happened to be her victim.

Or you, his.

She shook her stupid subconscious away and rolled over on the bed, occupying a space on the right side of the bed. She cleared her throat as soon as she heard the shower go off and curled to her side, pretending to sleep.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing easy, but her ears were alert, picking up every sound of his footsteps like signals as he stepped out of the bathroom. She listened to the rhythmic padding of his feet against the hardwood floor, the shuffle of clothes, the scrubbing of a towel over damp hair.

Her body stiffened unconsciously when his footsteps grew closer, louder.

She felt the dip of the mattress by her right, the fresh smell of lemon soap tingling her nose.

His warmth touched her skin even without any contact between them.

He climbed onto the bed, sinking next to her, and Maeve’s heart began its relentless arrhythmia.

She wasn’t sure what exactly he was doing, but he felt close, really close. Incredibly warm too, and it was becoming harder to pretend she was fast asleep.

The silence between them was heavy and thick, and for a second, Maeve was convinced he’d fallen asleep. She was just about to risk opening her eyes when she heard the deep timbre of his voice like a kiss on her skin.

“Why were you looking for my phone?”

Maeve’s eyes snapped open. He was staring at the ceiling, distractingly shirtless, lying on his back with one hand curled behind his head on the pillow, emphasizing the bulge of his bicep.

Maeve swallowed and cleared her throat, hoping she sounded as natural as possible. She felt stupid all of a sudden for attempting to snag his phone when he was aware of it the whole time.

“I’ll have you know there are cameras here, Maeve,” he said, turning his head to the side to meet her green gaze. “I’m aware of every single thing you do. I’ll know if you try anything stupid.”

“Relax,” Maeve rolled her eyes, her voice relaxed even though she felt anything but on the inside. “I couldn’t sleep, and I was bored. Unfortunately, someone shot my phone to pieces, so I had to look for an alternative.”

“And what could be possibly entertaining about a phone?”

“Ever heard of social media?”

“Yes?”

Maeve turned to look at him, lips curling into a smirk. “You’re not on social media.”

“Why would I be?” he sounded incredulous. “Every smart person I’ve met knows social media rots the brain. It’s a waste of precious time.”

Maeve asked, turning to face the ceiling. “Or you could just admit that you’re a boring forty-year-old who still lives in the medieval times.”

“I’m not forty,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m thirty-four.”

“You’re six years away from forty—”

“Six is no small number.”

“—so you’re basically forty.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four, old man,” she replied, fixing her gaze on the ceiling. She could feel him staring at her now, dragging her gaze down her body. “Stop staring at me like that.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he asked a question that surprised. “Is social media the only thing that cures your boredom?”

Maeve turned, interested and confused all at once. Interested that he’d asked, confused that he was interested. “Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Painting helps,” she said off the top of her head. “My life would be a lot less miserable if I had a paintbrush, some paint, and a canvas.”

He went silent again, and Maeve’s brain almost went into overdrive with how hard she was thinking about how to set the mood, how to play her game. So far, so good, the atmosphere was light enough for her to take it to the next level.

So, without contemplating too much, she did the first thing that came to mind.

Rolled over and straddled him. Her thighs were on either side of his hips, and her nightgown had ridden up, bunched around her hips, doing a poor job of concealing the lacy black underwear beneath.

One of the thin straps of her gown had slipped down her right shoulder, revealing the soft swell of her breast. Her hair, a red, wave mess, spilled over her back.

She’d expected him to be caught off guard by her sudden move, but aside from the faint flex of his abs beneath her, he didn’t react.

He just watched her, his posture intact, but even though he didn’t touch her, his eyes betrayed him.

They wandered past her face, her neck, her breasts, her thighs astride him.

It wasn’t enough, though, so she shifted subtly, testing him, trying to provoke something without being too obvious. Maybe she wasn’t playing it right because what she really wanted was for him to touch her.

His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Are you doing this because you’re bored too?”

Maeve met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m just doing the same thing you did to me.”

Her fingers found the hem of her nightgown and slipped it up, over her head, leaving her in nothing but the black lace beneath.

She let it fall to the bed beside her before looking back at him.

His eyes were molten as they committed the image of her to memory, tracing the curves of her breasts, heavy and full, moving softly with every breath she took.

Her nipples were as hard as he felt beneath her, pink and erect, and Maeve was pleased when she saw him rake his teeth over his bottom lip.

She’d tell him to look at her, but he already was.

“Feel,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. Desire laced in knots over her skin with every laser-hot tracing of his eyes over her chest. “Check whatever you need to check to be sure I have no ill intentions towards you or your fancy cameras.”

Despite his want being as clear as day, despite the palpable tension they both felt, despite his thickening length nestled right between her legs, he was holding himself back. He wasn’t reaching for her, but his jaw was flexed, the heat in his eyes slowly sliding over her.

Maeve wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up with this act.

She did what he had done to her, mirroring him, mocking him, matching his cool detachment with her own fire.

She took his hand and guided it down her chest, past the valley between her breasts, under the swell of her breasts.

Her skin ignited where he touched, her breathing was barely existent, her underwear felt sticky, molding to her slick folds, but she held her expression steady.

His touch was the definition of sin. Rough, excellent, unbelievably good, even with her hand guiding him.

It was the kind of touch that could undo her if she let it.

And God help her, she was so close to losing this stupid game of hers, so close to letting go, especially when his hand left hers and followed its own path down her hips.

Maeve let out a gasp when his thick fingers traced the hem of her panties, slotting in briefly before pulling out.

He leaned forward, resting his weight on one elbow as he slid his hand lower and cupped her pussy firmly, roughly, the only thing separating direct contact with her flesh being the damp lace.

Her breath caught in her throat, stuttering when it stumbled out. Fedya’s dark, hungry gaze was on her face, almost like he was silently daring her to make her sound. He squeezed harder, and their chests touched, her nipples kissing his skin.

Christ, she was going insane.

“You’re soaked,” he said, his voice deeper and darker than she’d ever heard it. It was tight with restraint. His thumb ripped into one of the holes of her lace, before applying pressure directly on her sensitive clit. Maeve’s brows pulled together in pleasure, her toes curling against her feet.

“If you don’t want me to do something about it right now, you’d better go back to sleep.”

Maeve didn’t flinch, not even at the roughness of his voice.

Instead, she rolled away, her lip caught between her teeth as she denied them both of what they wanted.

She picked up her gown, slipped it down her head, letting the silence stretch between them.

She could almost feel him vibrating next to her as he watched her turn her back to him.

“Goodnight, Fedya,” she said, her voice cool even though raw heat scalded her inner thighs. She slipped under the covers, squeezing her thighs together to alleviate the needy pulse in her cunt that made her bite down hard on her bottom lip to prevent herself from making a sound.

Yet, even with her heart racing, a small, satisfied smile was plastered around her lips as she closed her eyes to sleep.

He had touched her on his own, and so it went exactly the way she wanted.