Page 105 of Sweet Obsession

He led me to the central table, where Misha sat like a king on a throne, his tailored black suit accentuating his broad shoulders and coiled strength. His dark eyes locked onto mine, unreadable but heavy with intent.

He stood, pulling out the chair beside him with a deliberate slowness that made my skin prickle.

His gaze lingered on the red dress, a storm brewing in his eyes. “You chose red,” he said, his voice low, a dangerous edge beneath the calm.

I held his stare, refusing to flinch. “I did.”

The anchor rose, calling the room to order. “Ladies and gentlemen, we convene tonight to determine the next Pakhan of the Bratva. The vote will be conducted in three rounds, with each family’s representative casting their ballot in secrecy.”

As the first round commenced, the room buzzed with whispered conversations and speculative glances. Misha remained stoic, his hand resting lightly on my thigh beneath the table, a possessive gesture that sent a shiver down my spine.

After the initial round, the anchor announced a brief intermission. Guests dispersed, some retreating to the bar, others engaging in hushed discussions.

Misha’s grip tightened, then released. He stood, his hand closing around my wrist, and without a word, he led me through the crowd, his stride purposeful, predatory.

He pulled me into a secluded alcove, its velvet curtains muffling the ballroom’s chaos. The air was thick, scented with wax from a nearby candelabra. Before I could speak, Misha pressed me against the wall, his body a furnace against mine, his lips crashing into me with a hunger that stole my breath. His hands roamed, claiming every inch of the red silk, tearing at the fabric as if it offended him.

“No matter the vote,” he growled against my throat, his voice raw, unhinged, “You’re not leaving me. Ever.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, a sharp promise that made my knees buckle.

“Misha...” I gasped, my hands fisting in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

My body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving the fire he ignited.

He kissed me again—harder, rougher—his hands gripping my hips like he was trying to make me feel it later.

The candlelight flickered as he lifted me off the ground and pinned me against the wall, the heavy curtains wrapping around us like we were meant to disappear here. His hands pushed under the silk, possessive and fast, his breath hot against my neck.

My breath hitched as he drew a knife from his belt, its blade glinting like a shard of moonlight.

Fear and desire twisted together, my pulse racing—run or melt, I couldn’t decide. But he didn’t cut me. He slid the blade through the straps of my dress, the silk falling to my waist, leaving my breasts bare.

His gaze devoured me, a predator savoring his kill. The knife’s cold edge traced my collarbone, light, deliberate, a whisper of danger that made me whimper.

My body trembles under its caress. His mouth followed, kissing the path of the blade, branding me with lips and teeth, each touch a warning, a vow. “You were made for me, Malyshka,” he murmured, his voice deviant, “and I’ll make sure your body never forgets it.”

The room blurred, the world reduced to our ragged breaths, the rustle of torn silk, the crash of the candelabra as it tipped, wax splattering the floor like blood.

I clawed his back, my nails drawing blood through his shirt, a sharp moan bursting from me as I marked him, wanting to hurt him, to make him feel the chaos he’d unleashed.

His hand slid between my thighs, and he froze, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fuck, Malyshka, no panties?” His fingers brushed my clit.

“Yeah...”I moaned, my hips bucking, shameless under his touch.

He parted my thighs, his eyes locked on mine, and pressed the knife’s blunt handle—smooth, cold, unyielding—against my clit.

My breath hitched, escaping in a gasp as he caressed me with it, metal gliding through my slick heat, teasing, torturous.

“You defy me,” he growled, devouring my lips, his kiss aggressive, bruising, “but this body knows its master.” He slid the handle inside me, slow, deliberate, and I screamed, my body jerking, pleasure and fear colliding.

His mouth moved to my breast, sucking hard, his teeth grazing as he fucked me with the knife’s handle, deeper, faster, the cold metal stretching me, claiming me in a way that felt profane, unholy.

The alcove spun.

“Fuck!” I screamed. “More!”

My voice echoing off the stone, loud enough to pierce the curtains. What if someone heard? What if they found us, the Bratva’s new Pakhan candidate fucking his wife with a knife in a room full of vipers? But Misha didn’t care, and God help me, neither did I.

My hands gripped his shoulders, my nails digging bloody crescents, my moans rising to a primal as the pressure built, my climax coiling, sharp and inevitable. The knife’s handle drove deeper, relentless, and I bit his shoulder, muffling a wail as my body trembled, teetering on the edge.