Page 10 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

I start to move in slow, rolling circles with my hips that drag him deeper. The friction is maddening. I gasp, loud, open-mouthed. My knees press tighter to his sides. My spine arches. He groans, deep and raw, head falling back. "Jesus," he hisses.

The sound of him swearing because of me sends a fresh wave of heat down my spine.

I lean forward, tongue flicking over the hollow of his throat.

He tastes like sweat, like salt, like man.

I lick a line to his collarbone and bite, just hard enough to feel him jerk.

"Sof—" he chokes out. I drown it out with a kiss.

If I can't have him say my real name, I don't want a name at all.

His answer is an upward thrust that punches the air from my lungs.

"Oh, fuck," I moan, and this time, I don't try to hide it.

The sounds are everywhere now. My core swallowing his cock. His fingers digging into my hips. The rhythmic creak of the bed. His breath, rough in my ear. "You're soaked," he mutters, jaw clenched. "I can feel it. I can feel all of you."

I bounce harder now, faster. I'm a mess—sweat-slicked, mouth parted, whimpering with every grind. He reaches up, cups one breast, thumbs my nipple until I gasp. His other hand grips the nape of my neck, holding me in place so he can watch my face.

His thrusts turn brutal, hips snapping up to meet mine with punishing rhythm. He fucks into me like he's trying to carve himself into my bones. I feel it everywhere.

I lean in, lips brushing the curve of his neck, tongue tracing the salt there.

My mouth moves across his shoulder, greedy now.

I find the edge of the ouroboros tattoo, tongue following its shape like I'm decoding him with my mouth.

I'm coming, clenching around him so hard I see stars, nails dragging down his chest, moaning his name in a voice I don't recognize.

My head falls back. My vision whites out.

The release crashes over me, drawn out and devastating, wringing every drop of sound from my mouth until I'm gasping, shaking, spent.

But he's not done, not even close. His hands shift, fingers tightening on my hips with bruising purpose, and before I can catch my breath, he growls, "Get on your back."

I blink, dazed, but he's already moving.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, lays me back on the sheets, and yanks my legs up, spreading them wide over his shoulders.

My breath catches at the raw hunger in his eyes.

There's no gentleness now, just the primal sound of him dragging his cock out of me and then thrusting back in, hard and deep.

"Fuck," I cry, eyes flying open.

The angle is different. He hits deeper than before, driving up into me like he's chasing something sacred. My hands scramble for the sheets, for him, for anything. His grip tightens.

"You feel that?" he grits out, hips slamming into mine. "How deep I am?"

"Yes. God, yes!"

The bed creaks violently beneath us. Each thrust pushes me higher on the mattress. My legs shake against his shoulders. He lowers slightly, folding me in half.

"Open for me," he demands.

I do.

"Good girl."

I whimper at the praise, at the drag of his cock pulling almost all the way out before plunging in again. My mouth falls open. I can't even moan now, just breathless sounds, broken syllables. My body is slick with sweat, flushed and burning. I feel exposed, taken, worshiped and ruined all at once.

"You look so fucking pretty like this," he says, eyes on my face, my breasts, my wrecked mouth. "You were made to be fucked like this. You know that?"

I nod. I can't speak.

He thrusts harder. "Say it," he growls, breaths ragged. "Say you want more."

"I want—" My voice breaks. "I want more."

His hand leaves my thigh, slides down, finds my clit.

"Oh, God!"

"You're gonna come again," he says, rubbing tight circles as he pounds into me. I'm close. So close. It builds fast, like fire from the inside out. My back arches. My nails claw for purchase. My thighs tense over his shoulders, and then it comes, making my vision swim.

He doesn't stop. He fucks me through it, groaning deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering now. Minutes later, he swears, dark and guttural, thrusts once—twice—and then buries himself to the hilt, shuddering hard. His growl tears loose against my throat as comes, hips jerking, muscles going taut.

When it ends, he collapses over me, chest heaving, face pressed to my neck. His weight is grounding. His breath is hot. His cock is still inside me, twitching with aftershocks.

"You're going to kill me if you do that again," he says, laughing gruffly.

I grin back at him. "Maybe that's the plan."

We lie there, tangled and sweating, sheets twisted.

The city glitters outside, uncaring. Eventually, he pulls out, collapses beside me, arm slung over his eyes, chest heaving.

I listen to his breaths slow, my own heart still racing.

After a while, he pulls me to him. My head is on his chest, his arm tight around my shoulders.

It should feel dangerous. Instead, it feels like safety, or the closest I've ever come.

Slowly, he falls asleep. I study the cut of his jaw, his tattoos, the bruises on his ribs, the way the moonlight stripes his torso. In sleep, he's defenseless. He trusts me enough to let go.

I memorize the moment, the city, the stranger, the aftermath. I let myself exist here, just for tonight, with all my walls down. Tonight, I'm nobody's daughter, nobody's soldier, nobody's pawn. Just Zoya. Just this.