Page 24 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

She shakes her head, lips clamped shut.

I thumb her clit, lazy circles, watching her face go from disdain to desperation in six seconds flat.

"Say it," I repeat, pushing harder, curling my fingers inside her. She whimpers, a sound so alien on her that it almost makes me stop. But I don't.

Finally, she breaks. "Please," she hisses. "Please."

I slow down, almost stop, and her eyes snap open. She's furious, and I love her for it.

"Not enough," I murmur.

She bites her own lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Konstantin, fuck you."

I remove my hand, wipe it on her thigh, then flip her over. Her arms twist above her head, and I pin them while I explore the curve of her spine, the dip at the base, the perfect roundness of her ass.

She hates losing. She hates being exposed. She hates that she's dripping on my thigh, betraying every word that comes out of her mouth. I bend to her ear, whisper, "You're beautiful like this." In Russian, then again in French.

She shivers, a line of goosebumps racing up her back.

I use my tongue on her, slow, starting at the nape and working all the way down, then back up.

She moans into the pillow, a low, throaty sound.

When I reach the small of her back, I pause, then bite, hard enough to leave a mark.

She bucks, but I hold her down, one hand on her shoulder, one bracing her hip.

I slide in slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch and tighten around me.

The silk sheets bunch under her fists, the sound of them tearing a counterpoint to her moans.

I fuck her slow, then fast, then slow again, never letting her set the pace.

With every thrust, I murmur something in Russian.

Sometimes it's nonsense. Sometimes it's endearments. Sometimes it's a threat.

I slap her ass, just once, and she yelps, then laughs, breathless. "You're insane," she says.

I lean over, lips at her ear. "You love it."

She does. Even in Paris, even when she pretended to be above it, she loved being devoured.

She loved the way I could make her lose track of the world outside our hotel room, the way her plans and plots and betrayals faded into background noise until the only thing left was the need.

I pull out, flip her onto her back, and slide in again, this time face to face.

I want to see her eyes when she comes. I want her to remember this.

She wraps her legs around me, hooks her ankles behind my back, and pulls me in deeper. Her nails claw at my shoulders, then down my back, leaving stinging trails. She opens her mouth, and I kiss her, swallowing her cry as she comes, all muscles and fire and wet heat.

I keep going, relentless, and she comes again, shaking, nails digging into my scalp. The sounds she makes are not human. They are pure animal. "Let me…." she begs. "Please…"

I pull out once more because I want to see that look of joy on her face, that wild, impossibly pretty greed that follows immediately as she rolls, twists, and pins me down to the bed and climbs on top.

She reaches behind her, grabs my cock, lines it up, and sinks down in one motion.

She's tight, impossibly tight, and the pain is perfect.

She rides me slowly, hips rolling, her hands in her hair as she gyrates on my cock.

She controls the depth, the angle, everything.

I let her. I want to see how long she can hold out.

She leans forward, hair falling over her eyes, sweat beading on her upper lip. She rides me, slow and deep, grinding her clit against my pubic bone, over and over. Every time she moans, it gets louder. I try to thrust up, but she slaps my chest. "No," she says. "Not yet."

She speeds up, chasing her own climax. Her nails leave crescent moons in my skin. I watch her face—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. When she comes, it's a full-body quake, her hands clutching at my throat, her cunt clenching so hard it almost hurts.

I could come right then, but I hold back. I want to see her fall apart again. She collapses onto my chest, panting, then laughs, ragged and real.

"Happy now?" she says.

"Almost," I reply.

I flip her, fast, and she doesn't resist. I want her on her knees, hands braced against the headboard, hair falling down her back. I fuck her slowly, savoring the way she tries to meet every thrust, the way her ass bounces with every impact. I reach around, thumb her clit, pinch it until she gasps.

She tries to twist away, but I pin her with one hand, fucking her harder, faster, until she's sobbing, until she's begging. I don't stop. I want her ruined, limp and shaking, every muscle spent.

She cries out, voice gone hoarse. I reach up, grab her hair, pull her head back so she has to look me in the eye. I slow down, let her feel every inch. "Say my name," I command.

She shakes her head, tears on her cheeks. I fuck her harder, relentlessly, until she can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but obey.

"Konstantin," she says, a whisper at first, then louder. "Konstantin, please."

I come inside her, holding her tight, biting her shoulder to stifle my own noise. When I pull out, she slumps to the sheets, hair covering her face, body slick with sweat and semen. I lie beside her, both of us breathing hard, the silence thick as snow.

She rolls onto her back, stares at the ceiling.

"I hate you," she says.

I kiss her, gentle this time, on her mouth, her cheek, her closed eyelids.

"I know," I say.

She's asleep in minutes. I watch her, counting the seconds between breaths, the twitch of her fingers, the way her mouth curls even in dreams.

I close my eyes, and for once, the darkness is enough.

When I wake, it is to silence. Not the fragile hush of lovers tangled in sheets, but the hard, metallic quiet of too many secrets between them.

The pillow next to me is cold. Zoya stands at the window, backlit by the deep night.

She's wrapped in a robe, hair wild, the blue shadows of bruises painting her collarbones.

From here, she looks like an angel, if angels carried switchblades and made you beg for mercy.

She doesn't look at me. She never does when she's putting herself back together. Instead, she traces circles in the frost on the glass. I sit up, stretch, watch her watch the city. My back hurts. My chest is sticky with sweat and her claw marks.

After a long time, she says, "You should go."

Her voice is flat, not angry. It tells me what I need to know.

I find my shirt, slip it on, button it with fingers that still shake a little.

I watch her in the reflection of the mirror, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes like the sky after a car bomb.

She glances over her shoulder, measuring the distance between us. "Don't get comfortable," she says.

I button the shirt, find my pants, pull them on. "You keep saying that, but you never follow through."

She snorts, soft, almost a laugh. "I will."

I cross the room, close enough to touch her, but I don't. I know how this dance ends. She pulls the sheet tighter, backs away. "You're afraid."

She shakes her head. "Not of you."

She's lying, but it's a good lie. I respect the craft. At the door, I turn back. She's already looking past me, eyes fixed on the horizon. The world out there is cold, but nothing compared to this room.

"If I want to, no lock in the world can keep me out," I say.

She meets my eyes, then. For a split second, I see something achingly raw. It's gone as quickly as it came. "The lock isn't your worst enemy, Konstantin," she whispers before turning her back to me.