Page 9 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

H is hand is steady, large, and warm around mine.

We walk, not fast but not slow, his pace forcing me to match him step for step.

No one in Paris looks twice at a woman walking after midnight with a man, hair a little wild, lips a little bitten.

His thumb strokes my knuckles once. The gesture feels like a question. I squeeze back, answer enough.

We pass through a square striped with shadows.

Streetlights turn his face into a study in extremes—clean, hard, and then suddenly soft when he glances at me sidelong.

There's a cab waiting near the curb. He opens the door, waits for me to slide in first. The interior smells like leather, cigarettes, the faintest trace of vanilla from the air freshener.

He gives the driver an address near the river in French so fluent, the driver tries to chat. He shuts that down with a look.

We don't touch in the back seat. I watch our reflections on the glass as we slip through the city.

My hair is falling out of its pins again, but I leave it.

He rests his elbow on the armrest, fingers drumming a tattoo on the faux wood.

I know this rhythm—the language of impatience and anticipation.

I stare at his hands, the veins and the old, pale scars.

Hands that have held guns, hands that can be gentle.

The car pulls up in front of a building with a marble portico, old enough to have seen wars, new enough for security cameras.

He pays in cash. The doorman of the hotel knows him.

No questions, just a deferential nod, a quick press of the elevator button.

As the doors close, he waits until the camera blinks red, then presses me to the mirrored wall.

His mouth on mine is different this time, deeper, more definite, like the last kiss had only been permission.

The elevator hums upward. His tongue is hot and deliciously invasive.

I let my hands explore—his chest is solid under the black shirt, his jaw rough with stubble, hair even softer than it looks.

When he pulls away, his smile is just this side of wicked.

"Top floor," he says, voice scratchy.

"Of course." I laugh, low and quiet.

The suite door is a keycard, not old-fashioned.

He opens it with a flick of the wrist and steps back, letting me enter first. The room is all glass and steel, minimalist, expensive, a view of the city laid out like a secret.

Lights glitter on the river. There's a bottle of red wine breathing on the sideboard, two glasses already waiting.

I move to the windows. He follows, jacket gone.

He pours the wine, hands me a glass. "Sofia," he says, playing the old game.

The wine tastes like summer fruit and blood.

I drink it down and set the glass aside.

He comes up behind me, hands on my hips gentle but unyielding.

I lean back, feel the heat of his body line up with mine.

His lips are at my ear. "You don't have to do this. "

I turn in his arms. "I know."

He kisses me again. I let my mouth go slack, surrendering to the pull.

His hands travel up my sides, thumbs tracing the bottom of my ribs, memorizing every inch.

I reach for his shirt, start unbuttoning, savor each reveal of skin.

He doesn't help, doesn't hurry. When I finish, I push the shirt off his shoulders.

His body is beautiful, nothing wasted, nothing soft, lean strength shaped by purpose, not vanity.

His collarbone could cut silk, its symmetry maddening. And then there's the ink.

My eyes go first to the ouroboros, a serpent swallowing its own tail, stretched along the left side of his chest and angled down his ribs.

It gleams black in the dim light, the head coiled just beneath his collarbone, fangs pressed to its own tail like penance.

The scales are shaded in obsessive detail, each one etched like a secret he never speaks aloud.

I lift my fingers to it, trace along its curve.

I move to his left arm.

Winding along the inner length of his forearm is a tattooed rope inked in stark black, its end frayed and curling like something broken in a storm.

It loops three times, clean and deliberate, before pulling taut across the skin.

Not just a mark, but a memory. I run my nails lightly along it. He watches me, says nothing.

But it's the right arm that unravels me.

Beneath where his shirts always cover, hidden like a confession, are two wolves inked in fine black and grey.

Mirrored. Snarling. One bears a scar cut through its muzzle.

The other's mouth is shut, silent. Its eyes meet mine from under his skin, eerily calm, knowing.

Between them sits a cracked crown, ancient and off-center, resting on a bed of inked poppies.

War and memory. Power and grief. He catches me staring with my lips slightly parted.

"They're not just tattoos," I murmur, fingers still grazing the wolves.

"No," he replies quietly. "They never are."

He undoes my blouse with even less haste.

First one button, then the next, stopping after each to press his mouth to the new skin.

My neck, the hollow of my throat, my sternum.

His tongue flicks the line between my breasts.

He's careful but not shy. When he reaches the last button, he parts the fabric and just looks.

I think he's about to say something, but he only lowers his head and kisses the curve of my shoulder. It's the lightest touch so far, and my whole body arches for more.

He drops to his knees, hands on my hips.

My skirt pools on the floor. He runs his palms up the backs of my thighs, under the line of my underwear, then peels them down slowly.

I step out of them, leaving a pile of navy blue silk on marble tile.

He stands. I'm wearing nothing but a lacy black bra and heels.

His eyes drag up my body. I can see the effect it has on him—a tensing in his jaw, a slight hitch in his breath. I like that I can do this to him.

He slides his hands behind my knees, lifts me with zero effort.

My legs wind around his waist automatically.

He carries me to the bed. The sheets are cool, high-thread-count, probably changed right before we arrived.

He sets me down like I weigh nothing, then stands at the foot of the bed and pulls off his belt.

He lets it drop, then unzips his pants, pushing them down with boxer briefs together. He's already hard.

I watch him watch me. There's a hunger there, but also caution—like he's waiting for a sign to continue. I reach up, unclasp my bra, slide it down my arms, and toss it to the floor. The moment it lands, he's on the bed, crawling up between my legs.

His tongue starts on my ankle, works its way up my calf, behind my knee, the inside of my thigh.

He lingers, breathing in the scent of me, then kisses right where I'm most sensitive.

I gasp, fingers digging into the duvet. He likes that, smiles against my skin, then does it again, firmer.

His hands spread my thighs, thumbs stroking as his tongue works methodically, never losing rhythm.

I can't stay quiet. I moan, softer than I mean to, but he hears.

He doesn't stop. He goes slower, drawing out every sound I make.

I know he's cataloging what works, every hitch in my breath, every twitch of my hips.

His tongue circles, flattens, flicks. When I'm on the verge, he pauses, looks up at me, lips wet, eyes smug.

"Don't stop," I manage. He doesn't.

His tongue coaxes an orgasm out of me. My thighs clamp his head, nails scrape the sheets. I bite back a scream, but not well enough because the echo of it bounces off the windows. When it fades, I open my eyes. He's watching, mouth glistening, a dimple in his cheek as he grins.

Crawling further up, he kisses me hard. I taste myself on his lips. I want him inside me right now. I reach for his cock, wrap my hand around it. He's bigger than I expected, thick and smooth. He groans when I stroke him. I guide him to my entrance, but he hesitates, holding himself over me.

"Protection?" he asks, voice hoarse.

I nod, and he pulls a condom from his bedside drawer.

He rolls it on fast, never breaking eye contact.

Then he's inside me, slowly, carefully, letting me adjust. I grip his shoulders, pulling him deeper.

He sets a pace, each thrust hitting exactly where I want it.

He's focused, watching my face, my body, tweaking the angle to maximize my pleasure.

I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into his back. The friction is perfect. He grunts with each movement. I lose myself, meeting him thrust for thrust. His hands are everywhere—tangled in my hair, gripping my breast, thumb on my jaw forcing my head back so he can see every reaction.

He fucks like he means it. Like it matters.

His hands slide down my thighs, then grip me tightly as he shifts back against the headboard.

His strength pulls me with him, guiding me to straddle his lap, his cock still buried in me.

The movement makes me whimper. He hears it and grins, teeth sharp, eyes burning.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, voice thick. "You love being on top, don't you?"

My breath stutters. My hands flatten on his chest, feeling the rush of his heartbeat under the inked ouroboros.

He lifts his hips slightly, even as I begin riding him, matching me thrust for thrust, still stretching me, teasing me, alive beneath my skin.

"You want to hear how much I like it?" I whisper.

"Yes," he growls, hands flexing on my ass. "Say it. Ride me and say it."