Page 33 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

I don’t even finish the sentence before he’s on me. His arms wrap around my waist, warm and impossibly solid. I burst into laughter, wild, breathless, uncontained, as he pins me between his body and the counter. His hands find my sides, relentless, tickling until I’m writhing and gasping for air.

And then he kisses me, right at the curve of my neck, where his beard scrapes and burns in all the right ways. I swear I feel him breathe me in, like I’m something vital. Like I’m the only air he needs.

“You’re a firecracker,” he mutters against my skin, his voice frayed with want.

“Leave the damn dishes,” he says next, and there’s heat behind it. “I think the real problem is my wife still hasn’t learned how to obey me.”

An involuntary breath catches in my throat. My body hums with it.

“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if that’s what he wants to hear, or if he’s just going to toy with me more and draw it out like he always does.

“Is that the right thing to say?” he murmurs, one hand drifting lower, fingers sinking in and squeezing my ass like it belongs to him.

“Yes, sir.”

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, turns me, and sets me down on the counter. The granite is cool under my thighs, but he’s blazing. He leans in, forehead to mine, and his voice, god, I love his voice.

“Say it again, Zoya.”

“Seamus,” I breathe out, more of a whimper than a name. But that’s not what he asked for. That’s not what he wants.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, this time with more certainty.

My eyelids flutter shut as his mouth captures mine. Then my cheek. The softest parts of me. He kisses me like a man starved, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with every press of his lips. Worshipping me, like I’m something rare and sacred.

“One night left,” he says, quiet but resolute, like a vow wrapped in steel. “Let’s make it count. Let’s do everything we can to bring our families together. ”

He kisses me like time isn’t running out. Like we’re not on the brink of something terrible. Like this isn’t the eve of war and we aren’t teetering at the edge of a cliff, one step away from plummeting to our deaths.

Our lives, mine and his, are balanced on the edge of a blade.

And yet, when he speaks to me, it’s reverent, as if I’m his sanctuary in a world set on fire.

His mouth drifts lower, to my shoulder. The top of my breast. My nipple. My belly. Every kiss is a benediction.

I answer only with trembling fingers, clutching his shirt, and breath that breaks from me in shuddering bursts.

“Go to bed, darling,” he says, his voice darker now, thick with that same authority that makes my knees weak. “I want you to edge yourself. Slide your fingers between your thighs. But don’t come. Not until I get there.”

“But I’m cleaning the kitchen,” I try, my protest soft, uncertain. I like pushing just a little.

He leans in, his voice like smoke curling around my ear.

“That’s not your job anymore, and you know it.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes, sir.”

“And if you make yourself come before I get there, Zoya…” His voice drops even lower. It’s dark, sinful… full of promises I’m half-certain I want him to keep. “I’ll take my belt to your arse before I fuck you.”

The words sear into me. Brand me. Heat flashes up my spine like a live wire. I’ve never been spanked with a belt. But the way he says it, possessive, certain, commanding, makes my body tense with the urge to disobey. Just to know what it feels like.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, and I mean it.

So I do exactly what he said.

I go to the bedroom, take off my clothes, and lie back on the bed, sheets cool beneath me and my skin already flushed with need. I’m naked, aching, my nerves strung tight. I slip a hand between my thighs and gasp. I’m soaked. Slick. Swollen. Starving .

I think of him. His hands. His voice. His weight pinning me down. His belt.

I’m closer, chasing the edge, until I’m right there, right on the precipice.

Do I want to fall? Do I want to tempt him, tempt that punishment? Taste the wrath he promised?

No . Not yet.

Where is he? Seamuuus…

I pull my hand away, and my body trembles. Every nerve is on fire, desperate. I lie there, straining to hear. A dish clinks. Water runs. His voice floats in from the kitchen.

My heart leaps, but it’s just a phone call.

Frustrated, I roll onto my side. I touch myself again, fingers slipping into a rhythm fast, deep, and devastating. My other hand grips my breast, pinching, tugging, trying to hold on.

I think about the belt. The weight of it. The leather. The crack of it against skin .

And just like that, I fall.

I come hard. Too hard. My body jerks, wracked with wave after wave that refuses to stop. I try. I swear I try to stop.

But I can’t.

And then I see him.

He’s standing in the doorway.

His arms are crossed, his eyes dark, unreadable, but dangerous.

“You didn’t,” he growls.

“I…” I start, but the words die in my throat.

“Tell me you didn’t disobey me and make yourself come.” The hard line of his cock in his jeans tells me he might want me to admit my failing.

“Um, I didn’t mean to,” I whisper, like it’ll make a difference. Like maybe if we both lost control, it balances out.

But it doesn’t.

“It just happened, Seamus. I swear, I didn’t mean to make that happen.”

“But you did,” he growls, stepping forward. “You had control. I told you what to do. I told you not to come. And you chose to come anyway.”

He stalks across the room, and suddenly, he’s not just Seamus anymore.

He’s The Undertaker.

The man who makes grown men piss themselves .

The most feared man in Europe.

And now I see why.

I scramble back on the bed, more out of instinct than real fear. Because underneath the terror, I want this. I want him.

Because this is Seamus. My Seamus.

He wouldn’t really hurt me.

Would he?

“Let me ask you something, angel,” he says.

The way the word angel slips from his lips, it should sound sweet. Soft, like affection. But it doesn’t. There’s a steel thread running through it, laced with warning. It tells me not to get too comfortable. Not to mistake tenderness for mercy.

“Am I a man of my word?”

He told me he’d marry me. Swore he'd come back for me. Promised that the only reason he ever left at all was because someone else took him, ripped him away, and locked him up, like I didn’t matter. Like we didn’t matter.

There was a time I would’ve said no… that he wasn't a man of anything.

But now?

Now, I know better.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper. The words barely leave my lips, like they’re afraid to make themself known. Saying the truth out loud feels like it might cost me something I won’t be able to get back .

He watches me.

“What did I tell you would happen if you came without permission?”

My mouth is dry.

“You said you’d spank me,” I murmur, looking down, wishing I hadn’t come here. Wishing I had. Wanting everything and nothing all at once.

“In detail, Zoya. That’s not what I said.”

Oh god.

“You said you’d take your belt to my ass,” I whisper, my face burning. The shame rolls through me like a wave of fire, but underneath it, something else pulses—hotter and more dangerous.

It’s humiliating. It’s terrifying.

It’s arousing.

He’s so massive. So dominant. Every movement is careful, calculated. There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing. He doesn't bluff. He executes.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His voice is soft now, almost amused. “And it seems like my new wife needs to learn how to obey her husband.”

He’s in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and the fabric clings to his chest and arms like it was made to showcase how lethal he is. He reaches down, unbuckles the belt at his waist, and slides it free with a long, slow pull that makes my stomach drop .

The sound is loud. Final. Like a door slamming shut. Rain pours outside. It’s warm in here, though, and I’m on fire.

He shakes his head once, deliberately, then stomps toward me.

“Hands above your head, where I can see them.”

I obey without thinking.

My arms fly up. I’m trembling. Every instinct in me is screaming run , but every nerve is screaming stay .

“Good,” he says.

But he doesn’t say good girl.

And that, god, it hurts. Like a phantom limb, like I’ve been denied something vital. I ache for it. I crave him telling me I’m his good girl.

His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but there’s something behind them. Something dangerous. Something certain.

He loops the belt in his hands and snaps it once with a flick of his wrist.

The sound cracks through the room.

I flinch.

He walks to the bed and sits down slow, spreading his legs wide. He looks completely relaxed, like this is routine for him. Like punishing me is just another part of loving me.

He pats his lap.

“Anytime I have to punish you, it’ll be over my lap,” he says calmly. Like this isn’t a negotiation, it’s doctrine .

“If you’re not being punished, I’ll use my hand. If you are… something else.”

Oh god.

He’s thought this through. He has a plan he’s ready to execute.

“Okay,” I whisper. The word is barely there.

He points.

“Now. Over.”

My legs feel like liquid, but I obey. Trembling, I move forward and slide across his thighs. His lap is sturdy, warm, and immovable. My hair falls forward, curtain-like, hiding my face from the world. My hands scrabble for balance, but I can’t find anything solid except for him.

He places one firm, heavy hand on the small of my back.

He lifts the belt.

And brings it down.

The leather strikes the crease between my thighs and the curve of my ass. The sound is loud, the sting sharp. I cry out, my breath caught in my throat.

“ Ow .”

It doesn’t exactly hurt, not in the way pain is supposed to. It startles me more than anything. It steals my breath and leaves something else behind. Arousal. Electricity.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Then he brings it down again .

Two.

Three.