Page 32 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

And what a glorious lap it is. I can feel, through the thin fabric of my shorts and his, that he’s hard and he’s big. My core throbs with need and I feel myself getting wet at the thought of getting him inside me, how he might pant and bury his face in the crook of my neck, how he might grip my hips and maneuver me the way he wants.

Obviously, in his current state, he’s not going to be doing much heavy lifting, but I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I want Boris to take me. I want to feel his tongue on my clit, want to ride his face, want him to grip my hips until he leaves a bruise there.

“Fuck,” he whispers when my breasts are bare in front of him, and I lean forward, planting a hand on the wall above his head so I can lean over his face. He lifts his chin, taking one of my nipples into his mouth, and I almost collapse at the pleasure that courses through me.

With his hands on my hips, rocking me against his hard cock, and him sucking and biting at my nipple, I might come right here, with our clothes on, five minutes into something I’ve been dreaming about since the day he appeared in the Allard office building.

I’ve had sex with other men, of course, but it wasn’t like this. They were fumbling, apologizing after every little thing, scared when I told them to put their hand on my throat or pull my hair. They were afraid of how much I liked it, how much pleasure I got from it. They wanted a woman who would lay on her back and smile demurely when the act was finished, but that wasn’t me.

And it’s still not.

With my other hand, I reach behind Boris’s head and press his mouth closer to mine, watching as he looks up at me and bites down on my nipple so hard that the pain mixes with pleasure, and I cry out, grinding against him harder.

“Shh,” he says, his voice rough and barely audible when he pulls away, leaving my breast raw and tingling. “You wouldn’t want someone to interrupt us, would you?”

Then, he takes one hand off my hip, trailing it over my stomach, down my thigh, until he finds the hem of my shorts. We kiss as he plays, driving me mad until I’m grinding my pussy down onto his hand.

When he finally pushes my panties to the side and slips a finger into my folds, I bury my face in his neck and let out a low moan. Feeling how his body responds to that underneath me makes me want to strip off his shorts and ride him right now.

“Are you in pain?” I whisper, having enough wits about me to remember that the guy has a stab wound in his side, and I have my entire body weight on him, riding him.

“Yes,” he growls, “but I like it.”

I gasp when his fingers swipe up and down, exploring me, touching every part of me, spreading the wetness around until every part of me is fully soaked.

“You’re so wet for me, Fiona,” he murmurs, his eyes practically black as he gazes up at me. My tits bounce in his face as I move my hips, trying to get his fingers where I want them. He circles my clit once twice before diving back down to my entrance like he can’t focus on just one area at a time.

“You’re so hard for me, Boris,” I say through gritted teeth. “What’s the matter? The short shorts and camisole getting to you?”

“I knew that was on purpose,” he mutters, letting out half a laugh.

“Everything I do is on purpose,” I hum, letting out a little gasp when he dips just the tip of a finger inside me. He’s playing with me. Fine—two people can participate. “Including leaning over you, putting my tits in your face, taking extra careful strokes when bathing you, touching myself at night, thinking about what it would be like to have your big, pulsing cock in—”

I’m cut off, letting out a half-scream, half-gasp when Boris plunges two fingers inside me, his hand trapped between our hips. The pleasure is like nothing I’ve ever felt before—sure, I’ve used toys on myself, and I’ve had other men, but there’s been nothing like Boris thrusting his fingers into me, trying to take my breath away.

“That’s right,” he says, “shut the fuck up, Fiona, and ride me.”

I growl at him but follow his instructions, gasping again when he adjusts and gets a third finger inside me, stretching me just to the point of pain. Everything in his lap so far has been about pain and pleasure, mixing together, like salty and sweet, complementary flavors.

My brain conjures up the image of him chasing me through the office building, out into the front yard, his arms roping around me and pulling me back—that jolt of fear that quickly translated into arousal when his body was near.

When he puts a fourth finger in, his thumb working my clit, it only takes two more pumps, his hips working with his hand, to make me come undone.

I lean down and press my mouth to his as I come, his tongue in my mouth and his fingers in my pussy working together as I shake and shudder before eventually going boneless on top of him.

“Fiona,” he breathes, his fingers still inside me. “Fuck. You are so tight.”

“So why don’t you take these shorts off,” I say, reaching down for his waistband. I’m still feeling wrung-out now, but I know in a few minutes, I’ll be more than ready to come on his dick. The thought of it sends a shiver down my spine, and I move faster, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, trying to tug them down.

“Fiona,” he says, his hands wrapping around mine, stopping me in my tracks.

“What?” I ask, pulling back so I can look at his face. “Oh my god, are you okay? Is your side hurting you?”

I make to climb off his lap, but his hands go to my hips, holding me tightly in place.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and his eyes skip up to meet mine.

“Sorry,” he says, letting out a breath. “Shit—I finally have you here, and this isn’t—”

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