Page 18 of Owned By The Bratva King

I moan aloud. “Yes,” I gasp, my body shaking with anticipation. “Fill me up.”

Roman doesn’t require any more encouragement. “I’m close,” he growls, his voice strained with need. “So close, baby.”

He groans, his pace becoming erratic. His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer as if he can’t get enough of me. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, and his muscles tense.

“I’m coming,” he grunts.“Your tight little pussy is all mine, Quinn.”

With those words, he roars with satisfaction, burying himself inside me. His cock pulses, and I feel the first spasms of his release, the hot surge of his come filling me up. I cry out, my climax crashing over me.

My eyes fly open as I come again, my fingers deep in my pussy. It’s good—better than it’s ever been.

But as amazing as it feels, it’s not enough. I lured a demon, and I want him to possess me.

14

Roman

Thank fuck for some peace and quiet.

My house is uncharacteristically empty; typically, many friends and associates are dotted about the place, waiting to talk my ear off about God knows what. The assassination attempt needs to be addressed, but then again, I’m a pakhan. Someone always wants me dead. So fucking what?

My father wasn’t a boss. He was an enforcer who collected debts paid in dollars, blood, and lives. By all accounts, he was pretty good at it until a guy got the drop on him one night, and that was the story of him. I didn’t care; he was out of my life by then.

After my father left, I had to step up and look after Mama. She didn’t like it, but what choice did I have but to offer my services to the mafia? There was no other way to stack green fast, and I’d heard the Vercotti famiglia looked after their people. I worked my way up, and many people didn’t make it, but I did. That’s why I’m where I am today.

I walk into my cinema room, which is kitted out with a three-hundred-inch screen and a console covered in smaller monitors. I take a beer from the mini fridge and crack it open before settling in a chair and loading the evening’s entertainment.

Being Quinn’s new landlord affords me privileges, some more legal than others. I have a key to her apartment, which is legit, but this camera setup definitely isn’t. I can watch her whenever I want, twenty-four-seven, and there’s no way she’ll ever know. The Quinn Show, round the clock, for my viewing pleasure only.

She’s wearing a fluffy robe and writing in a notebook at a small desk in her bedroom. Is it a journal? My face cracks into a lascivious smirk. I’ll bet that’ll be an interesting read when I get my hands on it.

I move the console’s joystick and zoom in. The quality is excellent, and I can see her flushed cheeks and frantic scribbling.

Whatever it is, she’s desperate to get it down, but that’s no surprise. She’s had a hell of a day, and the thought of her writing my name in her diary gives me an unexpected thrill.

Her every movement fascinates me, and I watch her, taking notes in my mind. She’s in the kitchen now, microwaving something that comes with chopsticks and pouring a glass of white wine. The split in her robe parts as she sits on the couch, revealing an expanse of milky thigh, and I groan aloud.

I’m in big fucking trouble. How can I let her go? Despite the million good reasons to leave Quinn be, I already know I won’t be able to resist.

She’s so beautiful, so naive. Even if she suspects I’m behind her run of good fortune, it hasn’t occurred to her that I might have eyes on her apartment.

It’s partly because of assholes like me that this pretty girl can’t live in blissful ignorance of the darker side of human nature. She’s innocent and sweet in a way this city is not, and I feel responsible for her safety.

My phone rings, and I curse as I answer it. “Leon, this better be good.”

“I got word from the streets. Ricky Lubomski was hiding out at the abandoned DEA safehouse out by Hudson Yards. Don’t ask me how I found out, but I may have knocked a few heads together.”

“You there now?”

“Sure am. Fuck me, is that kid stupid. I hope for his sake he has a big dick because God sure as hell shorted him on brains.”

“Yep.” I pause, distracted, as I watch Quinn eat. “Ricky has a room-temperature IQ but solid instincts, which is the only reason he gets the time of day from anyone. Otherwise, he’s conclusive proof that some people shit in the gene pool. What have you done with him?”

He snorts. “The fat fuck came at me with a knife as though he thought I was made of chocolate cake. So I slapped him about a bit and told him you’ll be wanting a word. Seems safer to keep him here away from prying eyes.”

“Tovarisch, it’s lucky for both of us that your hands move faster than your brain. I’ll be down there soon.”

I hang up with a sigh. I had planned to spend the evening edging myself and enjoying this covert surveillance in the hope of catching Quinn in the shower again, or even better, masturbating, but there’s always tomorrow.

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