Page 28 of Owned By The Bratva King

“You’re going to take it all,” I growl. “I’m going to fill that pretty mouth of yours, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I’m too far gone now. I know I should be gentle, but I can’t pull it back. My thrusts become more frenzied, and Quinn gags slightly but composes herself, the desire to please me burning within her.

“That’s it. Show me how much you want it. Swallow my cock. Make me feel your throat clench around me.”

21

Quinn

My knees hurt, and the dampness of the decking seeps through the fabric of my pants, but I barely notice. The world has been reduced to this moment and the relentless surge of Roman’s cock in my mouth.

How did this happen? It’s as though he hypnotized me. All he had to do was walk into the bakery and give me his gunmetal eyes, and I fell apart. Then, as I sat in the pagoda and tried to regain my composure, he was just there.

I could have run away or hit him, but I didn’t. My body already knew it was a foregone conclusion; it was my destiny to surrender.

Roman Kazanov came to claim me, and that’s precisely what he’s doing.

He moans deep in his chest as he pistons his thick shaft in and out of my throat. I have no choice but to relax my muscles and take it, the taste of his pre-come glazing my tongue with each pass.

I’ve never done this before. I went from my first real kiss minutes ago to sucking the cock of a man who is still a near stranger. In public, on my break from work.

Roman did it all. He waltzed into my life and transformed it, yet it was as easy for him as plucking cherries from a tree. I lost my apartment? He bought the whole block. I liked my job, but it was too much work for too little pay, so he acquired the bakery and made me the boss.

It’s hardly surprising that he’d expect something in return, but there’s more to it than that. There’s an urgency, a desperation in his thrusts that fascinates me. He winds his hands through my hair, tightening his grip as he holds me in place, murmuring filthy words of encouragement in his home language.

“Voz'mi eto, moya rusalka. Fuck, yeah.” His cock throbs in my mouth, and he pulls out, making me gasp. “I’m gonna come on your beautiful face.”

I can do nothing but gaze up at him as he lets go of my hair with one hand and grasps his slick erection. He jerks off hard and fast, his breathing heavy, his eyelids half closed as he chases his release.

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined a man could look so sexy. I’m on my knees, submissive and held, yet as Roman bounces his purple tip on my tongue, I feel more powerful than I thought possible.

My pussy is drenched, my wetness pooling between my thighs, and I tense my quads, trying to relieve the gnawing ache in my core. If it were up to my body to decide, he could pin me down and smash my virginity to smithereens right here.

Roman tries to stifle a grunt, but he fails, and it turns into a languid moan of rapture as he releases a spurt of come over my face. He gazes at me, mesmerized, and is unable to resist shoving his twitching cock into my mouth once more.

His seed runs down my chin even as he pumps jet after jet of salty warmth down my throat, and he tugs my hair, raising my face so he can get a good view of my ruined mascara and come-smeared skin.

“Fuck, you look good like that,” he says between ragged breaths. “I think my little virgin baker girl likes my come. What do you say?”

I nod, and he releases me to rearrange his clothing. As I collapse onto my ass, I notice my legs and feet are numb from where I was sitting on them, and they tingle as the blood rushes back.

“I don’t know why I let that happen,” I say, my voice quivering.

“Because you wanted it to.” Roman holds out a hand and helps me to my feet. “Here.” He swipes his come from my cheek, rubbing it over my lips.

“This is how much you turn me on, Quinn. I’ve never lost my mind over a woman before, but I’d make the world bend to your will if that’s what it took to own you.”

I lick my lips, and the sight ignites something in him. With a snarl, he grabs my waist, pulling me close as his mouth closes over mine.

“You taste of me, rusalka.” His words are hot on his tongue. “You’re so ripe, so ready. I’ll bet you’re wet for me right now?—”

“Mr. Kazanov!” The voice cuts through the moment, and we pull apart, looking toward the sound.

It’s a man with a scruffy beard and a striped shirt. He’s stumbling through the flower beds toward us, kicking up wet clods of earth. A big old-school camera is slung over his shoulder. Paparazzo.

“I saw your car parked on the street,” he says, bounding up the pagoda steps. “Is this the lady from the bakery your firm bought? How about a quote I can give to the paper?”

Roman turns to face the man and puts some distance between us. I wipe my face with my sleeve and stand up straight. “This is Quinn Sullivan, manager of Sugar Rush. I acquired the business as part of my local enterprise commitment.”

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