Page 64 of Owned By The Bratva King

Quinn

It’s touching seeing Roman this way. He’s listening to my instructions, nodding earnestly as I tell him what to do.

“So this dough must be rolled flat and fairly thin, about ten inches square. You think you can handle that?”

“I’ll do my best.”

He busies himself with the dough, turning it out of the mixing bowl and onto the floured surface. I grab a handful of flour and use it to dust the length of the rolling pin, drawing a snort from him.

“Stuff gets everywhere.” He turns his laugh into a cough. “You’re good at that, rusalka. Excellent action.”

I flick my fingers, spattering his shirt. “Well, it’s got to come off now, right?” he says. “No discipline.” He wags a finger at me. “I’ll soon change that.”

Roman unbuttons his shirt, and my eyes glaze over. I’ll never get used to how hot he is, but there’s something about watching his muscles flex as he rolls out dough that has me salivating.

“Concentrate, Quinn,” he says. “I’ve made a good square here. What now?”

“Filling,” I say. We stare at each other before bursting into laughter.

“Who knew baking could be so suggestive?” he asks as I hand him a sugar and cinnamon powder shaker. “I guess it’s the company.”

“You sure as hell couldn’t work in my kitchen. It’d be too distracting.” I point at the dough. “You want me to do this bit?”

“No,” he replies firmly. “I will learn how to do this myself. I can bake for you when you’re pregnant or nursing the baby.”

I smile at the unexpected sweetness of the image. “I’ll bet Leon and Viktor would laugh at you for saying that.”

He shrugs, sprinkling the mixture. “Only once. There.” He sets down the shaker. “How did I do?”

“Perfect. The baking dish is good to go, and the oven’s hot. All you have to do is roll the dough into a log, slice it up, and arrange the pieces cut-side up.”

Roman’s large tattooed hands are surprisingly nimble, and he works fast. The ready-to-bake rolls are set out neatly in less than a minute. I open the oven door.

“After you,” I say.

“How much time do they need?” he asks, sliding the dish onto the shelf.

“Twenty-five minutes or so?”

He taps on his phone. “In a fortunate coincidence, moya zhena, that’s exactly how long UberEats estimates your food will take to arrive.” He throws me a smoldering glance, and my knees threaten to buckle. “Would you care to guess what I want to do until then?”

He moves fast, and I squeal as he lifts me, dumping my ass straight onto the puddle of flour.

“Roman!” I giggle as he buries his face in my neck, my laughter turning into a moan as he bites the tendon. “We just showered. I’m gonna be covered in?—”

“Handprints,” he growls. “Spit, sweat, come. And flour, obviously.” He presses himself between my thighs, grinding against me. “I like to make a mess of you, Quinn. Give your man what he wants.”

Was there any possibility I’d refuse? His hands are everywhere, lighting up my nerve endings, and his mouth is lively as he kisses me feverishly.

“Fuck, I’m obsessed with your body.” He cups my ass, holding me in place so I can feel his hardness pressed to my pussy. “You think I’m distracting? I can’t fucking think straight with you around. Every curve, every dimple, every tiny mark makes you unique.”

He grasps my throat and leans close to my ear. “You’re mine, dammit.”

It’s so hot when he gets nasty like this. I’m sure it’s a sign of some deep psychological maladjustment in both of us, but I like it. My clit throbs against the central seam of my jeans, and I long to feel my husband’s thick cock stretching me out.

Roman seizes the hem of my shirt and swiftly lifts it over my head. My breasts strain in the confines of my lacy bra, and he wastes no time in freeing them, his fingers deftly unclasping the hooks and letting the fabric fall away, revealing my hardening nipples.

“Ty krasivyy.” He leans in to capture one rosy peak, swirling his tongue over the sensitive bud before giving it a playful nip. “You’re perfect.”

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