Page 15 of Pregnant Bratva Virgin

My mouth waters thinking about the rule I broke, but seeing her in the plain light of day in uniform, I can understand why I broke it. She’s irresistible and I can’t stop the slow, deliberate rise of my cock in my prison uniform from presenting itself. It wants another ride.

“We meet again,” I say smoothly, locking eyes with the buxom vixen, but all I get back is a wall of ambivalent defense, which only intrigues me further. I like a challenge when it comes to a woman, but if truth be told, I haven’t let one be around me long enough to win at one. I’ve been the one in control in every situation.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Utkin, but that’s not the case. I’m Detective Emily Wilson from the Bureau of Investigations and I’ll be questioning you about the death of William Frances Dee. I hope you understand the severity of this charge. You’re being accused of killing one of the most decorated detectives in the department.”

Nodding, I fold the smirk in, not giving a shit about Willy Dee. The snitching bitch is dead. “Oh, you will?” I grin, wantingher to squirm enough to keep me amused. This is even better than I thought it would be. Fun, fun, fun.

“Yes. I will. I want to start by letting you know that this conversation will be recorded and everything you say in this interview can and will be used against you in a court of law. Understood?” she issues with a frank sincerity, her authority a bigger turn-on than turn-off.

“Yes, ma’am.” I watch as she shifts in her seat, the faint bloom of her perfume wafting through my nose and bringing back memories of having her spread out in the Hampton Suites. It’s too bad she’s not willing to play the Bratva game, things will go much smoother for her.

“I prefer Detective Wilson. Thanks.” Her eyes don’t stray, they burrow right into mine, setting the stage for a power play.

Nestling into my seat, I pour myself a glass of water as the red light on the recorder flashes, and her eyes drag themselves back to me. This isn’t who I thought it was. She’s not innocent or fragile like the delicate flower she portrays herself to be. Damn.

A flash from the shower returns me to the pleasant deep diving between her thick thighs. If only I could spend some time between them again, we wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation. “Detective Wilson. No problem. It’s Detective Wilson for the rest of the interview.” I smile, wanting to say other things, but I’m just warming up, a blaze of heat radiating between us. She’s got an incredible poker face, but I’m predicting how long it’s going to take to break her down.

“Good. Where were you on the night of Saturday the 24th of April?”

“Ah, hmm, running my very successful club, the Blindside Metro in Chicago.”

“What time did you start that day?”

“Mmm, I’m an early riser.” I wink at her, making sure she doesn’t miss the innuendo I’m throwing out.

“Early riser. What time?” she pushes.

“Around eight.”

“Pretty early for a club that doesn’t open until eight at night, wouldn’t you say?”

“No. Right on time. There’s a lot to do in the club, and I had new staff on for that night and had to make sure my bar team was okay with training them for the night. We have strict protocols in place, Ms. Detective Wilson. Then I had paperwork to complete, and I had the cleaners come in early.”

“I see. And what time did you leave.” Pausing for a second, I drum my fingertips together licking out my tongue a little.

“I believe I left about midnight. Give or take a few minutes; I can’t remember. I was otherwise engaged,” I reply in a buttery tone, winking at Emily. She holds her composure, but there’s a flash of irritation in her eyes that gives me enough spark to keep pressing her hot buttons.

“Right. Long day.”

“Right. Long day, but even longer night, but I’m not complaining, it ended very, very well.” Hunched over the desk, I put my leg out straight, rubbing my leg against hers and she instantly moves it, a glowering look on her face.

“Don’t touch me, Mr. Utkin, otherwise I will have another detective in here so fast you won’t have time to think straight,” she replies sharply, her eyes filled with a rage that puzzles me.

The cuffs rattle as I hold my hands up. “Okay. No harm, no foul.”

“Tell me about where you were when William was being murdered.” She shoots straight, clasping her fingers together, her nails cut short, but they’re neat and methodical, like her.

“What do you want to know?” I ask, playing my dumb card.

“I want to know where you were. No need to play at stupid,” Emily prods aggressively, my bored mood from being locked in the cell challenged into activation. She’s getting hotter and hotter by the minute.

“Ah, that’s an easy answer. I was busy admiring a stunning woman on the dance floor wishing I had her moves.”

“So interesting, because according to the surveillance cameras and eyewitnesses you left the dance floor for approximately thirty minutes, and that would have given you ample time to but a bullet in William’s head, wouldn’t it?”

Scoffing, I shake my head. “Hey, I’m innocent until proven guilty. I went to the toilet. Do you have any proof of me leaving the dance floor?” I ask her, knowing she only has that information because I was watching her before I left to kill William. “If you don’t, how can you explain that?” I counter, stamping my finger into the table, checkmating her into a corner. If she has the balls to tell the Bureau of Investigation, she slept with a Bratva underboss, then she’s going to have to wear the cost, and that’s probably not one she wants to wear.

Holding her feet to the fire, I wait patiently for her answer, my heart beating fast. She’s got me revved up and I fucking like it. More than I want to. Come on, darling. Play it on the recording. I watch the red light flashing as she clears her throat, smiling back.

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