Page 48 of Ruthless Bratva King

"Not yet," he interrupts, his tone firm. "You come when I tell you to."

I whimper, my body trembling on the edge, but I hold on, obediently waiting for his command. He continues to fuck me, his pace relentless, his fingers working my clit with precision.

I can feel the pressure building, my muscles tightening, until I’m certain I can’t take it anymore.

"Now," he growls, his voice harsh and commanding. "Come for me."

The dam breaks, and I scream, my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave. My body convulses, every muscle contracting as waves of pleasure roll through me.

He doesn’t stop, continuing to thrust into me, prolonging my release until I’m gasping and begging for mercy.

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep inside me, his cock pulsing as he comes.

“Good girl,” he says, sliding slowly from me.

I collapse onto the bed, utterly spent. He lies down beside me, his arm draping possessively over my waist.

My hair is damp with sweat, my limbs heavy. I’ve never felt this kind of contentment, this soul-deep sense of exhilaration and peace all at once.

“That,” I murmur, my cheek pressed to the hard plane of his chest, “was… wow.”

His low chuckle vibrates against my skin. “I aim to please.”

“You’re a damn overachiever, then,” I reply, smiling faintly, though my voice is drowsy.

“Not bad for your second time ever.” He falls silent for a beat, staring at the ceiling. Then he runs a hand through his dark, tousled hair. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

My breath catches. It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them, like he’s telling me something he shouldn’t.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my chest tightening.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, his touch featherlight. But just as quickly, his expression closes off, and he lets his hand fall away.

“Dmitri?” I ask softly, sensing the shift. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but his jaw tightens. “Now go back to sleep. That’s an order.”

33

ELENA

The sound of running water wakes me in the morning. I blink groggily at the ceiling, a lazy smile spreading across my face as I remember last night.

The intensity, the passion, the way Dmitri looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. My body aches but in a pleasant way.

The muffled spray of the shower draws my attention, and my grin widens. Dmitri is here. Still. He hasn’t run off in the night. That’s something.

On a whim, I decide to make breakfast. I can hear Veronica’s voice in my head already:Look at you, playing house with a killer.

The thought makes me laugh as I pull on a dressing gown.

The kitchen is small but functional, and I rummage through the cupboards with an enthusiasm I haven’t felt in years. Eggs, bacon, bread—I’ve got this. Or at least, I think I do.

Ten minutes later, the smell of burning meat fills the air.

I fan the smoke with a dish towel, coughing as the fire alarm blares above me. A pan of charred bacon sits in the sink, and the scrambled eggs look like rubber. Perfect. Just perfect.

Dmitri appears in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets glisten on his chest and arms, and his dark hair is slicked back, still damp.

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