Page 60 of Ruthless Bratva King

He lays me down gently on my back before climbing over me, his body hovering just above mine.

“Your turn,” I say, pushing against his chest until he rolls onto his back. I straddle him, sinking down onto his length with a slow, deliberate motion that has us both groaning.

I ride him with a rhythm that drives us both wild, my hands braced on his chest as I watch the tension build in his body. Just as he starts to lose control, I pause, grinding against him instead.

“Ask your wife for permission,” I whisper, my voice husky with desire.

His eyes burn into mine. “No one ever gives me orders.”

“Your wife does. Ask me.”

He growls. “Let your husband come, Elena.”

I shake my head, a sly smile playing on my lips. “Not yet.”

I resume moving, driving us both closer to the brink. When I finally allow myself to release, I open my mouth. “Now, “I say as we come together in a crashing wave of ecstasy.

I feel him spurting deep inside me as my own climax washes over me in waves of pleasure, my mouth open, my skin tingling with pleasure.

As our breaths begin to slow, I stay on top of him, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and for a moment, everything is perfect.

44

ELENA

Ilie curled against him, my cheek resting on the hard plane of his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

His arm is draped over me, his hand splayed possessively across my hip. The room is dark and quiet, save for our mingled breaths. I don’t want this moment to end, and the thought sneaks out into words before I can stop it.

“I wish this could last forever.”

He doesn’t reply right away. His fingers stroke absently over my skin, but his silence is heavy. Too heavy. I shift, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.

He turns his head to meet my gaze, his ice-blue eyes clouded with an emotion I don’t see often: regret. “You deserve more,” he says finally, his voice low. “A proper marriage with a decent person. My hands are soaked in blood, Elena. You do not deserve a life with a monster.”

The unexpected vulnerability in his words pierces me. I reach up and cup his face, brushing my thumb along the hard line of his jaw. “We can have whatever life we want, Dmitri. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

His lips curve into a faint, bittersweet smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts his hand to cover mine, holding it against his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back to the ceiling.

The silence stretches, but it’s not the comforting kind that usually fills the spaces between us. This one is heavy, laden with something unsaid.

“Tell me,” I urge gently. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

He exhales deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand. When he finally speaks, his voice is distant, as though he’s pulling the words from a place he doesn’t visit often.

“I was seven, living on the streets. Hungry. Cold. Always looking over my shoulder.” His fingers tighten slightly on my hip. “Then I met a nurse. Sofia. She found me one night, half-dead in an alley, and took me in. Fed me. Gave me a bed. She didn’t have much, but she shared everything she had. For the first time in my life, I felt safe.”

I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his.

“She was killed,” he continues, his tone flat, but the pain beneath it is unmistakable. “A mugger. Right in the street. I wasn’t there to protect her. I was in the school she made me attend.”

My heart twists at the anguish in his voice. “Dmitri…”

“Years later, I found the bastard who did it,” he continues, cutting me off. “But what I didn’t know was that he worked for Don Lombardi.” He spits the name like poison. “An Italian mob boss who didn’t take kindly to one of his men being killed. They found me. Beat me. Burned me. I would’ve died if Peter hadn’t stepped in.”

I blink, trying to process the weight of his words. “Peter saved you?”

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