Page 38 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

The pupils seemed to dilate, expanding like black holes, drawing in the light around him, and I could almost see the turbulence churning within his eyes, like the dark, swirling clouds of a thunderhead on a summer’s day.

Lust.

Rafayel’s hands found my hips, and he dragged me toward him, roughly slipping his fingers along the base of my neck and into my hair once more. His touch against my skin was like fire on ice.

One touch, and I was melting, heating up like a piece of pie in a fucking microwave, losing my sense of self-control, self-respect, and everythingself.

Thoughts prodded and poked: What would Papa think if he found out? What would the family think if they heard?

“I thought I’d start off with being a gentleman.”

Rafayel’s voice brought me back to the moment, turning me into a careening sack of flesh and bones without logic or the balls to smash my knee into the visible bulge between his legs and run away.

Right now, I couldn’t give two flying fucks if I was just going to be on his list of women he’d conquered. I wanted this.

No, Ineededthis.

Maybe, just once, and I’d purge the madness out of my system. The madness to feel him, to taste him, bite him, suck him.

“Fuck that,” I whispered when his lips were close enough to mine. “We both know you’re anything but.”

With a tight grip on my hair, he brought my lips to his, and we released a growl of satisfaction at the same time.

There were exactly seventeen years between Rafayel Yezhov and me. I knew because I’d done my research. He was a forty-year-old man who’d seen enough and had the experience to have lived the life of a century.

In short, he was out of my league. But nothing about the way he touched me was a century-years-old. He was everywhere—groping, sucking, fondling like an expert skilled in the art of giving pleasure.

My toes curled in my shoes, and hastily, I kicked them off, leaning on him for support.

Rafayel moved against me with the same fervency he’d used at the track but more gently than I wanted him to. So, I mirrored his actions, slipping my fingers into his hair and pressing my mouth deeper against his to pass the message to hurry the fuck up.

He smiled between snagging my lower lip and sucking my upper lip. “You’re impatient already.”

“I’m hot and bothered. Deal with it.”

“Oh, trust me, I will.”

I wasn’t watching his fingers and didn’t know when they moved from my hair to the gap between my legs. He cupped me through my shorts and slipped his index finger past my panties to the place where I ached for him the most.

I groaned. And he growled some Russian profanities against my neck.

The heat of his breath on my skin fried whatever restraint I thought I had left.

He kissed me on the lips and on the neck and dipped his head to bury his face between my breasts, which were aching to be free.

He stuffed his finger inside me, driving his index first and fingering deep to feel me. My walls clenched around him, my back arched, and my ass pressed deeper into his hand.

“You’re driving me crazy, Leonya.”

He’d said it in Russian, and strange whining noises left my mouth without my permission when I understood it. I dugmy nails into his shoulder to steady myself when my knees buckled.

I stood in an awkward position, with him now seated on an armrest as my only support. His body posed as my anchor. I couldn’t even feel the ground beneath my feet.

“You’re fucking wet for me, sweetheart,” he rasped, his breaths were coming in and out in heated puffs. “So wet. Fuck!”

There was an undeniable satisfaction in watching him revel in the act of touching me, as though every brush of his fingers brought him as much pleasure as it did me.

He was just too beautiful to look at, with his hair now messed up like a sexy nest—if that was a thing—and no longer gelled backward. The way his breath caught in his throat told me that he was savoring every moment, every sensation, every connection that flowed between us. He looked like the real rogue that he was.

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