Page 37 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“Tell me what you need,” I murmur against her slick heat. “Is your little virgin pussy feeling slutty? You want something to calm it down?”

Her nod is frantic. God, I love how she’s losing herself.

I slide one finger against her entrance, teasing her, watching her tense before taking a shuddering breath.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

She relaxes, and I press two fingers inside, slowly working her open. She’s so tight, her inner walls gripping me like a vice, and I groan at the thought of what it’ll feel like to finally bury my cock in her.

I curl my fingers, searching for the spot that will make her come undone. When I find it, her hips buck against me, and she cries out.

“Oh my God, Leon!”

“That’s it,” I growl, thrusting my fingers deeper, circling her clit with my tongue. “Come for me,moya zhena. Let me see you fall apart.”

Her orgasm crashes over her like a wave, her walls clenching around my fingers, her cries filling the room. I don’t stop until her shudders subside and she collapses back against the bed, limp and spent.

I press a kiss on her belly. My cock is painfully hard, but this isn’t about me. Not right now.

“You were incredible,” I whisper.

Her eyes flutter open. “Leon, I don’t know what to?—”

“Shh,” I say, brushing my lips over hers. “No more thinking. Rest, and we’ll talk later.”

She nods, her eyes drifting closed again, and I watch her for a long moment. She gave herself to me so completely, so trustingly.

It’s not just about desire anymore. It’s about her. And for the first time, I’m not just thinking about what I want.

I’m thinking about whatwecould have.

24

Dante

“Boss, you gonna tell us what the fuck just happened?” Anton asks from the front seat.

I press my fingers against my temple, my jaw clenched so tightly it feels like my teeth might shatter.

Anton’s brother Fabrizio is driving, and my pulse thunders in my ears as the car negotiates Midtown’s deadlocked streets.

“What happened,” I say through gritted teeth, “is that someone made a big mistake. That’s all you need to know.”

I see his reflection in the mirror, his brow furrowed as though he wants to press for more. Instead, he glances at the man beside him—Franco, who looks just as baffled.

“So, the wedding is off?” Franco finally asks. “You shot out of that church looking like you accidentally fucked your mother. What about Alec Bright and his little princess? I thought?—”

“We’re letting the dust settle, Franco,” I snap, cutting him off. “That means all of it.”

Neither man presses further. They know better than to question me when I’m like this, but they’re not the ones I’m angry with.

I’m angry at myself.

I should’ve realized something was wrong when Tommasso and Julio didn’t answer their phones. Five days. Five fucking days of silence, and I brushed it off.

I was occupied with booze, girls, and business dinners and didn’t want to trouble myself with the concerns I’d left behind in New York. When I finally called Emery to check in, she said she was okay, knowing better than to burden me with her needs. Emery always said what she thought I wanted to hear; obedient, like I trained her to be.

And Alec—spineless, pathetic Alec—assured me there was nothing to see on the home front. Business as usual.

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