Page 99 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
His expression darkens momentarily. “Pablo is regrouping.”
“I know.” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “But I don’t want to talk about him anymore orthe life he’s keeping me from living. I want to feel your touch again.”
“A life I can’t be part of,” he observes, ignoring my confession. The words are simple but loaded with everything unsaid between us.
“Not yet,” I say, the hope in those two words surprising us both. “Things change, Yakov. Situations evolve. Even yours.”
A rare, genuine smile transforms his face. “The optimist’s view.”
“The realist’s view,” I counter, echoing our previous conversation. “Nothing stays the same forever. Not even carefully constructed prisons.”
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “What was it you said about my touch?” His thumb traces my lower lip, causing goosebumps to erupt in its path.
“I want to feel it,” I whisper.
His eyes darken as they hold mine. “I’m not ready to let this go, Mila. Whatever this is between us.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, honest and raw in a way Yakov rarely allows himself to be. I should be analyzing his motivations, questioning whether this is genuine emotion or strategic advantage. Instead, I find myself reaching for him, pulling him closer until our bodies press together, heat building where we touch.
“Neither am I,” I confess against his lips.
His kiss is different this time, not the desperate, urgent claiming of our previous encounter, but deep and almost tender. He takes his time exploring my mouth, hands sliding down my sides to my hips, leaving trails of fire through the fabric of the dress. I respond in kind, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to find warm skin beneath, tracing the hard muscles of his back.
When we break apart, both breathing harder, his eyes have that intensity that makes my knees weak, like I’m the only thingin his world worth focusing on. Like I’ve become essential to him in ways neither of us anticipated.
“I need you to be careful,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Pablo isn’t finished with you.”
“I will be,” I promise, touched by his concern even as I recognize the protective possessiveness beneath it. “Igor has arranged additional security around the mansion.”
“Not enough.” His hands tighten slightly on my hips. “Promise me you won’t stay too far from me. That you’ll check in regularly.”
I smile, tracing the hard line of his jaw with my fingertips. “Worried about me, Gagarin?”
“Yes.” The simple admission, delivered without hesitation, catches me off guard. No deflection, no tactical phrasing, just raw honesty. “More than you are aware.”
I reach up, threading my fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine.
“I promise,” I whisper against his lips. “Now stop talking and kiss me. We don’t have much time.”
Our second kiss is less careful, less controlled, all heat and tongues and need. His hands slide down the curves of my hips, pressing me to him and letting me feel his hardness. Our mutual groans of pleasure join as he kisses his way along my jawline and down my neck, nibbling and sucking around my collarbone.
“God, you feel good,” he says against my skin. “Too damn good to be real.”
His hands find the zipper at my back, but he pauses, pulling back to look at me. His eyes take in the burgundy fabric, dark and possessive.
“You’re wearing it,” he says, voice rough with approval. “The dress I asked for.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” The words send a shiver straight through me. His thumb traces the neckline, reverent. “You look perfect. Exactly how I imagined you.” His eyes meet mine, intense and satisfied. “You want to please me.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”
Something primal flashes in his expression—possession, pride, hunger all rolled into one. “I’m going to remember this moment. You, in this dress, choosing to be mine.”
Then he unzips it slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing my spine as the fabric parts. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of silk, leaving me in only the underwear I’ve carefully chosen.
“You deserve a better man,” he whispers as his lips find the swell of my breast covered by the lingerie. “Someone not fighting a war for his freedom.”
