Page 12 of The Bratva Contract
Karina buttons her shirt. Her hands are shaking slightly. She probably doesn’t like me watching her this closely, and I wouldn’t swear how steady I could hold my own hands at the moment. For the sake of manners, I roll my sleeves back down and replace the cufflinks with infinite care, pleased that there’s no tremor in my hands because I’m under control by the time I attempt it. I glance over at her. She has her hands on her hips like she is squaring up for a fight. One corner of my mouth hitches up in a grin and I level her with my stare while I lick my fingers. The same ones I’d had inside of her just a few moments ago. I do it to shock her, but the lightning bolt that rips through me when I taste her on my skin is what I deserve for taunting her. The flavor of what I want more than anything. It’s all I can do not to shut my eyes and savor it, and let the scene unspool in my mind and take myself in hand.
I think she can see what I’m thinking. Witch, I think, rage snapping at the heels of lust. It wouldn’t take much to tip me over that ledge, past the reach of any restraint. It’s her turn to give me a feral grin as she brushes past me and out the door. I don’t follow her.
Three meetings, and I still can’t decide whether to strip her bare or toss her off a bridge. No one else unmoors me like this. She says seduction is pointless. I call that a challenge.
CHAPTER 8
KARINA
Two of the three times I’ve been near my future husband, I’ve taken pains to look as sexy and as expensive as possible. The third time, he practically ripped my jeans off. Maybe he’s into casualwear, or maybe he has a kink for sweaty women who smell like horses. Whatever it was, I couldn’t see straight for hours afterward. I’m blazing hot, then suddenly chilled, and I can’t stop shaking.
As soon as I approve the latest bug fixes for the app update, I take a break, but not for lunch. I march into my walk-in closet and pull a pretty box from the shelf. Stashing my toys here keeps them out of sight; the nightstand is just so clichéd. Besides, they stay hooked to a power bank, always fully charged. Otherwise, I’d be stuck in the country for a week with nothing but my own hand, like it’s the damn nineteenth century.
I know exactly what’s wrong with me, and neither a cold shower nor a Pilates workout will make it go away. I scan the box searching through the heavy-duty vibrator I can always count on, the wearable one with seven pattern modes for when I feel lazy, and the sonic thing shaped like a flower that does obscenethings to my clit. Underneath those I find it. I grabbed it at a bachelorette party a couple of years ago and never saw the point. It was a gag favor, or so I thought. Maybe Misha knew something I didn’t when she gifted us all big, rock-hard dildos.
I loosen the ribbon on the red velvet drawstring bag, and the toy slides into my palm. Heavy and cool, the curved glass dildo is beautiful, almost art. My inner muscles clench, still howling for him inside me. Dima Petrov, the man I’m required to marry, whether I like it or not. In a few short weeks I’ll be under his power, but I refuse to give him one extra minute. I won’t bow down and let him have his way with me, no matter how hard I’d been gagging for it in the boathouse.
Now, though, I’m soaked just thinking about it. That pinch of my nipple, the way my breasts overflowed his hands while he squeezed like it was his private pleasure. Mostly, I remember the way he looked at me, forehead pressed to mine as if we were three seconds from either fucking or fighting to the death, maybe both. The truth is, he could’ve had me right then. I was his from the second he shoved his hand into my pants. I want that. I’ve never wanted it before, but with him I crave it. Something in me revs, the ultimate adrenaline rush, like roller coasters or skydiving but higher, wilder. When I shut things down and struggled against him, part of me wanted to see how far he’d go. Would he shove his fingers deep inside me and make me beg? Or would he rip my jeans off, pin me down, and shaft me right there against the boat? A tiny curl of dark shame blooms in my belly. That power play, how enticing it is. And make no mistake, I still want it. He’s staying here tonight, and the thought of being only a few doors down thrills me.
I peel off my workout leggings and kneel on the plush closet carpet. Eyes closed, I guide the cold, weighty glass shaft betweenmy thighs. I shiver at the chill yet savor the smoothness, the bulbous tip nudging my entrance as my flesh parts. I bite my lip, replaying the curl of his fingertip barely breaching me and that electric spike of pleasure. The rake of his teeth on my collarbone, the weight of his erection against my hip. That moment when I surrendered, grinding shamelessly against his broad palm while he stroked and soothed me. Now I cant my hips forward, taking more of the toy. My breaths come hard, careful, because glass doesn’t give like flesh. For a heartbeat I feel ridiculous, then I exhale and let everything go.
I picture the closet door easing open behind me,Dima hunting me down, ready to finish what we started in the boathouse.
He finds me naked from the waist down, kneeling on the carpet, working a glass wand into my pussy just to calm the ache he created.
“Baby,” he says, and I can’t bring myself to look at him. “You don’t need that. Come here.”
I shake my head, humiliated,wanton and pathetic. I try to stand, but he stops me. I glance over my shoulder, braced for his laughter, yet his fever-bright eyes stay locked on me as he unbuckles his belt. Elation crackles through me as I realize, yes, he’s going to give it to me and finally break this ridiculous tension. His hand covers mine but instead of tossing the dildo aside, he curls his fingers around it and stirs it inside me. The heavy glass, warmed by my body, feels foreign yet delicious. Having him control it and move it is filthy perfection. My heart rate spikes. Without a word, he slides the toy out and cups my mound. Forming a V with his fingers, he massages me, each stroke igniting my clit. I lean back against his chest, letting him hold me while wetness trickles down my thighs?—
I’m on the brink when a knock thuds at my bedroom door. I freeze, praying whoever it is will walk away. Another knock, sharper. Cursing, I let the dildo fall, yank on my leggings, and storm into the bedroom to fling the door open.
“What?” I demand.
Marta, the housekeeper, gives me a once-over. I must be a fright, flushed, sweaty, and disheveled. I plant my hands on my hips and wait.
“Your father asked me to tell you that dinner will be in one hour, and that you should make yourself… presentable for your guest.”
“Fine,” I say, then retreat into my room and shut the door. I’m breathing hard, keyed-up and frustrated. I flop onto the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t even get myself off in peace with this guy around, I think, rubbing my forehead where a tension headache is gathering.
After conceding that relief isn’t happening, I take a quick shower. I smooth moisturizer over my long legs, then down each arm. A dab of perfume on every pulse point, an extra drop nestled in my cleavage. I pour myself into a matching bra and panty set, sheer lavender, more string than fabric, then wander back to the closet for a dress. If I’m going to suffer, he can too.
I pick a deceptively sweet cocktail dress, far less provocative than the last two I paraded in front of my future husband. Buttercup yellow, thigh-skimming, with a frilly low neckline. The ruffle sells demure . . . from the front. From the back, I’m bare to just below the waist, skin exposed except for a single narrow ribbon tied at my neck. Let him think pastel and wholesome; the rear view will knock the smug bastard flat. I wiggle out of my lace bra, since the strap would show, and unpinmy hair. The blowout is still good, but just slightly damp. Lashes, bronzer, a wash of shadow, slick of gloss, then bracelets and diamond studs. No need to overdo it when the star is my body. I work hard, eat right, and I’m damn proud, it’s a weapon.
I reach the dining room before anyone else and debate whether to sit, which would hide the dress’s best feature. While I’m deciding, Dima enters. Every time I see him, I remind myself he can’t be as big and imposing as I remember. Yet he still fills the room with his broad shoulders and daunting height. I end up chewing my lip while my body reacts to his sheer size, and the thought of his other size clenches my lower belly. It’s all I can do not to squirm.
“Sergei is resting. He said he’ll have a tray in his room. The cough was bothering him earlier,” he says.
“Just the two of us,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. I smooth my dress, fighting to steady my breathing before my breasts spill over the neckline. I should have used garment tape.
Dima rounds the table and joins me, reaching to pull out my chair. When I sit, I hear the hiss of his breath as he registers the back, or lack, of my dress. My hair tickles my spine, and I glance at him over my shoulder, teasing. There’s nothing playful in his eyes. He’s predatory. Feral.
He doesn’t push my chair in as I expect. Instead, his warm, rough palm settles on my bare back, just above the curve of my waist, brushing the ends of my hair. The possessive contact sparks every nerve. He leans down, looming with that impossible height. I’m certain he can see my pulse hammering in my throat.
“Beautiful,” he says softly. “I hope your father feels better, but I’m not sorry he couldn’t make it to dinner.”
I turn toward him, my awareness still fixed on the place his hand branded my back. He’s closer than I realized, his face barely two inches from mine. Startled, a flicker of shyness slips in.
“That pretty mouth has been on my mind since you walked out of the boathouse,” he murmurs, voice dark and insinuating as smoke.
