Page 135 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Careful of your arm,” I warn, sliding my fingers over the bandage.

He turns his head and kisses my hand. Then, he grabs my wrist and slides each of my fingers deep into his mouth, sucking on them on the way out.

He acts like he wants to devour me. I’ve never been more willing to be consumed.

Dima kisses each of my breasts and then my ribs, making his way down my body. He presses his lips to the divot of my hips, to the supple skin of my thighs, and then, he parts me.

My legs fall to the side, and Dima runs his hands up the inside of my thighs, tickling the sensitive skin there. I giggle instinctively, but when his fingers find my center and slide up and down, there’s nothing to laugh about.

He opens me with his fingers and lowers his head, pressing a kiss there, too.

I cry out instantly, overwhelmed by his touch and his care. Overwhelmed that this is happening at all. After the way he looked at me, the way he choked me and pinned me against the hood of his car, I didn’t know if it ever would again.

His tongue draws circles over me until I’m writhing against his mouth, needy for him, begging.

Only then does he reach down and slide two fingers inside of me.

Immediately, I’m being assaulted from all sides. His fingers are curling against my insides while his mouth worships me on the outside. I feel like I’m floating. Truly, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was levitating.

When the warmth inside of me grows into an all-consuming fire, I throw my head back and scream at the ceiling.

“Dima. My God. Yes. Like that. Fuck me.”

I don’t know what I’m saying, but I can’t stop saying it. I can’t control anything about my body as I convulse and twist and roll under his touch.

As the pleasure begins to withdraw, leaving behind the warmth and the ease, I relax into the mattress and close my eyes.

Dima works me down. The same concern he showed in taking me there, he shows in bringing me back. He presses kisses to my center—gentle, grateful kisses. Then he crawls over me and presses those same kisses against my lips.

I can taste myself on him and I like it.

I want him to taste like me and smell like me. I want to mark him as my property so no one else can touch him. So he can’t touch anyone else.

“You called me ‘God,’” he says, his eyebrows wagging with amusement.

“Did I?” I run my hands through his dark, curled hair and pull him down to my lips again, kissing him slowly and lazily.

“You did.” He massages my arms and my shoulders. He straddles me and holds my breasts in each of his hand as if he’s trying to commit them to memory. I want to tell him he has all the time in the world for that, but I can’t seem to find my voice when he’s looking at me like that. “I liked it.”

“I’m sure you did,” I say finally, pushing on his chest so he collapses on the bed next to me. “Cocky men like you always like things like that.”

I crawl over him and undo his jeans. He lifts his hips so I can slide them down his legs. Through his boxers, I can see his significant erection.

Then I slide his boxers down too, revealing him, and Dima puts his hands behind his head, propping himself up so he has a better view.

I move up his body slowly, taking him in my hands, and then, with my eyes locked on his, I slide my tongue up the back of him from base to tip.

His eyes flutter closed as he groans.

I do it again and then slide my lips over him, letting him into the warmth of my mouth. His thighs clench under my fingers. I can feel his entire body tensing with the effort to control himself.

It feels good to bring a man like Dima to his metaphorical knees. To be able to draw things out of him no one else can.

I work him with my mouth, up and down, alternating the pace and the rhythm until he’s trembling underneath me and twitching in my mouth.

Only then do I slide off of him and move up to straddle his hips.

Suddenly, something occurs to me. “Do you have a condom?”

---