Page 151 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Words can lie, but my body can’t. I want him. Now, he knows it.

I push his pants down just far enough for him to free himself, and he pulls a condom from his wallet and slips it on. Then he’s inside of me.

My body stretches more with every inch, accommodating his size effortlessly. I hook my legs behind his lower back and arch my back, giving him more of me.

“Take me, Dima. All of me.”

For better or for worse, we’re together. In every sense of the word.

An easy, comfortable warmth builds low in my belly. I cling to Dima as he fills me again and again. I hold off my orgasm as long as possible, straining against the siren call of pleasure, but when I feel Dima twitch inside of me, I release.

My body clamps down on him, muscles I didn’t even know I had contracting and squeezing, holding onto this moment.

“Fuck,” he moans, pulsing into me again. “Khotel by ya etogo ne delat'.”

“What does that—”

Before I can finish asking what he said in Russian, he thrust hard into me and fucks the words right out of my head. He runs a hand through my hair and holds my face to his so we’re cheek to cheek as our bodies spasm.

He kisses me, long and hard, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.

I don’t know what the days ahead hold, but I trust Dima. With my life.

He won’t hurt me.

I know it.

Dima cleans himself up and I lay back on the table, sated and lazy. I can hear him fiddling with his clothes and keys, but I’m not ready to leave the quiet solitude we’ve found. Even if it is surrounded by weapons and drugs.

I hear the door open, and I know the time has come. We have to go back to reality.

I sigh. “Dima, I…”

“I’m sorry, Arya,” he interrupts. His voice is solemn.

I sit up in sudden concern. My body feels cold. The hairs on my arms are prickling up on end.

Dima is standing in the doorway. Clothes already on. Eyes downcast.

“For what?” I ask in a trembling voice. “I already told you I forgive you for everything.”

He shakes his head. “Not for that. I’m sorry for this.”

Then, with one last look into my eyes, he steps out of the room and pulls the door shut behind him.

I’m still staring at the inside of the door when I hear the lock thud into place.

53

Dima

Gennady is standing in the kitchen when I come up the stairs, his face pulled back in a wince. “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

I brush past him and grab my hit bag off the counter. It has guns, ammunition, and restraining devices. I have no idea what obstacles we could run into. I want to be prepared.

“It went ‘fine’? You just locked your girlfriend in the basement.”

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