Page 7 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

If I wasn’t dripping wet, taking in so much all at once may have hurt. But as it is, I feel like I could come right now. Right at the first stroke.

The man grips the swell of my hips in his hands tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pounds into me. Again and again.

The exam table is squealing in protest, metal cannisters of treats and cotton swabs vibrating off the table and scattering across the floor from our vigorous pace.

But I don’t care.

Break the supplies.

Break the table.

Breakme.

If it feels this good to be broken, I’ll take it and beg for more.

“You’re so big,” I moan, opening my legs wider, giving more of myself to this stranger.

He curses under his breath and then presses a hand to my chest, laying me back on the table. I throw my arms over my head and grip the edges of the table for stability, which I need desperately as soon as the man brushes the pad of his thumb over my center.

I arch my back. The table jumps underneath me. The legs rise off the floor for a moment before crashing back down when this bloodied stranger fucks into me again.

“Harder,” I beg, desperate for the feeling of a hand that isn’t my own. “Touch me. Make me come.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on his body beating against mine, beating inside of me. I focus on the feeling of having someone close, of being connected to someone—even if that “someone” is a gun-toting stranger.

In the end, that is what tips me over the edge.

Not the mindblowing way he fills me or the way he strokes at my center until I scream.

It’s that he’s real. He’s here.

I’m so fucking lonely that I come harder than I’ve ever come before, simply because he’s a living, breathing man and he’s touching me.

Wave after wave rips through me ruthlessly. I can’t breathe, see, or speak for what feels like an eternity.

And then, as so often happens, shame follows the pleasure.

I finish before he does, my body still warm and limp when he slams into me one last time and shudders. I can feel him unleashing inside of me and the doubts I should have had earlier arise.

He’s a stranger. A stranger who pointed a gun at me. Who locked me in an exam room and—

Well, he didn’t force himself on me. I wanted this.

But that only makes my shame worse.

The man pulls out of me and zips up his jeans. “Kakogo chyorta. That was…”

“A mistake,” I finish, scrambling off the table to grab a roll of paper towels from under the sink to clean up with. My panties are destroyed, so I’ll have to flag down a taxi while rolling commando.Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Police Officer Husband about this,” he reassures me with dark laughter on the edge of his voice.

Finally dressed, I glare up at him. His face is still hidden. The only illuminated light is positioned just behind his head, casting his hooded figure in silhouette.

Suddenly, I realize he kept his hood on the entire time. I still don’t know what he really looks like.

Maybe that’s for the best.

“God, this is a nightmare,” I mutter.

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