Page 117 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

I’m mad with how much I want her. With how much I need to release the desire and want inside of my chest.

“You’re mine,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

Arya legs go of the comforter and drags her hand down my chest, her nails leaving light marks across my skin. “I’m yours, Dima. Fuck me like I’m yours.”

I pull out of her and flip her over in one fluid movement. Arya bends over the bed and spreads her legs, unfazed. I push back inside of her and then she brings her legs together, making the hold even tighter.

“Fuck,” I moan. I grab Arya’s hands and fold them across her lower back, using them like a leash, like a grip to better direct my movement.

As I thrust, I pull her back, and it feels so good I see stars in my vision.

“Harder,” Arya begs, her face buried in the mattress. “I’m close.”

I’m close, too, and I’m ready to bring us both home. To set us both free.

Giving her everything I have, I thrust into her again and again, and just when I think I’m going to have to release without letting her finish, Arya’s thighs turn to concrete against mine, and then her body goes fluid.

She’s already squeezing me so tight, but as the orgasm moves through her, I feel the muscles inside of her clench and hold. It’s the last straw.

I release into her, slowly thrusting my way through an orgasm that won’t seem to end. When it does, I lean forward, resting my head on her back. Feeling the rise and fall of her ragged breathing.

I fucking love this woman.

I love the way I feel when I’m inside of her—but I love the way I feel with her, too. Now, in post-orgasmic bliss, but also first thing in the morning when I see her in the curtain-filtered dawn light. Or before bed, when she’s bare-faced and sleepy.

I love her and there’s no looking back. No denying it. No moving on.

It’s Arya or nothing for me. Forever.

42

Arya

A Few Days Later

The kitchen in Dima’s house is incredible.

I haven’t spent much time in here because he has a chef who delivers meals most days, and cooking has never exactly been one of my strengths. Still, I love the shiny granite counters and stainless-steel appliances. Even just making a sandwich, I feel more professional in this kitchen.

“One day I’ll make you a sandwich, too,” I say to Lukas, smiling at him. “Yes, I will. But right now, just milk. Do you like milk?”

He smiles and coos. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

He looks more and more like Dima all the time, I think. Dima disagrees. He swear that Lukas looks just like me.

But I see Dima in his blue eyes and the curve of his upper lip. Occasionally, Lukas makes a frowny face that always makes me laugh because it looks just like Dima’s annoyed smolder.

Dima is in a meeting downstairs with his inner circle. They’ve been cooped up all morning, so when I hear footsteps behind me, I assume it’s him, finally finished with work.

“Hey there, you. I was just thinking about—”

But it’s not Dima.

It’s not Dima at all.

“Hi, Arya,” Vera says.

I haven’t seen Ilyasov’s wife since Dima and I went to Chicago together to visit them. Just before Ilyasov kidnapped Lukas from me.

---