Page 8 of Nurse for the Russian Mafia

“It would just make me want you more. But don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do. We’re soul mates, Samantha, and we always have to be honest with each other. Always.”

She whimpers as I find the engorged urgency of her needy little clit. “N-no,” she says. “Never. Does that make me lame?”

“It makes you mine,” I tell her firmly. “Every experience, we’ll share together. I will show you how sexy and sensual you are. These musical moans are for my ears only. If another man heard you sigh like this, the sexiest fucking noise in the world, it would be the last thing he ever heard. Tell me who you belong to as you come. Do you understand? When you come, say it.”

“Y-y-yes, Alexander.”

I brace one hand on her back, pulling her close to me. Then I press my middle finger against the unschooled nub of her clit, loving how responsive she is, loving the surprised notes in her ecstatic sighs. The faster I rub her, the more urgent the sighs get.

Soon, she buries her face in my chest and moans, her warm lips grinding over my skin. She bites onto my stony pectoral muscles as I press another finger onto the aching point of pleasure.

“I’m not going inside you, yet.” I tell her, struggling to control my own voice.

My balls feel like they could explode, but I want to save my seed for her fertile womb. My explosion is going to go inside of her and make a life neither of us could’ve dreamed of before we laid eyes on each other.

“Do you know why?”

I rub her quicker, more firmly.

“W-w-why?” she moans gorgeously.

“Because that’s for my wet, hot cock. When I finally drive inside of you, it’s going to be to make a child. Are you close, Samantha?”

“I think so,” she whispers, her voice choked.

I fist her hair and pull her closer, and now palm her whole pussy, rubbing her lips and her clit, feeling the wetness spread like precious elixir across my palm.

“Yes-yes-yes,” she gasps.

“Say it,” I snarl.

“I belong to you,” she moans, her whole body trembling.

“Nobody else, baby.”

“Nobody else.”

“Never, Samantha. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

“Yes!” she moans, her majestic squirting euphoria soaking my hand.

I lift my hand from her pants after her orgasm. Her eyes are as wide as saucers as I bring my slick fingers to my lips and suck off her offering.

“You’re my goddess,” I growl, slurping my fingers one by one, delighting in the tangy taste of her, “and this is my prize for worshipping at the altar of your sex. And, one day, one day very soon, you’ll give me another prize. Children, and lots of them.”

Before she can speak, a floorboard creaks from upstairs. She flinches and backs away. “We can’t do this now,” she mutters. “I…I have to go.”

“Tell me again,” I command her.

“I’m yours,” she whispers. “Only yours, Alexander. But I really have to go.”

I watch her leave, my manhood like a rocket ship ready to blast off as I stare at her swaying, maternal covered hips. It takes all my self-control not to leap across the room and peel away those sweatpants.

But no, I have waited forty-two years for the woman of my dreams.

I can wait just a little longer.

When I finally let myself go, it will be inside of her, and she won’t know what hit her.

Chapter Six

Samantha

My head is like a fairground ride as I go to bed, spinning around and around. I feel like I am trying to put a puzzle together with half the pieces missing. The aftershocks of the orgasm cling to me, spreading the desire across me like a balm of adrenalin.

But there is always that niggling doubt.

What if this is a trick?

What if this is a sick game?

And he’s my dad’s best freaking friend, and he’s in the Bratva. No, not in the Bratva. He is the Bratva.

It’s so hard to believe that he wants me even more now that he knows I’m a virgin. I want to believe it so badly, though, as fantasies fill my mind. I see myself standing in a voluminous kitchen with dozens of children gathered around me, some older, some basically babies, but all of them with a little dash of Alexander, and a little dash of me.

I want it, but I’ve been humiliated in the past. Humiliation like that leaves a scar that does not just magically heal overnight.

I barely sleep and, the next morning, I go into the kitchen to make breakfast. When Dad tells me that Alexander has gone out to collect a few things, I try to hide my disappointment. Dad still doesn’t know that he’s claimed me, that I’ve given myself to him.

“Dad,” I say as we sit at the kitchen table.

He is spreading jam across his burnt-brown toast, just the way he likes it, and I’m about to tuck into some pastries. It’s impossible to maintain the full figure that Alexander says he adores without eating some much-needed calories, and I honestly think it’s self-abuse to have just an apple or a couple of bites of air for breakfast.

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