Page 59 of Bratva Queen

There, I took her to the furthest, darkest corner, and pushed her hands above her head against the wall, attacking her full mouth with a deep, soul-capturing kiss. She kept them there while I let my hands drag down over her tits, wrenching her clothes down to let her nipples pop out and into my mouth.

“Yes, baby…” she moaned quietly.

My fingers, after pinching those tight, hard nipples, dipped under her dress and into her soaking wet pussy.

“Hmmm,” I growled against her mouth. “So fucking wet, Isabel.”

“You do this to me,” she said in a weak voice, dropping her hands to my shoulders and lifting her leg to wrap around my hip. “Now make the most of it and slide into me. I’m begging you.”

I clenched my jaw and yanked her body up against the wall, kissing her as I held my dick in place and let her fall onto me. She came after a few strokes deep inside her, and she was so magically tight around me, I couldn’t help but be fast to finish also. It was convenient though, given the circumstances.

* * *

Isabel,while I was in Saint Petersburg, had become the strongest woman I’d ever known. She explained to me the ways she’d protected her boys from Stepan, back before she was imprisoned, by taking the blame for their naughty behavior rather than letting him try to discipline them himself. She admitted to having stashed a lot of money under the floorboards of her bedroom. She had specific knocks against her door for Lev or for the maids that could be trusted, to know when Stepan was gone or on his way back.

Most other women would have given up after the first few beatings and cowered before his raised hand, but she stood up and took it, with her boys behind her back. I heard this from not only Lev but some of the house staff as well. She’d never let him steal her flame or her absolute will to live her life on her terms, no matter what circumstances she had deal with.

Some nights since I’d been back, she would be let out of her little prison to hang on Stepan’s arm at some fancy event. On one particular evening, she wore a floor-length black dress with long sleeves and a low backline. It reminded me of her wedding dress, only this time, I was going to make sure that I was the one to slide the dress from her milky body.

Before walking out, she sidled past me and lifted a shoulder, speaking softly. “What about poison? Sorokin will be there tonight; it could be so easy to pin Stepan’s death on him.”

I narrowed my eyes, lifting the corner of my lips in a smile. “Too easy. Too merciful.”

She smiled and nodded. “Too true.”

I had so much respect for her strength of character as well. Not only was she now cheating on Stepan with me—causing her to have to keep yet another secret from him—but also kept her abusive home life a secret from the rest of the community. Some of these events, such as this one, I would join in as their personal guard and see her work her magic on the wives or even the secret girlfriends. She knew not to create enemies, and she knew not to accept bullshit either.

Later in the evening, she disappeared through the doorways toward the powder room. I saw one of the lustier husbands look around, and then head in the same direction. As I rounded the corner, I heard him speak in hushed tones. “Isabel Koslov, apparently you used to dance for a living.” This was a particularly handsome, charming, and successful associate of Sorokin’s. He thought he could get away with anything. “What if I told you I wanted to see you dance… on my—”

By the time I got there, he’d already suffered a hard knee jab to the nuts and stood quivering against the wall. I wondered how many women that kind of line had actually worked on. Probably a handful, judging by the sound of his confidence.

I smiled, and when Isabel turned her look of wrath onto me, it melted away. I winked at her, a gesture to show that I was proud of my girl. She blushed and continued on toward the ladies’ room.

Later that night, Stepan came to me with a gaggle of drunken men following behind him and told me he’d be out for the night. “Get my wife home,” he said sourly, then lowered his voice and added, “and locked up again. Maybe even in the basement.” He burst out into laughter, so drunk on whiskey that his own delusional cruelty was a joke to him.

All it really did was send me right into Isabel’s bedroom behind her, and only then, locking the door. I’d have said that his behavior made it easier to do what we were doing, but truthfully, I felt no remorse for thatd’yavolat all.

I slowly stripped her of the black dress, running my lips down her bare shoulder. “So, I heard that you used to dance for a living…”

She giggled and slapped my shoulder softly, turning around as the dress dropped and revealed her body clad in only a sexy strapless black bra and lace thong. “Baby,” she said, pushing her hip out to put her hand on it and tip her head to the side seductively, “I’ll dance on your dick anytime.”

I smiled widely. “Oh, yeah?” I took her hand, helping her step out of the dress since she still had her heels on. “Come prove it, my sexy stripper.”

I led her to the couch in her room and sat down, pushing back with my legs wide apart. She had a defiant smirk on her face and said, “You know, somehow when you say it, I feel proud of that part of me.”

“Oh,” I held out my hands, gesturing to her body, “you should; you were the best of the best, and I only ever got one dance.”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement at that memory, and she turned into a blushing, lip-biting seductress. She waved her hips from side to side playfully, then turned around and rolled her ass up for me. I reached out and slid my fingers into her thong, right along her pussy lips, stroking her slowly. She stopped dancing and leaned forward against the coffee table with a lusty sigh.

“Oh no, you keep dancing, baby. Only this time, I’m going to touch you every single way I wanted to that night.”

Chapter23

Isabel

“Misha, honey, slow down!” I laughed, feeling the wind brush my hair as he sped past me in the playroom. I had Ivan in front of me, on his back on a blanket, laying under a wide stand of colorful hanging toys, swinging his arms toward them and laughing when I blew raspberries against his adorable little feet. Dmitry was right next to me, both of us lying on our stomachs.

“Mama, look!” he said excitedly every time he’d added a Lego to his little pile of construction. I could already see his personality blooming; he was growing into somewhat of a perfectionist with all the same colors piled onto each other, each little “building” its own color. It was excellent mind work for a three-year-old, and I felt so impressed and proud.

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