I settle instead for spooning my glorious, naughty bratva princess and cupping her dripping wet pussy possessively.
“This pussy is mine,” I growl into her ear, even though she’s mostly asleep. I stroke her swollen, slick sex. “It gets wet for me, doesn’t it? Only for me.”
Her breath catches a bit, and she stirs, pushing her backside against my straining cock.
“I’m the only man who will ever know how fucking sweet it is. How it feels when you’re swollen and needy. How it tastes when you’re trembling against my mouth.”
She lets out a whimper-sigh.
“You were a good girl to save yourself for me.”
Her breathing stops.
After a moment of holding it, she rolls over to face me, her hands finding my chest in the darkness. “How did you know?”
I gather her against my body, ignoring the powerful need to consummate our marriage. To pound between those milky thighs until she screams herself hoarse. “Am I right?”
She whimpers and tucks her face into my shoulder after a few moments, her breathing evens out again, and I realize she’s fallen back to sleep.
It’s answer enough. My bride is innocent.
Not for long, though.
I will pop that cherry before we return to Chicago.
Chapter 10
Sasha
I wake naked in a room in Chateau Marmont with Maxim’s longer body spooned behind mine, his hand palming my breast, his cock twitching against my ass.
Gospodi.
My face heats as the memories from last night flood in. How much of my true self I revealed—my hurt over his rejection. My virginity.
Ack!
Was that why he didn’t have sex with me last night? Was he being a gentleman?
I realize with a squirmy feeling in my belly that I think that was exactly it.
And I don’t like to think of Maxim as a gentleman. I want to keep believing he’s the bad guy.
It makes things much easier.
Navigating a new forced marriage to a guy I actually want? A guy whose love I crave like my next breath?
That’s a different story. One I could slip into so easily.
I don’t want to become that needy, pathetic, desperate-for-attention teenager again. I fucking hate her.
So I flip the script. I can’t wait in this bed, trembling like a flower to feel what it’s like to have my virginity plucked by the husband my father forced on me. I’m not going to be the medieval princess! I turn in bed, pushing Maxim to his back with a hand on his inked chest.
His eyes snap open and lock onto mine, curiosity glinting there.
I’m used to him making the first move. He’s the aggressor. I dodge and retreat. So for one second, out of habit, I wait for his reaction. I expect him to say or do something. To tell me to stop or go on. But his lids droop as he waits, and just like that, all the power flows to me.
To keep it, I have to pretend he’s someone else—one of the college guys I plucked from a bar or one of my father’s dumber soldiers. Some guy who lets me call all the shots. I trail my fingernail down his chest as I straddle him. I flick his nipple with my fingernail until it peaks while I crawl backward, taking the sheets with me.
His cock springs up in greeting. I grasp the base firmly and lower my mouth, watching his eyes darken. I flick the head of his cock with the tip of my tongue—just a tease.
A muscle ticks near Maxim’s nose—like the start of a snarl, but then it quickly smooths. The sight of it makes my heart beat faster.
It’s not Maxim. It’s some boy-toy. Someone easy to play.
I squeeze the base of his dick and lick all around his mushroom head. A drop of pre-cum leaks from his slit, and I lick it off. I sense his impatience. He doesn’t like the tease. Or maybe he does—I can’t tell. Maybe I’m just nervous. But I stop delaying and engulf as much of his cock as I can get into my mouth all at once.
He groans, fisting the sheets by his side.
Encouraged, I bob my head up and down over his straining member, listening to his breath grow ragged.
“That’s it, sugar,” he rumbles, gripping the back of my head and encouraging me to take him deeper.
He’s back in command, but I keep showing off, suddenly rather desperate to show him I know what I’m doing. I give him my very best blow-job—and sucking men off is a skill I’ve developed well.
I massage his balls and his prostate with one hand while the other fist glides up and down over his cock to make up for the length I can’t fit in my mouth. I swirl my tongue around, I suck hard. I alternate quick, short bobs over the head with taking him long and deep, into the pocket of my cheek and sometimes into the back of my throat.
His thighs flex beneath me, his groans of my name grow more frequent. His fist tangles in my hair, pulling at my scalp.
It’s disrespectful—no man’s ever done it to me before, and I half-hate it. But I half-love it, too. It’s so Maxim—everything he is. Aggressive, bossy, confident. I’m turned on by it—more turned on than I’ve ever been giving a man pleasure before. Way more.
I work his cock like I want to please. I don’t know if I’m trying to prove something or if I really do need to please the man. All I know is I suck so hard my jaw aches, and I don’t stop, even when my eyes water from him hitting the back of my throat.
“Fuck, Sasha, fuck,” he growls. “I’m going to come.”
I don’t pop off. I swallow like a good girl. I lick him clean, and then I sit back on his thighs and wipe my mouth, watching him watching me.
“Sugar.” He reaches for me, but I dismount from the bed and walk to the bathroom, letting my hips sway to show off my bare ass. I shut the door and start the shower, my heart pounding.
Shit. I’m so in over my head. My body is all hot and needy. I’ve never wanted to have sex so badly in my life. Part of me wishes I’d let Maxim pull me down beside him and do whatever it is he wanted to with me.
But there’s another part of me freaking out.
Freaking the fuck out.
I don’t even know what I’m freaking out about. I step into the shower and wash everywhere, like the soap and shampoo will somehow cleanse me of this gnawing anxiety.
And that’s when it hits me: I can’t do this with Maxim.
It’s way too scary. Because if he doesn’t hate me, if I stop refusing to sleep with him…
Then we’re something else. We’re my parents—the bratva boss and his woman.
I’m his wife not his mistress, but it’s no different. Maxim is just like my father. And me? The very heart of me?
I fear I could be just as pathetic as my mother.
What if I’m as needy as she was? Waiting around for her man to throw her the scraps of his attention. Being at the ready to perform for him, to please him, from the moment he walked in the door until the moment he walked right back out. Her job was to look beautiful, satisfy him in bed and obey his orders.
She played the role to perfection, and he still didn’t leave her with a dime. He literally gave her to his right-hand man, like she was a possession to be handed down.
Just like he gave me to Maxim.
So I’m not going to be like her. End of story. I’m not going to fall for Maxim and throw myself at his feet and wait for his scraps of attention. I will figure out how to live with him without losing my heart.