I move over to his chair, straddling his lap. I pull off his belt, draping it over the back of his chair. I unbutton his pants and unzip them. His erection pushes past the teeth of the zipper.
As I pull his pants down farther, he grabs me, pushing me off his lap and twisting me around. His body pushes against mine as he guides me to the waterfall-painted wall. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, keeping me pinned against the cold wall as he undoes my bra. He pulls me away from the wall to let it fall to the floor before pressing me back against the wall.
His cock barely brushes against my entrance before he slams into me. For all of his impatience, I’m wet enough that the pain is quickly overcome by the desire to have him moving faster and harder inside me. Our hips and thighs crash against each other. There’s a trust in the violence. I know he won’t take it too far. I know he’s fueled by love.
He pulls out of me, spins me around. When we kiss, there’s still a hint of sugar and wine in his mouth. He grabs me by the waist, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his hips. When he thrusts into me again, the barrage isn’t as frantic or harsh, but more sections of our bodies collide and my clit grinds against his waist with every thrust.
He pulls my back away from the wall, carrying my weight with his hands under my thighs. He buries his face in the curve of my neck. I breathe in his sweat, loving that he can be so familiar and so provocative at the same time.
He buries himself in me before winding his body against mine. My breath catches. He slides out of me, driving into me hard enough that a shock of pain glides up my spine as I hit the wall. His thrusts return to their merciless pace. After a short while, he kisses me hard, grinding against me again. He alternates between the slow and sensual and reckless abandon. He gets me higher and higher until I break.
The orgasm still takes me by surprise with its overpowering depth. My nails dig into Maksim’s shoulders as my body trembles, the pleasure rippling through me so rapidly, I’m lightheaded. As it grips me, my pussy squeezes Maksim’s cock into his orgasm. He explodes inside me, nearly dropping me before catching himself. With shaky legs, he barely manages to lower us onto the floor. He rests his chest against me and his face presses against my neck.
“You’re my everything,” he breathes out. I smile, knowing exactly how he feels. I slowly slip downward, resting on the floor. He slides down beside me, his legs moving to touch against mine. I weave my legs around his legs, keeping him locked with me.
We gaze at each other, absorbing the only love that matters.
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Sneak Preview of KOSTYA A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva)
I can buy my secretary’s submission—or I can take it the hard way.
My ex-wife’s fatal car crash left me with a cruel gift:
A daughter I never knew I had.
I am a billionaire. A mob boss. A titan.
Not a babysitter.
I need a woman’s touch to help raise my daughter.
My secretary doesn’t know it yet, but her life is about to change.
Charlotte is gorgeous. Feisty.
And best of all…
Desperate.
So from now on, we’re going to do things my way.
It starts with five little words:
“Let me own you, kitten.”
KOSTYA is a standalone, single dad mafia billionaire romance.
Kostya
Yeblya vecherinki. Fucking parties.
I don’t mind what I do for a living—the weapons, the threats, the blood. I don’t mind business deals in crowded boardrooms or surreptitious beatings in back alleys.
What I hate is people. I hate parties. Fundraisers. Endless goddamn galas.
Each one is the same as the next. The inane small talk. The glad-handing. The smiling—the endless, fake, thousand-megawatt-grin-with-expensive-veneers-fucking smiling—until I want to pound my fist against anything in striking distance.
And yet here I am, in yet another ballroom, for yet another party, with candles lit on every table, clinking silverware against fine china plates, the chandeliers’ dim light casting shadows on the corners while a spotlight throbs in time to the music.
I’m here because this cause is my cause. One close to my heart.
And still … Yeblya vecherinki.
“Kostya!” A blonde, in a room full of them, wanders over with her manicured nails like claws closing in on my Armani-clad arm. She’s dressed in sequins and diamonds with hair piled on top of her head and shoes that add another four inches to her already impressive height. Her skin has the same fake, store-bought tan as every woman in the room, but her confidence gives her a glow of superiority absent in most of the others.
I can’t think of her name. Charlotte would know, if only I’d thought to bring her. My cock twinges at the thought of my curvy, sexy assistant. I’d rather be glad-handing her ass instead of the idiots surrounding me.
But instead of cursing my oversight or concentrating on the pang of lust in my nether regions, I smile at the blonde and wait for the requisite kiss of greeting on my cheek. American women always go for the cheek first.
As soon as her lips peck against my skin, I pull back and look down. She’s fortyish, slender, and dull. But she reeks of money, and since her checkbook is undoubtedly the reason she made the guest list, I suppose I can be accommodating.
“I heard a rumor,” she drawls conspiratorially. Her voice is soft, toned by years of good breeding and grooming on the Los Angeles social circuit. “I heard you are designing the neonatal wing.”
Once, I was an architect, a builder, a man who
