Page 18 of Traded & Bred By the Bratva
Then I rise and settle my hard, aching cock between her legs, rubbing the thick head through her slick folds. “Look at me,” I command.
Her eyes meet mine, dazed with pleasure. “You’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she whispers, and I thrust deep in one smooth stroke, burying myself to the hilt in her tight heat.
“Fuck,” I groan. Nothing feels better than this.
Nothing. This is my salvation.
She’s my salvation.
I set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, claiming every inch of her. She wraps her legs around me, nails raking down my back. “That’s it, baby. Take my cock. This pussy was made for me.”
I fuck her for a long time, hard and deep, then slower. I’ll never get enough of her and force myself to not come so I can prolong every moment with her.
I flip her onto her hands and knees and take her from behind, one hand fisted gently in her hair and whisper filthy praises in her ear, “Good little girl, milking my cock so perfectly.”
The words make her come again, harder this time, her walls pulsing around me until I can’t hold back. I spill deep inside her with a guttural groan, marking her as mine.
Afterward, I pull her against my chest, stroking her hair as our breathing evens out. The adrenaline from the day mixes with the high of having her.
This must be what happiness feels like. I trace lazy circles on her back, content in the silence.
I still haven’t asked her why she put herself up for auction. The question burns in my throat every time I look at her. Why does a woman like Sydney need that kind of money for a full year? What desperation drove her to sell herself to a stranger?
I don’t ask because I’m not ready to hear an answer that would give an end to our time together. She’s mine for a year, but what if she wants to leave as soon as she’s fixed whatever it is she needed the money for?
And part of me selfishly wants her to tell me without having to ask. I want her to trust me enough to tell me herself, to share more of herself than just her body. She hasn’t told me anything about herself, not even about Ben.
So, I haven’t brought him up either. It’s a messed-up situation that I don’t know how to solve. But my entire life is a fucked-up, made-up mess right now, so I cowardly push our relationship to something I’ll deal with later.
For now, I just pull her closer, grateful she’s here for me to fuck every evening. And grateful she’s here for me to hold every night as I go to sleep.
The next morning,I’m back in the usual game.
I meet with Mercer in his sleek downtown office. The warm day has him sweating, despite the AC. I lay out the next phase of the off-shore “investments.” He should pay more attention to the details, but he’s too greedy to care. Plus, we’ve been doing business together for almost three years now. Surely, I wouldn’t betray him?
I would and I will.
By next week, we’ll have the final transfers ready. The evidence against him is ironclad. The Kedrov family will finally have its revenge. The only detail left to work out is whether Mercer findsout who took him down as he sits in prison, or in real time, while we’re crushing his life.
I spend the rest of the day in my cover office, reviewing reports, making calls that tighten the noose. Progress feels good.
Revenge will feel even better.
By late afternoon, I’m buzzing with sexual frustration, eager to get back to Sydney.
But first, there’s a meeting with Rik on the schedule.
The Kedrov Pakhan doesn’t summon people lightly. I drive to the secure location on the outskirts, an old warehouse converted into a fortress. Guards nod me through. To them, I’m just some shady businessman who’s meeting with their boss. They have no idea I’m part of the family. Only my Pakhan and my half-brother knows that.
But he thinks I gave up the Bratva life to become a common white-collar criminal. That I betrayed the family. We haven’t talked for three years.
Rik is waiting in the back room, flanked by two of his most trusted men. He’s a decade older than me, but in excellent shape, sharp-eyed, and wicked smart. The kind of man who built an empire on blood and loyalty.
He waves his men out of the room. “Maxim,” he greets me, voice low. We clasp forearms. “Progress?” He grew up on the streets of Moscow, but then went to school in England. The Slavic language still colors his crisp British accent.
“Mercer is finished,” I tell him. “One more week, maybe two. His company will be ours to dismantle. The trafficking routes are already disrupted. The family will have justice.”
