Page 83 of Auctioned to My Bratva Boss

Chapter Twenty-Three

Riley

Were the things he said true or false?

I didn't know. Didn't want to know.

"Riley, trust me, I'd do anything for you." His urgent voice stopped my hand on the door handle.

"Anything?" I looked at him. "Even swallow that damn pride of yours?"

I learned when I was five—promises like that were bullshit. Nobody could do anything for another person... He wouldn't even choose me firmly in front of Veronica. He was the pakhan of the bratva. He was powerful enough. Did he really need to be controlled by anyone?

Did he think a few words would make me understand him, trust him, then compromise myself for some so-called love?

"Whatever you want." He pulled me into his arms, holding me carefully. "Forget pride—you want the world, I'll give it to you."

Had Matvey lost his mind?

"I don't want the world. I want you to serve me." I forced the words through my teeth. "The way you demanded I serve you."

I'd bet that kind of servile obedience would make him feel humiliated and furious. Then he'd get pissed, decide I was unreasonable, dump me on the street, and drive off.

And this whole thing could finally be over.

"I will." He didn't get angry. There was even relief in his voice. "My princess."

What?

He kissed my ear, trailing down to my cheek. One hand cupped the back of my head while the other slipped under my clothes, kneading gently.

"Let's go somewhere else." He kissed me once more reluctantly before letting go, reaching for the wheel. "Soon."

The car stopped in front of a five-star hotel.

The second we walked into the hotel room, we crashed together. His mouth found mine with an urgency that stole my breath, but this time—God, this time was different. He kissed me like I was something precious, something that might break. His hands framed my face so gently I barely recognized them as the same ones that had gripped me so roughly before.

My heart stuttered. This wasn't the Matvey I knew.

His tongue swept against mine, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was savoring me. One hand slid into my hair while the other traced down my spine, leaving heat in its wake. I found myself melting into him, my fingers clutching his shirt.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, something in my chest went soft.

Before I could process it, he scooped me up. I yelped, grabbing his shoulders.

"What are you—"

"Shh." He carried me toward the bathroom. "Let me take care of you."

He set me down on the marble counter and turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the space as he came back to me, slowly peeling away my clothes. Each brush of his fingers was reverent, almost worshipful. He stripped me bare, then stepped back to look at me.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

My cheeks burned. "Stop staring."

"Never." But he guided me under the spray, following me in.

The hot water felt amazing, but it was nothing compared to his hands. He grabbed a washcloth and soap, lathering it up, then began washing me with an attention to detail that made my breath catch. He started with my shoulders, working his way down my arms, my back, my stomach.