Page 46 of Bloody Savage God
He’s goading me, but it’s impossible to resist the temptation.
“Hardly. I make men sweat for me plenty.” I cross the distance between us, wrapping my hand around his neck and pulling him forward into a kiss.
He tastes sweaty, the salty flavor a reminder that he risked his life less than an hour ago to help me. Or to help himself. Right now, that doesn’t matter, though I’ll be well-served to remember it after I fuck his brains out.
Jerking his hips forward, I feel his erection press against my lower belly. He’s taller than me, but that just allows me to make him bend to my will. Forcing him to lean down to meet my lips.
I’ve never understood why dominant women complain about height injustice. To me, having him bend low to meet my demands resembles a bow. And fuck if that doesn’t turn me on even more.
He still calls me a princess, but I’m a damn queen now. And I’m ready to make the rules.
“Get on the bed.”
Mikhail doesn’t take orders. I see it in the flash of defiance in his eyes. But he may be the prince of the Bratva, having men do what he tells them out of respect and fear, but I outrank him, and if he wants what I can give him, he’ll have to acquiesce.
And he does.
“We’re doing it old school then?” He quips, clearly unable to help himself.
“We’re doing it my way.” I cool my voice, and his eager cock bobs in response. Mikhail might like to pretend he doesn’t submit to me easily, but his body sure shows his desperation for me.
He scoots all the way to the top of the bed, which, unfortunately, has a solid headboard with little options for bondage. No matter. I can do without.
I grip his cargo pants and yank them down, using my fingernails to scratch down his legs in the process. The red lines that show on his skin a satisfying reward. Mikhail’s chuckle, on the other hand, is more aggravating.
“You need it as bad as me, don’t you princess?” he asks, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. “We’re both fucked in the head.”
He might have a point, but I’m not willing to tell him that. Instead, I pull back and slap his cock.
Mikhail sucks in air, making me grin.
“It certainly is satisfying to see you whimper.”
His outraged expression at my use of the word whimper makes me laugh. Not the feminine chuckle I use in business meetings, but a full belly laugh that, once started, is difficult to stop.
“Woman, you could hurt a guy’s ego, you know?”
That only makes me laugh harder. “I doubt anyone could put a dent into your ego.”
Grinning back at me Mikhail cocks his head to the side. “Then why don’t you put a dent in my body instead?”
That’s an invitation I’m not going to ignore. With his jeans off and shirt open, he’s laying there like a tattooed Adonis. If I had cut his clothing anywhere but his upper thighs I would have recognized his tattoos while he was in my dungeon, but no, I’d picked one of the only spots where his skin is unmarked.
Now, I lean forward tracing the ink in a way I didn’t take the time for at Club Steel. There are the usual skulls, a smoking gun, and bones, but he also has a detailed depiction of the printed version of the criminal code run through by a switchblade. The image makes me reach for the blade strapped to my ankle.
I press the tip of it right over the place where the inked switchblade cuts through the book and press down until I see a drop of blood.
“This is damn good,” I tell him. And it is.
Tattoos are sexy as fuck, even though I’d never allow anyone near my own body with a tattoo gun. Not because of an aversion to pain, but because I’d resent having anyone but me lay claim to my body in that way.
“Bet you got off when you had these done, didn’t you?” Not uncommon in masochists, after all.
Mikhail grinned. “Went to the hottest fucking tattoo artist I could find. She took a ride on me after she was done.”
I have my knife against his throat before I can think better of it. The mention of him fucking another woman bothering me in a way I didn’t expect.
Quickly I trail the blade down his chest where the faint line of my G still shows, ignoring his chuckle. I don’t like being transparent, but with Mikhail it’s almost impossible not to be. He can read me too easily, can guess at my motivations and ambitions quicker than anyone else. Which is fucked up, since we’ve spent less than five days in each other’s company.
