Page 166 of The Wrong Brother

He hikes up my skirt and I struggle to help him remove my panties, feeling his cock already throbbing against me through the fabric of his slacks.

“Blyat’”he curses, knocking over a stack of post-it notes and paperclips. “I told you this room was too small.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to be fucking me in it,” I shoot back breathlessly, reaching over my shoulder to bury my fingers in his hair and tug.

He growls, a hand massaging my ass as my pussy pulses with how badly it wants attention.

“I wouldn’t be fucking you in here if you’d stop looking at me that way.”

“Whatway?”

“Like you want me to fill up that prettykiska.”

Somehow, hearing him say “pussy” in Russian only makes me wetter.

Impatient, I turn and grip his shirt, not caring that this jacket might tear or buttons come off the slim-waist dress shirt. Rus almost stumbles in surprise, and I use the momentum to push him back into a chair. It’s the only one in the room besides the desk chair.

He lets out a grunt as he lands, legs spread, erection a thick shadow down his left thigh.

“Take them off.”

He smirks. “You’re getting a bit demanding, Emma.”

With a shrug, I tell him, “Pregnancy rage,” and go to work on his belt myself. Rus knocks my hand away gently, undoing the clasp so slowly that I’m practically drooling on my knees in front of him.

He’s not wearing any underwear, and wraps his hand around his swollen length, pulling it out and pumping it slowly in front of me. Another gush of wet heat warms my thighs, and I clench them, needing friction, letting out a whimper.

Standing, I hike my skirt up and put a knee to one side of his hips, smirking as Rus’ eyebrows raise.

These days I’mmuchmore demanding when it comes to what I want.

My body and my brain aren’t working well together, though. While everything in me screams to ride him so hard we break this chair, I want this moment to last forever.

I want to feel him stretch me, fill me, for as long as possible.

So of course, I tease myself by gripping his shaft and dragging the head of his cock slowly through my soaked folds. When it hits my clit, I moan. I’m tempted to slip him inside, and Rus curses under me, his hips bucking.

But somehow I maintain self-control. I keep teasing myself, rubbing and rocking, making him slick with how wet I am. He has one hand on my hip, firm but not controlling, his brow knit and glasses almost falling off his nose.

“If you don’t fuck me right now,” my Bratva king growls, “I’m going to take you hostage again and keep you in my bedroom until you can’t speak English anymore.”

Part of me is tempted to mention that I’m relatively fluent in Spanish and picking up his Russian quickly. But my body is buzzing with electricity, pussy clenching around nothing, andall I want is him.I brace both hands on his shoulders and slam down on his length until he’s buried so deep inside me I almost come right there.

We cry out at the same time.

Rus’ fingers are going to leave bruises, but I don’t care. He buries his face in my tits, his hands massaging my waist as I ride him slowly, dragging my hips all the way up until I feel the head of his cock catch on my entrance.

“Oh, God,” I moan, teasing myself by barely taking him in.

“If you weren’t already pregnant…”

It’s a threat that only makes me want it more. I gaze down at him with heavy-lidded satisfaction.Thisis the kind of control I’ve always wanted in my life.

This is the kind of adoration I’ve never thought I deserved.

Until I met Ruslan Smirnov.

It all builds in increments; our pace picks up, the small room filled with the sound of our skin meeting over and over, the sound of Ruslan’s lips sucking and his teeth biting as I cry out at the pleasure-pain of it.