Page 35 of The Wrong Monster

“You’re going to be good for me, right? No fighting this time.”

“I thought you liked the fight in me,” I pant, half-wanting to twist around, but loving the feel of his weight on my thighs.

He hooks a thumb into the underwear and pulls them aside, sliding two fingers down to my soaked pussy and playing with me. The whine that slips out of me is desperate.

“Vasily,” I warn, not that I have any leverage here.

But for whatever reason, he gets the message and goes along with it. He leans forward, fisting his cock again, before guiding himself to nudge and stretch my entrance. It burns so good, my eyes roll back in my head as he pushes in, stuffing me, stretching me. It’s slow and controlled even though it feels like the room is dissolving around me.

I shouldn’t like being out of control so much.

He fucks me slow, murmuring to himself in Russian with one hand on my lower back, pinning me down.

The sound of it is loud and obscene. Impossible for it not to be, with how thick he is and how wet I am.

With a grunt, he picks up the pace. Just a little bit. Just enough to make me beg.

“God, I’m close.”

“You’re going to come for me like this.”

It’s not a question; it’s a statement.

I feel him lean over me, the power of his body arching my hips up off the bed as he sets a steady, fast pace. Each thrust feels like almost too much, but I want more somehow.

“Yes.”

Vasily reaches forward. His fingers grip my jaw, then push into my mouth, not cruelly, but firmly. Two rubbing across my tongue, back out to wet my lips, then back in. Fucking my mouth the same way he’s fucking me with his cock, filling me until I’m moaning around his fingers.

“I’m going to come in you,” he warns, again not a question or a threat, but a fact. “And you’re going to take it. Just like this.”

That’s it.

The orgasm ripples from my core to every inch of my body. My toes curl, thighs unable to spread thanks to the jeans still holding them hostage, and Vasily fucks me harder.

Everything is white, fuzzy, soundless, heavy, hot, vibrating as the waves crest over and over again. His fingers slip from my mouth as he grunts and braces himself, hips stuttering, cock slowing as ropes of cum pulse into my folds messily.

When it’s over, he drops onto the mattress next to me, facing the ceiling. Breathing hard.

God, he’s annoying.

Even like this the muscles in his biceps are sculpted and tantalizing with a sheen of sweat.

I lie there catching my breath, trying not to think about how much I liked that.

Trying not to wonder if this was, after all, my end-game.

Fucking the Bratva boss again.

Or rather, getting fucked by him. Liking the loss of control should bother me, so I push that thought away too.

After a few moments, without looking at me, he asks, “You’ll do it?”

Back to business.

I nod. That’s all he needs.

Vasily Borisov stands, dresses in silence behind me, and stalks to the bathroom. When he returns, he holds a towel out to me.