Page 101 of Wicked Villain

The violent orgasm explodes inside me, and I scream his name.

Tightening his grip on my hips, he turns me around, so I’m on my hands and knees. Then he eases his cock back inside me.

“Now I’m going to fuck you properly,” he promises, but it feels like a warning.

I don’t get to think. My breath goes short as he starts moving inside me again. This position feels more intense and erotic, and his thrusts are more frantic than before.

He fucks me mercilessly, branding me with his cock and his unwavering stamina.

I come again, then I’m lost, cresting the waves of pleasure as he pulls one orgasm after another. And still, he keeps going.

The endless thrill heightens when he speeds up. Then he comes, too, and I savor the sensation of feeling his hot come inside me.

Moments later, he slows his pumps, then he slides out of me.

I slump onto the mattress, feeling spent and like I might pass out. He lowers his body to lie beside me and pulls me close.

I stare back at him for a moment, still trapped in the ravenous haze.

Lev cups my face. “Feel different, malyshka?”

“Yes,” I whisper. It’s not just my body that feels different. My entire soul does.

“Mine,” he rumbles. “You belong to me completely now.”

That should terrify me. It doesn’t.

He doesn’t feel like my enemy anymore.

And I want to belong to him.

I think I always did.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Lev

God, I want her again.

I don’t know how I could have been married to this woman for almost a month and denied myself of her. Now that I think about it, it sounds like torture.

I was the first man to stake my claim on her body in the ways that matter. Nothing can change that. Not money, not power.

Last night, I had her three times. Each time, I felt alive. Like someone had shaken me from a deep sleep and injected me with a dose of life.

I want to bury myself deep inside her again, and never leave.

But…

My wife is asleep in my arms, utterly drained from my relentless taking. And the sun has just come up.

It’s a new day with a new set of responsibilities to deal with. I try not to work Sundays, but I have Bratva business to tend to that can’t wait. I already pushed it back this week to focus on the whole Moretti thing.

While that’s important, I have to remember it’s important to me. Not the Brotherhood. I’m still trying to fill my father’s shoes. The last thing I want is for the men to start talking, and whispers of how I’m choosing my personal vendetta over the organization.

My phone buzzes in my pants on the floor, a signal that my day has officially begun.