Page 38 of Scarred Bratva King

“My turn,” I whisper, sliding off his lap and sinking to my knees in front of him. His eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his features, but he doesn’t stop me.

I unzip his pants, freeing his cock, already hard and straining against the confines of his boxers. I wrap my hand around him, savoring the way he groans at my touch, and lean forward to lick a stripe up his length.

His hand fists in my hair, firm but not harsh, tilting my head back until I meet his heated gaze. The flicker of control in his eyes sends a thrill rushing through me, and I can’t help but smirk as I lean forward, taking him into my mouth, inch by torturous inch.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound a low, guttural growl that makes my stomach flip. His grip tightens as I bob my head. My tongue swirls around him, teasing, tasting, and his hips jerk involuntarily.

When the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat, I don’t falter—I take him deeper, swallowing him fully as his breath shudders above me. The power in this moment hums through my veins, addictive and exhilarating.

He curses again, his control unraveling with every movement, every flick of my tongue. His muscles tense beneath my hands, and I know he’s close. I don’t let up, relishing the way I can reduce this composed, ruthless man to something raw and unguarded.

His orgasm comes with a guttural groan, his body shuddering as he spills down my throat. I take everything he gives, swallowing every drop, my eyes locked on his as I slowly pull back, my lips curling into a triumphant smirk.

“Good boy,” I murmur, my voice teasing as I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip and wink.

His chuckle is dark, breathless, and laced with satisfaction. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest tighten.

We move quickly as we straighten our clothes. I smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, fixing my blouse with a flick of my wrist, while he adjusts his tie in a mirror, his movements cool and efficient.

When we’re both presentable, he strides to the door with his usual commanding grace, pausing for only a moment to glance back at me. His voice is calm, authoritative, but there’s a subtle edge of amusement as he calls out, “You can come back in now.”

The staff enters moments later, their expressions carefully blank but their movements just a little too precise, as if they know exactly what happened in the short time they were asked to leave. Their professionalism doesn’t falter, though, and they glance at us only briefly.

Maxim, ever composed, slides an arm around my shoulders, the gesture both possessive and casual as he pulls me close. His charm turns on like a switch, and he flashes them a smile so dazzling it could disarm anyone who didn’t know better.

“We’ll take the chair,” he announces smoothly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Veronica thinks it’s perfect. Who am I to disagree?”

19

VERONICA

One week later…

The suite is a whirlwind of activity—stylists flitting around like hummingbirds.

The room smells of hairspray, and the soft hum of a steamer blends with the faint strains of classical music playing somewhere else in the mansion.

Elena marshals them all like she’s been doing this all her life.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the stranger in the reflection. My bruises have begun to fade. The woman in the mirror looks poised, elegant, and expensive. I don’t recognize her.

“Elena, this dress is a death trap,” I mutter, tugging at the fitted bodice for the tenth time since it imprisoned me. “How am I supposed to breathe, let alone walk down the aisle?”

She raises an amused eyebrow. “Women are supposed to suffer for beauty. It’s a rule.”

I twist to look at her, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, I’ve shaved every part of me that can be shaved apart from my eyebrows. Isn’t that suffering enough?”

“Butthole?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I mean have you shaved around that whole area?”

“I’m not a gorilla, Elena.”

“Of course not. Banana?” She laughs, setting down the clipboard and crossing the room to help adjust the gown. “Look, my lovely Vee. With a body like yours, you could go down the aisle in a hessian sack. Maxim would still combust.”

The mental image makes me snort. “That would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it? Just set him on fire right there at the altar.”

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