Page 43 of Bratva Daddy
This kiss was nothing like our first—that had been exploration, question, possibility. This was claiming, consuming, owning. His tongue invaded my mouth like he was conquering territory,mapping every surface, tasting every corner. He kissed me like he was trying to crawl inside my skin, like he could possess me through this alone.
I moaned into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there was no space between us. His hand in my hair controlled the angle, tilting my head where he wanted it, taking what he needed. The hand on my hip pulled me harder against him, and I felt his cock hard and insistent through his pants.
He bit my lower lip, sharp enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue. The contrast made me whimper, made me grind against him seeking friction I knew he wouldn't give me. Not yet. This was about establishing ownership, not satisfaction.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. My lips felt swollen, bruised, claimed. His eyes had gone dark as storm clouds, and the hunger in them made my stomach clench with anticipation.
"Daddy," I gasped, the word falling from my lips like a prayer.
"That's right, baby girl," he growled against my throat, teeth finding the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. He bit down hard, marking me, and I cried out at the sharp pleasure-pain of it. "Daddy's got you now."
Chapter 9
Alexei
Iliftedherfrommylap in one smooth motion, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, like her body already knew how we fit together. The small gasp she made when I stood—half surprise, half need—went straight to my cock. Her mouth found my neck immediately, not kissing but breathing against my skin like she needed my scent to survive.
"Hold on, little one," I murmured against her hair, though her arms were already locked around my shoulders with desperate strength.
The walk down the hallway stretched longer than the physics of time should have allowed. Every step made her shift against me, her breasts pressed to my chest through that thin sweater, her core hot against my stomach even through our clothes. She made these small sounds—not quite moans, not quite whimpers—that tested every ounce of control I'd built over fifteen years of leading the bratva.
This hallway had been off-limits since she'd arrived. She'd tested that boundary exactly once, on day three, and the consequences had been swift enough that she'd never tried again. Now I was carrying her into my inner sanctum, the place where Alexei Volkov stopped being the pakhan and became just a man with specific needs, specific hungers.
Her teeth grazed my neck, not quite a bite but close, and I squeezed her ass in warning. "Behave," I growled, though we both knew I didn't really want her to.
"Can't," she whispered against my throat. "Need you too much."
Christ. This woman would be my undoing. Twenty-three years old, sheltered, inexperienced, and she'd already figured out exactly how to destroy my carefully constructed walls with a few choice words.
I shouldered open my bedroom door, and her soft gasp against my skin made me harder than I'd thought possible. She lifted her head from my neck, taking in the space that even my brothers had never seen.
The room was my truth laid bare. Black silk sheets, chosen because I'd wanted to see pale skin against dark fabric. Dark wood furniture built to withstand considerable force—the bed frame alone was reinforced with steel beneath the antique Russian oak veneer. The subtle hooks in the ceiling that looked like part of the crown molding unless you knew what to look for. The St. Andrew's cross in the corner, currently draped with a silk robe so it appeared to be merely an unusual coat rack.
But Clara saw it all. I watched her eyes track across every detail, understanding dawning in her expression. This wasn't just a bedroom. This was a carefully constructed playground for very specific games.
"Alexei," she breathed, and I felt her pulse accelerate where her chest pressed against mine.
I set her on her feet beside my bed, keeping my hands on her waist until I was sure her legs would hold her. She swayed slightly, looking up at me with those hazel eyes blown dark with want and just a hint of fear.
Good.
She should be a little afraid. She was about to give herself to a man who'd killed without hesitation, who'd built an empire on blood and discipline, who had very particular ideas about ownership.
"Last door to walk through," I said, framing her face with my hands. Her skin felt fever-hot against my palms, and I could feel her trembling—not from cold but from anticipation. "Once you're in my bed, there's no going back to how things were."
Her pupils dilated further, her breath coming in quick little pants that made her breasts rise and fall in a rhythm that hypnotized me.
"I'm already yours," she whispered, turning her head to press a kiss to my palm.
"No." The word came out rougher than intended. I traced her lower lip with my thumb, watching it part automatically for me. "That was paper. A contract. Words and signatures and agreements. This is possession. This is me claiming every inch of you, marking you inside and out, making sure you never forget who you belong to."
She shuddered, and I felt the movement through my whole body like an electric current.
I stepped back, needing distance before I lost control completely and just tore her clothes off. That would come later. First, I wanted to savor this—the last moments before everything changed irrevocably. I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide, the position of a king on his throne.
"Strip for me," I commanded, voice dropping to that register that made her knees weak. "Slowly. I want to see what belongs to me now."
Her hands shook as she reached for her sweater hem, then stopped. Color flooded her cheeks, and she looked down, suddenly shy. This wasn't the defiant woman who'd thrown plates at my wall or called me Daddy with mocking sarcasm. This was Clara stripped of armor, vulnerable and unsure.
