Page 70 of Cruel Russian King
“I’ve never felt this before,” he admitted, every word dripping with torment. “And now that I have, I can’t live without it. Ninel Rykov, you are mine. Do you understand?”
He palmed my pussy over the thin fabric of my panties and I closed my eyes and moaned.
“Ninel!” he growled.
My eyes shot open.
“Your husband is asking you a question. Do you understand that you are mine?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Because truth be told, I wanted nothing more than to be ruined by the man towering over me. Every inch of his presence set fire through my veins; the heat of his touch alone made my thoughts obscene.
“I’m not a man who makes love, Printsessa,” he growled. “I take what I want. When I want it. How I want it. Tell me you can handle that.”
And in that moment, a thought hit me: I’d always been trained to protect myself, to be ready for anything a Bratva man might throw at me. My brothers had taught Mariya and I never to be vulnerable. I was supposed to be the Bratva woman who could fight, withstand, survive. But with Artyom…there was something different. Here, under him, I felt a strange, aching relief. A need to release the part of me that always had to be tough. I wanted to let him be in control. He needed to be in control. And I wanted to give that to him.
“I can handle it,” I whispered, though my chest trembled.
In one swift, possessive motion, he tore my thong away, and I gasped at the sharp, exquisite sting that spread through me. Next, he ripped my dress and bra, leaving me bare before him, every curve exposed, every nerve alive under his gaze.
His lips hovered over my ear. “Finger yourself. Let me watch you coat your fingers with the sweet juices from your cunt.”
Then he lifted himself off me, and took a step back to the edge of the bed.
My face flushed. I had masterbated before but never to an audience.
“Printsessa…” The low rumble of his warning sent sparks running straight through my pussy.
I parted my legs slowly, trembling, and pushed two fingers into myself. I closed my eyes and thrust into myself creating a rhythm and moaned. But, instead of the shame I should've felt under his intense gaze, excitement and anticipation took over.
“Eyes on me, printsessa,” he demanded.
I obeyed, and I watched as he got rid of his clothes. First, he got rid of his shoes and socks. Then his fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, until he stood before me, shirtless.
I watched the wolf pack inked along Artyom’s neck roll over his broad shoulders, the fur etched into his skin shifting into black roses strangled by barbed wire. Across his chest, golden eyes of a wolf gleamed through the thorns, as if watching me…hungry, prowling, waiting to devour. His arms bore the same torment: roses bound tight, the barbs tearing into skeletal fingers that clawed their way free. My breath caught, and I couldn’t tear my gaze from him.
I moaned louder this time as just the thought of his naked chest press against me almost sent me over the edge.
As he stood there Irealized how much power he had here, how effortlessly he could dominate me, lift me, move me however he wanted. He was muscular and three times bigger than my tiny frame.
And yet…I wanted it.
My hands moved faster and I added another finger, as he eased his pants down. I was desperate to keep pace with the furnace that had been lit inside me.
Once he removed his pants and his boxers he stood there stroking his long, hard cock.
In the car, I’d been on top, and I couldn't appreciate the man standing in front of me. Here, with space between us, with him fully unleashed, in all his glory, he was a sight to behold.
Artyom was a master piece without his clothes on.
“You like what you see, printsessa?”
“Yes,” I breathed, almost a whimper.
“Are you ready to do everything I ask?” He took a step forward, his eyes on my pussy.
“Yes.”
