Page 20 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
His expression... changes. It hardens, and molten silver flashes in his hazel eyes. He presses his hand flat against my stomach. It's a primal gesture—a claim. My breath hitches. My eyes go wide. Panic, cold and sharp, floods my system.
Oh, God. "Anton." I croak out. "Oh, God. We... we didn't... protection. I forgot..."
I'm in full panic mode. Shaking so hard that I need to grip his arms, where they are wrapping my waist, to steady myself. I'm the girl who is always careful. The girl who can't afford a mistake. And I just made the biggest mistake of my life.
"God, I'm so stupid. I... I can't... I can't be... not now... I have only two classes left before my degree. How could we be so careless?"
"No." He growls, cutting me off. His eyes are like chips of ice. "I did not forget," he lies.He has to be lying.
"What?"
"I did not forget. Talia. I don't make those kinds of mistakes." He squeezes my waist gently as if a delicate, fragile life is already blooming there. "I want you to have my baby."
My mouth falls open. "You're... you're insane."
"Da. But I am not wrong. I am claiming you, Talia. All of you." He's... he's serious. He's dead serious. "I am filling you again and again, and praying to a God I barely believe in that it takes. I want my son—or my daughter—growing inside you. I want to watch your belly swell. You will be tied to me in a way you can never escape."
"That's... that's a prison," I whisper, but my hands are clinging to his arms, holding on like he's the only solid thing in the world.
"It is a fortress," he corrects. "And you will be its queen. I will never let you be disposable, Talia. I told you, you are mine. Those were not empty words, moya zhena. My wife."
Wife.
I stare at him, my face a mask of fear and a feeling I'm terrified to name.Hope."I'm scared," I admit, my voice trembling. "I'm scared of what we could be."
"Nyet." He kisses my forehead. "Don't be. I see you, malen'kaya. I see all of you. You are not the broken girl with a ruined boot. You are the woman who looked the Pakhan of the Ismailov Bratva in the eye and said no. You are stronger than you know."
He leads me back to the bed. The day passes in a blur. We eat. We talk. He learns... everything. The names of foster mothers I've tried to forget, the schools, the dreams I've buried so deep they're lost. And he tries again to give me a gift. "Tell me what you want," he says later. We're curled on his lap, a sheet draped over us. "I told you. Anything. How can I give you the world if you won't tell me what part you want first?"
I laugh. The sound is soft, new. "I don't need or want anything, Anton. Not now." I sigh, settling back against his chest. "This is... this is more than I've had in... ever."
"There must be something," he presses. His need to give me something bruising my independence.
"I'm not a child, Anton."
"Humor me."
I'm quiet for a long time, but he quietly waits. I'm so relaxed, so warm, the memory just... floats up. "I honestly don't know." I bite my lip and swallow hard. It's been a while since anyone asked—or cared. "Once, when I was little... maybe eight or nine... I was in this one house, the McKinleys. Their daughter, Emily... she got this stuffed Snoopy for Christmas. A big one. He was so soft, and he had this bright, shiny red ribbon around his neck."
I pause, the moment so clear, so sharp, it aches. "I wanted it," I whisper, "I've never wanted anything so much. I wanted it so bad I almost stole it. I had it in my backpack. But I got... scared.It was too big to hide, so I put it back. When I was moved a few weeks later, all I could think about was that I'd never see that Snoopy again. I cried like I'd lost my mother all over again. I kept thinking if my mother were alive, I'd have my own." I laugh, a small, sad sound, hiding my face in his chest. "Stupid, right. All that... for a stuffed dog. And before you ask, no, I don't want a giant Snoopy." I laugh at the way he narrows his eyes. Yep, he was planning it. "Besides, I don't think they even make them anymore. I haven't seen one in years."
He doesn't say anything. He just kisses the top of my head and holds me tighter. The rest of the holiday weekend is... a dream. A strange, decadent, sexual dream. We don't leave the penthouse. He has food delivered, but he meets the deliveryman in the hall. He's... hiding me. I am his secret.
He continues my education, turning the sprawling bed into our private classroom, his commanding presence both patient and unrelenting as he unravels me layer by layer. On Christmas afternoon, after a lazy meal of delivered caviar and champagne, he starts with my body—teaching me its secrets like a map only he can read. He positions me on my back, legs spread wide, his bear-sized hands pinning my thighs open as he kneels between them. "Watch me, malen'kaya," he commands, in a low voice that pulses through my core. His fingers part my folds, exposing the sensitive flesh still flushed from our earlier encounters, and he blows a cool breath over my clit, which has me gasping and bucking.
"You're my queen. But make no mistake, this is mine to command," he says, dipping his head to trace slow, deliberate circles with his tongue, lapping at the slickness gathering there. The wet sounds of his mouth on me fill the room, mingling with my whimpers as he sucks gently, then harder, his stubble scraping my inner thighs like delicious sandpaper. When I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, hechuckles against me. "Greedy already? Good. Now, use your hand—show me how you want it." Trembling, I reach down, guiding his fingers inside me, feeling the stretch as he curls them against that hidden ridge, pumping slowly while his tongue flicks relentlessly. The pressure builds like a storm, my hips grinding against his face until I shatter, my juices coating his chin as I cry out, legs shaking uncontrollably.
But he's not done. That evening, as the sun sets over the snowy city, he shifts to teaching me about pleasure—mine and his, intertwined. He sits back against the headboard, his thick cock standing rigid and veined, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. "Come here," he orders, patting his thigh. I straddle him hesitantly at first, my body still aching from my virginity's loss, but he guides my hips down, impaling me inch by inch until I take all of him, seated fully and gasping at the depth. "Ride me, Talia. Take what you need."
I've never ridden anything in my life, and when I struggle a bit in the saddle, he's there. His hands grip my ass, lifting and lowering me in a slow rhythm. The slick slide of him inside me sends fire through my veins. Sweat beads on his chest, mixing with the scent of his cologne and our arousal, as I find my pace—rolling my hips, grinding my clit against his pelvic bone with each downward thrust. He watches me with hooded eyes, his breath hitching when I clench around him deliberately, testing the power I have. "Fuck, yes—like that," he groans, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks, a possessive brand. Emboldened, I lean forward, capturing his mouth in a messy kiss, tasting myself on his lips while I bounce faster, my breasts brushing his chest. He breaks the kiss to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud until I'm moaning, the dual sensations pushing me over the edge again. He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside me, flooding me with heat as he growls my name like a prayer.
By Saturday, I'm done being the docile recipient. I demand to worship him as he does me. So, he teaches me. In the dim light of the bedroom, he stands at the edge of the bed, towering over me as I kneel before him, the age gap making me feel small and eager to please this powerful man. "Open your mouth," he instructs, his voice patient but edged with hunger, one hand fisting my tight coils to tilt my head back. His cock bobs in front of my face, heavy and thick, the musky scent of him intoxicating. I part my lips, tongue darting out to lick the underside tentatively, tasting the salt of his skin.
"Deeper, malen'kaya—take me in." He guides himself past my lips, filling my mouth inch by inch, his girth stretching my jaw as I hollow my cheeks and suck. The wet slurps and his low grunts fill the air around us; he thrusts gently at first, teaching me the rhythm, his free hand caressing my cheek in approval when I swirl my tongue around the head. "That's it—use your hands too." I wrap my fingers around the base, stroking the part of him I can't take, feeling him throb under my touch. His control frays as I grow bolder, bobbing faster, saliva dripping down my chin, until he pulls out with a curse, flipping me onto the bed and driving into me from behind in one swift motion. His body covers mine, hips pistoning with raw force, each slap of skin against skin punctuating his whispered praises: "You're learning so fast, my little queen—fuck, you're perfect." I push back, meeting his thrusts, my own arousal spiking from the power of pleasing him, until we both come undone, his own heat spilling deep inside me once more.
He's a patient, demanding, thorough teacher—correcting my hesitations with firm guidance, rewarding my progress with waves of ecstasy. And I am a very quick study, transforming from shy novice to insatiable partner, craving the lessons as much as he craves teaching them.
On Sunday night, the sadness hits. The real world is coming back. We're standing at the window, watching the city, now alive with plows and cars. The snow is melting. The magic is ending.
