Page 26 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
The staff, the few who are back from the holiday, walk a wide, respectful circle around my desk. They don't make eye contact, but they see.Everyone sees.They see the packages. They saw the kiss this morning, the public, brutal claiming of me. I am no longer Talia Brooks, the temp. I am the Pakhan's... whatever I am. The scarlet 'I' for Ismailov, as he put it.
I'm not ashamed. He was wrong about that. This morning, I was terrified. But now, sitting in this fortress of designer goods, I'm just… winded. And hot. My body is a constant, humming live wire. Every time I move, my thighs ache with a dull, sweet reminder of this morning, of him lifting me onto his desk, of the solid, unforgiving wood beneath my hands, of his… possession. The way he looked at me, his eyes black with a feral satisfaction, as he buried himself inside me. He didn't just claim me. He branded me, from the inside out.
Around five, I finally get a moment. The last of the day-staff have fled, and he's finally off a call with someone he was clearly, calmly, and terrifyingly threatening in Russian. I walk into his office, my arms crossed, a feeble shield. I stop in front of his massive desk. He leans back in his chair, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. He knows exactly why I'm here. "You're enjoying the view, malen'kaya?" He gestures with his chin to the mountain of packages visible through his glass wall.
"Anton," I start, my voice tight. I try to channel the woman who said no to him just a few days ago.Where is she?"You have to stop. This is… It's too much. I can't accept all this."
His smile fades. It doesn't drop into anger. It goes somewhere colder, emptier. "No?"
The word hangs in the air. My breath catches. "No. It's… it's insane. I don't need… I don't need any of this."
"I am not giving it to you because you need it, Talia." He stands, his shadow falling over me as he rounds the desk. He's so big, a monolith of power and dark intent. "I am giving it to you because it is mine to give. Because you are mine. And what is mine, I provide for."
"But this isn't 'providing.' This is… a hostile takeover of my closet." I'm backing up, but my shoulders hit the cold glass wall. Trapped. "I… I won't accept it." It's a brave, stupid, stupid thing to say. His eyes narrow.
"You won't."
"No," I say, though my voice wavers, betraying me.
He's in front of me now, one hand on the wall by my head, caging me in. "You are still fighting me." It's not a question. "You are still trying to be the girl with the broken boot. The girl who asks for nothing because she's tired of never receiving anything." His voice drops, the word a razor. "I told you. That girl is gone."
"That doesn't mean I have to accept a boatload, no, a cargoship fleet of… of things," I argue, my heart starting to thud against my ribs. I know this look. This is the look that led to me being on his desk this morning.
"This is not about the things, Talia." He leans in, his scent—cedar, smoke, and pure, male possession—filling my lungs, stealing my air. "This is about you. Accepting. You will learn to accept what I give you. You will learn to take."
"I don't know how." The whisper is torn from me, the truest, most pathetic thing I could say.
"Then I will teach you," he murmurs. His hand is suddenly at the small of my back, and I'm being turned, bent, and positioned over the edge of his desk before I can even gasp. "Anton… no… not again… the door is…"
"Shh." His voice is a rough vibration at my ear, his other hand sliding up my skirt, bunching the fabric in his fist. My God, he's just… I'm in a silk blouse and a pencil skirt, and he's treating me like… "You will learn this, Talia," he says, his voice a low, rough growl. Smack. The sound echoes in the silent office, a sharp, stinging report. My body jerks, a cry of pure, shocked outrage tearing from my lips. "Anton!" My hand flies back to rub the spot, but he catches my wrist, his grip like steel. "No. You will take it." Smack. Harder this time. It doesn't… hurt, not in a painful way. It's a deep, ringing sting. It's humiliation. It's… control. "You are moya," he says, his voice vibrating through me. Smack. "You will not defy me." Smack. "You will not hide from me." Smack. "And you will… not… refuse… my gifts." Each word is punctuated by a solid, stinging slap on my ass, right through the thin fabric of my skirt. I've stopped fighting. My hands are fisted on his desk, my head down, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. My entire backside is on fire. And, God help me, a slow, heavy, liquid heat is pooling between my legs. I hate him. I hate myself for this.
He stops. The silence is deafening, broken only by my ragged breathing. Then, his hands are on me, but they are different. They are… gentle. His fingers, which just punished me, are now stroking me, his palms rubbing the stinging skin, a circular, soothing motion that is somehow more intimate, more possessive, than the punishment. "Shh, malen'kaya," he murmurs. He's pressing his lips to my neck, the grit of his stubble scraping my skin. "It is a lesson. That is all." He slides his hand between my legs, over my skirt, and presses his palm flat against my center. I'm… I'm wet. I'm dripping for him. A low,broken moan escapes my lips. He's won. Of course he's won. "Do you understand, Talia?" he whispers, his thumb finding my clit through the fabric, pressing down. I gasp, my knees buckling. "Do you?"
"Yes," I pant, my body melting, surrendering. "Yes, Anton."
"Good girl." His touch doesn't leave me. He kisses my neck, his lips tracing a hot path to my ear, while his hand moves from my center to my hips. He doesn't straighten me up. He turns me, just slightly, so my hip is resting on the desk. He moves back, just enough for me to see him. His eyes are black. His belt is already undone. "This morning was for me," he says, his voice a guttural rasp. "A claim. This… this is for you. This is your reward for taking your lesson." He's not angry. He's in complete, unhurried control. He kisses the first sting, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin, and I cry out. "Anton…"
"Shh." He kisses the next, and the next, his mouth a hot, wet brand on my aching skin. He is worshipping the part of me he just punished. The contrast is making me dizzy.He breaks me, then puts me back together in his own image."You are so beautiful," he whispers, his hands on my waist, pulling me back against his hips. He's hard, his cock pressing against the slit of my skirt. He doesn't take me. Not yet. He just holds me, his hands sliding up to my breasts, his thumbs raking over my nipples through my blouse. I'm on fire, from my skin to my core. "This is control, moya," he whispers. "I have all of it. And so do you."
I don't understand what he means until I feel his hand at my waist, fumbling with my zipper. "No," I say, my voice shaky. "Let me." His hands still. I turn in his arms.If I am going to be his, I will choose it.My heart is a hammer, but I'm not scared. I'm… learning. I slide my skirt down my hips, letting it pool at my ankles. I step out of it. I'm standing in his office in my heels,my rumpled blouse, and… nothing else. His eyes are a physical touch, a fire on my skin.
"Good girl," he breathes. I am in control. And so is he. I turn and bend back over his desk. I'm not waiting for his punishment. I'm inviting his claim. "Take me, Anton," I whisper.
A sound rips from his chest, a low, primal growl. This time, it's slow. He enters me with a deep, deliberate, thorough thrust that makes my vision go white. He's filling me, stretching me. "That's it," he groans, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still. "Take me. All of me." He doesn't slam. He… glides. A long, slow, hypnotic rhythm. His hand comes up, his fingers lacing with mine on the desk. Our knuckles are white, bone pressing against bone. This is not a quick, desperate act. This is a… a contract. A signing. He moves, deep and slow, and I move with him. I'm not just being taken. I am… taking. I'm meeting his rhythm, my hips rolling back, drawing him in deeper. He's watching us. I can feel his gaze on our joined bodies. "Look at you," he whispers, his voice thick. "So tight. So hot. Taking me… like you were made for it." He stills, to capture my gaze. "Let that sink in. Never doubt it. You were fucking made for me."
"I was," I gasp. Only after I acknowledge it, and I mean it, does he move again. Owning me with every stroke. My orgasm builds, slow and heavy, a deep, coiling tide. He feels it. He knows.
"Not yet," he commands. He pulls out, almost all the way. I cry out, a sound of protest. He pushes back in, a single, deep, powerful thrust that hits my womb. "Now, Talia," he roars. The world shatters. My orgasm rips through me, my body convulsing around him, and he follows, his own release a hot, flooding, endless pulse. He slumps against me, his chest on my back, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades, his body still joined to mine. We are both shaking.
We're still here at seven o'clock. He's on a call, and I'm… I'm a mess. I've put myself back together, but my hair is a wreck, mybody is thrumming, and my ass, my poor ass, is still tingling. He hangs up the phone, the Pakhan firmly back in place. He looks at me, his eyes softening. "I have one more meeting. With the port authority. It will be late." He stands, walking over to me, and kisses my forehead. "You have had a long day. Go home. Rest."
"Home?" I whisper. The word feels foreign.
He smiles, a small, tired, possessive smile. "Go upstairs, malen'kaya. Go to the penthouse. Rest."
"Okay," I say. I'm too tired, too… owned… to argue.
He goes back to his desk, all business. I walk out, my legs still trembling. I gather my purse, leaving the mountain of packages. I'll deal with that tomorrow. I get in his private elevator. The doors close. "Go to the penthouse," he said. And I… I can't.Not yet.I press the lobby button. I need to… breathe. I need to feel like Talia again, just for a moment, not just this new, remade creature who is his. I've been in his world, his penthouse, his office, for four straight days. I'm suffocating. I need to go back to my apartment. I need to water my plants, get my mail. I need to stand in my own space and… think. Just for an hour. He's busy. He's in a meeting. I'll be back. Of course I'll be back. But tonight… tonight I need to be me.
