Page 11 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
"Anton," he corrects, his hand coming up to brush a stray curl from my cheek. His touch is light, but it lingers, thumb grazing my jaw. "Say it."
"Anton," I whisper, and it feels intimate,forbidden.
He leans in, his mouth hovering near mine. "Tell me to stop, malen'kaya. If that's what you want."
Malen'kaya. I don't know what it means, but the way he says it, low and possessive, makes my knees weak. I should stop this—push him away, remind him of boundaries, of professionalism—but my body betrays me, leaning into him instead. "I... don't want you to stop."
That's all it takes. His control snaps like a taut wire, and suddenly his mouth is on mine, claiming, demanding. It's not gentle; it's fire and need, his tongue sweeping in to taste me, one hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. I gasp against him, my hands fisting in his shirt, the wool warm under my fingers. He tastes like coffee and something darker, forbidden, and I melt into it, heat pooling low in my belly.
He breaks the kiss, breath ragged, and his eyes—God, those eyes—are stormy now, pupils blown wide. "You've been driving me insane since you walked in with that broken heel," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Do you know that? The way you look at me, the way you say 'sir' like it's a plea."
I shake my head, words failing me, but he doesn't wait for an answer. His hand slides down, over my hip, bunching my skirt as he backs me against the conference table. The wood digs into my thighs, cool and unyielding, but his touch is anything but. "I want to taste you," he says, and it's not a question.
My heart pounds, a mix of thrill and terror. I've never... not like this, not with someone like him. My ex was fumbling touches in the dark, nothing that made me feel this alive, this wanted. "Anton, we can't—"
"We can," he growls, lifting me onto the table with effortless strength. My skirt rides up, exposing the lace of my stockings, and he parts my legs, stepping between them. His fingers trace the edge of my panties, teasing, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. "Tell me you don't want this."
I can't. I don't. "Please," is all I manage, and it's enough.
He hooks his fingers into the fabric, tugging my panties aside, and the cool air hits my skin, making me shiver. His gaze drops, darkening further, and he sinks to his knees—Anton Ismailov, on his knees for me—like it's the most natural thing in the world. "So beautiful," he murmurs, his breath hot against my thigh. "So wet for me already."
I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, as his fingers part me gently at first, exploring, stroking the slick heat that's been building since he touched me. One finger circles my entrance, teasing, then pushes in slow, deliberate, curling just right to make my hips buck. "Anton—oh God—"
"Shh," he soothes, his free hand pressing my thigh wider. "Let me hear you, but quietly. This is ours."
He adds a second finger, thrusting deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit in a rhythm that steals my breath. It's overwhelming, the stretch, the pressure, the way he watches me like he's memorizing every gasp, every tremble. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my core, and I rock against his hand, chasing it shamelessly. His thumb joins in, circling my clit with precise, relentless pressure, and I feel myself unraveling, the edge so close I can taste it.
But he doesn't let me fall yet. He leans in, his mouth replacing his thumb, tongue flicking out to taste me—long, slow licks thatmake my vision blur. He sucks gently on my clit, then harder, his fingers still pumping inside me, hitting that spot that sends sparks through my veins. The sounds—wet, obscene—fill the alcove, mingling with my muffled whimpers. I thread my fingers into his hair, holding him there, lost in the sensation of his stubble scraping my inner thighs, his tongue delving deeper, lapping at me like I'm the sweetest thing he's ever had.
"Anton, I'm—please, I can't—"
"Come for me, malen'kaya," he commands, voice vibrating against me. "Let go."
It's too much—the words, the heat, the possession in his tone. The orgasm crashes over me, waves of pleasure ripping through my body, making me arch off the table, thighs clamping around his head. He doesn't stop, drawing it out with his tongue and fingers until I'm shaking, spent, tears pricking my eyes from the intensity.
He finally pulls back, lips glistening, eyes fierce with satisfaction. He stands, straightening my skirt with careful hands, tucking my panties back into place like he's putting me back together. His breath is warm at my ear as he leans in. "Go home for the night, Talia. No more. Not yet."
I slide off the table on unsteady legs, my body still humming, lipstick smeared, heart a wreckage of confusion and want. He opens the door, ushering me out with a nod, like nothing happened, but his eyes promise otherwise.
The elevator ride down is a blur, the city lights streaking past as I try to process what just occurred. How do I face him tomorrow, when every inch of me aches for more, when I already feel branded by his touch?
4
Anton
I am not a patient man.
It's a fact known from Moscow to Manhattan. I do not wait for shipments, for apologies, or for women. My world is one of immediate action, of taking what I want, of bending reality to my will.
Which is why the last twelve hours have been a special kind of hell.
Talia Brooks saidno.
She stood in my office, her body still thrumming from my touch, her lips swollen from my worship, her scent—that intoxicating mix of vanilla, peaches, and her own unique arousal—clinging to my skin, and she saidno.
It was... unexpected. And it has lit a fire in my blood that is dangerously close to an inferno.
Now, it’s Christmas Eve. The city is shutting down, a ghost town of empty offices and early closures. And she’s here. She actually came in.
