Page 25 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
Her eyes widen, softening with the kind of vulnerability she tries so hard to hide.
“You’re a fucking angel,” I say, my tone low and reverent even as I keep it sharp. “Too good for me.”
“Anton…”
“But I’m keeping you anyway,” I finish, sliding my hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer until her breath syncs with mine. “Because you’re mine. Because you’re the first person who saw me—not the money, not the power, not the name. Me.”
Her gaze wavers, the fight leaking out of her in a warm, aching rush.
“And that,” I murmur, brushing my lips against hers, “is something I don’t let go.”
Her body melts. The last of the fight goes, replaced by the fire. "I'm just not sure if I can do this," she whispers against my lips.
"Yes, you can." I kiss her.
"You're a... a possessive, arrogant..." I kiss her again, deeper, my tongue sweeping past her teeth.
"...bastard," she finishes with a groan.
"Da." This is the surrender. Not the fight.This. My anger bleeds out, replaced by the familiar, hot, driving need for her. It's all I've felt for three days.
I lift her. She gasps as I settle her on the edge of my desk, her body displacing my keyboard, scattering a stack of contracts. Her rumpled skirt rides up her thighs. I knew it. No panties.A dark, possessive groan tears from my chest. My mouth finds the pulse point on her neck. "You came here with no panties,malen'kay."
"I didn't... I didn't have any clean ones," she says, her hands fisting in my hair as I kiss her jaw. "
"Even better." I step back, just enough to unfasten my belt. My cock springs free, hard and aching. Her dark and dazed eyes widen. "Anton... the door... it's... it's not locked..."
"You're safe. Daniil is outside. No one would dare. And if they come in, they will see you. On my desk. Being taken by me. And they will knowexactlywho you are."
I pull her skirt up, bunching the grey fabric at her waist. So I can position myself between her long, bronze legs. She is wet for me. Dripping onto the fine Italian wood of my desk. The sight is depraved. It's perfect.
"I've wanted this," I growl, my hands gripping her hips as I line her up. "Since the very first day." I push my fingers inside her first. She's so hot, so tight, so ready. She cries out. "Since you walked in here with your broken boot and your defiance, I've imagined this. You. On this desk. Mine."
I pull my fingers out and thrust in, one long, smooth, deep stroke. She screams, but I catch it in my mouth. Her back arches, her hands slapping against the desk, grasping for purchase. "God, yes..."
I'm not gentle. This isn't the bed. This isn't for comfort. This is a claim. This is my office. This is mydesk,my seat of power. I fuck her. Hard. Fast. My hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place as I slam into her, my rhythm punishing. The sound is obscene—the wet slap of our skin, her cries, the thud of the desk against the wall.
"Anton... oh God...please..."
"Please, what? You want more?" I pull back, almost all the way, and she whimpers in protest.
"No... don't..." I slam back into her, deeper this time, hitting her womb. "That's it," I growl, watching her face. Her beautiful, rich brown skin is flushed, her eyes rolled back, her mouth open. "Take it. Take all of me."
She's meeting my thrusts now, her body no longer just receiving, butdemanding. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me to her. Her skirt is a ruin around her hips. This is her surrender. This is mine.
She's dissolving. I can feel the shivers start deep inside her, her inner walls clenching around me. "Come for me, Talia.Now." I grab her hips, stilling her, and my own thrusts become a brutal, driving piston. She screams, a high, broken sound, and her orgasm rips through her, her body convulsing around me, tight and hot.
It's too much. Her, screaming. Her, on my desk. Her. I roar, a primal sound of possession, and empty myself deep inside her, my own release a violent, shuddering flood. I don't pull out. I stay buried deep, my forehead pressed to hers, our breaths tearing through the silent office.
She's trembling, her body still flickering with aftershocks. I look into her dazed, beautiful eyes. This is where she belongs. Not at the temp desk. Here. On my desk. Under me. Mine.
7
Talia
The rest of the day is a surreal blur. My life is now neatly divided into two eras: Before Anton, and After. After, involves a lot of packages. They start arriving around noon, in an endless stream. The first is a simple, elegant black box from a Fifth Avenue department store, which I stare at for ten minutes, the crisp tissue paper inside whispering of a life that isn’t mine. The twentieth is a small, heavy crate from a designer I’ve only ever seen in the pages of a magazine. By four o'clock, the entire area around my temporary desk—which is now my permanent desk, I have to assume—is a mountain range of boxes, bags, and garment carriers. The air smells of new leather and expensive perfume. I begin discretely disappearing the gifts to the conference room, only to have the empty space filled by more boxes.
It’s an avalanche of luxury. It’s dresses in silks and cashmeres. Coats that could pay for a semester's worth of courses. Lingerie that makes a hot prickle of awareness travel over my skin just toglimpse the lace. Shoes. And boots. My God, the boots. There are ankle boots with heels so sharp they could be a weapon. There are knee-high riding boots in supple, buttery leather. There are stiletto-heeled boots that scream sex, and sturdy, fur-lined snow boots that whisper of warmth. There are at least three pairs in the exact same style, but in different shades of rich, dark brown. A quiet, almost hysterical laugh bubbles in my throat. He didn't just fix my broken boot problem. He obliterated it. He’s declared a one-man war on my entire history of "making do."
