Page 137 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“But relaxation is a low bar, don’t you think?” Nikolai is watching me with dark, seductive eyes. He starts stroking my clit with his thumb. “We can do better than that.”

“What did you have in mind?”

His answer is a single breath: “Ecstasy.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

I tangle my fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. I can’t get close enough, so I settle for driving myself onto him harder, riding him faster. I roll my hips again and again beneath the water until we’re both panting.

Nikolai presses the flat of his tongue to my nipple, and I arch into his mouth as I fall onto his hardness again and again. It’s a symphony of chaos and pleasure, and I don’t want this to end.

But it will.

It’s about to.

“I’m going to come,” I gasp, gripping his head and holding him to my chest. “I’m going to—”

“Come,” he commands, flicking his finger over my clit.

I do. Hard. I moan and jolt as wave after wave rolls through me, milking Nikolai until I feel pulsing in rhythm with me. He holds me against him as he spills into me.

And for as long as that lasts, I’m not thinking. I’m not stressing.

I’m free.

31

NIKOLAI

This woman does things to me.

Even now, as we walk down the worn dirt trail towards the farmhouse, still steaming from the hot tub, I’m tempted to lay her down on the ground and fill her again. There are places I still haven’t tasted. Positions yet to try.

But her mind is elsewhere. On her wayward sister, I’m sure.

“She’ll be fine,” I tell her.

“She’s fourteen.”

I shrug. “When I was fourteen, I was already living on my own.”

She turns to me, eyes wide. “You lived on your own atfourteen?”

“It was my choice.”

I don’t add that it was only that way because the other choice was to live with my useless father. It was easier to take care of myself than it was to take care of myself and his drugged-up ass at the same time.

She forces a breath between her teeth. “I shielded Elise from a lot… maybe too much. And now, I don’t know if this was a good idea. Making her work for some farmer in another country? It sounds like something a wicked stepmother in a gothic novel would do, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know much about wicked stepmothers,” I say. “But concerned older sisters who are doing their best? I have some experience there.”

“And what’s your opinion?”

I smirk. “Well, I’ve found her very… flexible.”

“Oh God,” she groans. “You’re making this a sex joke.”

“Tell me to stop and I will,” I say.

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