Page 69 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Viktor stiffens behind me for a moment and then continues with renewed vigor. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” I repeat, closing my eyes and tipping my head back.

Viktor grabs my hair with his other hand, pulling until I’m looking up at the ceiling, and then flicks me with his finger at the same time he thrusts into me from behind. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes.” God, yes. Fuck, yes. How many different ways can a woman scream that word? Because I want to say it in as many ways as possible.

Using my hair as leverage, Viktor pounds into me until the sound of our bodies slapping together drowns out almost everything else. His breathing is violently uneven when he speaks again. “Will you come for me?”

I clench my thighs, trying to hold off the inevitable. I wanted him to come first. I wanted him to surrender first, to be the weak one. It’s where my power comes from.

Still, despite my best efforts, I feel the warmth building in my center. I feel my body climbing to new heights, desperate for the relief of tipping over the edge. Of free-falling.

Viktor flicks his finger over me, making it hard for me to focus on anything else. “Are you going to come for me?”

I bite my lip and try to pull away from him, to change the game. If I can get on top of him, then I can regain control. I can hold my own ending off until he has gone first. However, as soon as I try to separate our bodies even an inch, Viktor tightens his fist in my hair.

“Come,” he commands.

The growl in his voice and the strength I feel in his thighs is so unbearably sexy that resistance is futile. Besides, even if I wanted to argue, I only know the one word.

“Yes.” The word is a groan and a release and a surrender tied up in one.

Viktor releases his hold on my hair, and I drop my head as the orgasm moves through my body, sending my muscles into shuddering spasms.

“Yes.” My body clenches onto his, drawing him deeper, begging him to stay. It’s too much for Viktor, and I feel him finally give in as well. His hands drop to the floor on either side of my hips, holding himself up as he thrusts into my spent body.

When we are both finished, he pulls out of me and lies on the hallway floor next to me, one arm over his eyes. I watch him, studying him openly since I know he can’t see me.

He is beautiful.

Frustrating and brutal … and beautiful.

The lines of his face and his body are picturesque. They are art embodied. It’s no wonder I gave in so easily.

Viktor sighs and pulls his arm from his eyes. I see his breath hitch in his chest, his lips open like he’s going to say something, and I don’t want it to be a taunt. I don’t want him to boast about how he knew I was born to play the role of dutiful wife. I just want to console myself for my shameful forfeit.

So, before he can say anything, I hook my leg over his hips and press my lips to his. He starts for only a second before he grips my waist and sits up to better kiss me back.

There, in the hallway, with me straddling him, we consummate our loveless marriage again. And again.

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