Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“So fucking messy, baby,” he purrs in my ear, grinding his hips into my ass. His cock fills me to the brim and stretches me wide, and it feels like my brain’s short-circuiting. “You filthy fucking girl. After all that death and blood, you still get so fucking wet for me. Look at you, whimpering and whining as I rip into your tight little cunt. Tell me you love it, baby. Tell me you want to come for me.”
“I want to come,” I moan, pushing back against him. He’s steel and I’m softness, and he rips me open and handles me.
And I give myself to him completely, moaning his name. Valentin. Valentin.
He spanks my ass hard. His hands grip my hips as he fucks me, and finally, as he leans forward and bites my ear and scrapes a thumb across my clit, I finally hit my limit.
“Come on my dick, wife,” he commands. “Come for me, baby, and when you’re done, suck me clean.”
My triggers pull and an orgasm tears into my mind.
I can barely breathe. I can barely think. I gasp, arching into him, as he takes me like the dominant monster he is. All I am is his, a messy puddle of bliss and need, and as I slowly finish, he pulls himself out and forces me to my knees.
“Good girl,” he purrs, opening my mouth and sliding his dick into my throat.
I suck him, gagging and stroking. I keep going faster, tasting my pussy on his shaft, and he finally finishes on my tongue with a low, animalistic groan of bliss.
I swallow him, every single drop, because I’m a perverse weirdo and that phrase good girl is stuck in my head.
When I’m done, he pulls me to my feet and kisses me.
I stay there with him for what feels like a long time. Slowly, he pulls away. “Now do you believe me?” he asks, voice husky with sated lust. If I hadn’t already had one of the best orgasms of my life, I’d probably drop down to my knees and beg for another based on the tenor of his voice alone.
“I’m getting there,” I tell him, and he bundles me up in a towel before depositing me back in the bedroom with a pat on the ass and a promise to return soon.
Chapter 20
Valentin
“We have to hunt down every single one of those cock-sucking Armenian bastards and put lead into their pathetic fucking bodies,” Yaroslav Gusev says, pounding his fist against the table. His jowls shake and his face is pink with vodka and rage. “That was a clusterfuck. That was a goddamn horrible mistake. And we cannot let it slide.”
The room devolves into bickering yet again. Yaroslav’s shouting over Kirill Antonov, while Yegor and Pavel drink aggressively and occasionally call insults across the table. Anton stands at my elbow, watching everyone with an impassive stare, while I remain at the head of the table, my shirt open and a glass of vodka at my elbow, doing my best to listen to the infighting and the arguing with an open fucking mind.
But my patience wears thin.
This is a dangerous gathering. Not only because some of the most powerful and ruthless men in the city are all under one roof, but also because it represents the strength of the Zaitsev Bratva in one easily accessible location.
One important rule during wartime: never put the leadership in one place.
Unfortunately, this is a risk I need to take.
The slaughter at that damn country club caused an uproar among my men. They’re livid that the Brotherhood killed so many of our soldiers, even though we came out of that encounter relatively unharmed, at least compared to the Armenians. I’d guess they lost twice as many in the end.
The bigger issue is what Yaroslav keeps alluding to without being bright enough to outright say it.
The attack is a stain on the honor and prestige of the Zaitsev Bratva, and blood must flow if we’re going to make sure this damn city knows that we cannot be fucked with.
Eventually, I grow tired of the complaining. I climb to my feet and throw back my vodka. I wait for the talking to fade away as my men turn their attention to me.
These are the heads of the important Russian households. Oleg Fedorov’s here, though he’s down one son. His eldest took a bullet to the face at the country club, a tragedy which I’m sure I’ll be paying for eventually. This is a more complete gathering, the central leadership plus all the associated wings.
“Enough,” I say once the room is entirely silent. Nobody moves or opens their mouth to interrupt me. “There will be war. You all know that. But what you do not know is that there was always going to be war.”
I’m met with confused looks. Yaroslav is drunk enough that he leans forward and slurs into the tension. “What do you mean, Zaitsev? You were trying to make an alliance with those filthy Armenians. How would that have led to war?”