Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

He flicks open the button to my jeans, slips his fingers inside my panties. I would melt, but I want more. All of him. When I go for his belt, he grins against my mouth. “Greedy girl.” But he pushes my hands away and when I go back in for another try, he shifts to capture my wrists in his free hand and lifts them over my head. “Don’t move.”

He slides down my body and the friction is as delicious as his kiss. Every warm breath against my skin, every skim of his hand and slow curve of his lips is another crazy beat of my pulse. He’s beautiful. Masterful. Fucking amazing. And I’m doing everything I can to hold still but he’s busy sliding my pants down, dragging his fingers along with the denim, lowering his head to kiss me.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, hold him to me, until he forces my hands down. “Sweet Charlotte is not obeying.”

This time, he pulls my wrists over my head and holds them, giving a little squeeze. It’s as hot as his kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Don’t move again.”

He kisses his way down my body languidly, stroking my passion with his tongue and his fingers. I moan, twist my hips toward him, but leave my hands over my head.

“Kostya.” His name is my breath. My body his toy. He’s controlled, holding back, and I want all of him. I want him as lost as I am. “Please, let me touch you.”

His grin as he brushes his finger between my breasts and down my stomach is the only reply. His mouth follows the same path and my breath catches when he turns me so that I’m sitting up now with my ass at the edge of the sofa.

His eyes are dark as he lays my knees over his shoulders and pushes his fingers inside me as he swipes his tongue over my clit. Then the sensations of his mouth take over, and I lock my legs around him, moaning with every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers.

Only Kostya exists, only his hands, his mouth, the growl deep in his chest as I blow apart, and he holds my bucking hips and lets me ride out the passion until I’m floating free and in a dream. Then he’s standing over me, naked, smiling, as he turns me so that the back of my head is propped up the sofa arm and he can nestle between my legs.

The first thrust is gentle, almost careful, but I want the beast. I want the wild, uncontrolled passion.

I shift and buck. Kostya growls and his fingers tighten around my hip. There’s no rhythm to the frenzy. He’s narrowed my world to only him.

I rake my fingers down his back, and his growl deepens. By now, I’m quivering and moaning, panting because my shallow breath is directly connected to the movement of our hips. My passion spirals, pools, and I cry out, wrapping my body around his, hanging on until the waves subside and the fog clears and it’s me and Kostya again, our bodies moving again in time until he tenses, holds himself rigid over me, then collapses.

“Kostya.”

His name is all I can manage, all that’s really necessary because he’s already moved away and is walking toward the bathroom attached to his office. He comes back dressed as I’m pushing my arms into my sleeves.

Instead of walking past, he stops in front of me and slides his hands over my shoulders. “What am I going to do with you?”

I don’t know about him, but since our last time together, I’ve started making a list. “What do you want to do with me?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Too many answers and too little time.” But his eyes remain veiled, distant even. Not a great sign.

“Well, I should um …” I nod toward the door. “Tiana.”

He steps back and crosses his arms over that broad, delicious chest. “I have to go out for a while. I’ll be late.”

Just like that, I’m dismissed.

And not that I’m keeping track, but over the next week, he spends more time out than he spends home. His late nights get later and more frequent.

It isn’t my business; I know that.

But there are also … interludes. More times he brushes against me in the hall. More eye fucking. Less actual fucking. And by less, I mean none. Not a single clandestine closed-door meeting. Or even an after-hours laundry room rendezvous—a recurring fantasy I can’t seem to go a night without dreaming of.

I haven’t seen him all morning, but I can hear him upstairs as Tiana and I play in the living room. When the doorbell rings and I stand to get it, Tiana attaches herself to me—another recurrence of late—and I scoop her up to carry her to the door.

“Miss Lowe.”

“Mr. Rusnak.” Yelisey’s grim expression means there will be yelling from upstairs. Probably in Russian. Normally, that would be a black box with no way for me to crack its secrets.

But today, I have a plan.

I’m going to record what I hear and have Google translate it.

I’ve told myself my rationale over and over again. Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself, or maybe I’m practicing for if I get caught and interrogated.

Here’s what I’ve got so far: For Tiana’s sake, I need to know if her father is a member of the Russian Mafia. I have to be able to protect her. And if that means I have to sneak up the stairs after Mr. Rusnak heads to Kostya’s office, then I’ll do it on my tiptoes without any regret.

It’s sounded good over the last few days whenever I practice in the mirror.

But now that the moment itself is actually approaching, I’m all nervous sweat and shaky hands.

Of course, while I’m prowling around like the world’s most incompetent spy, I’ll have to figure out something for Little