Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) by Fox, Nicole (ebook reader online .txt) 📕

a drop of blood clinging to the edge of my eyelid. It’s obscuring my view. I turn to look forward. I see Lily in the rearview mirror. Her head is lolling back.

I can’t see her clearly, but I know she’s dead.

I’m shaking.

Julia is talking to me.

Lev is talking to me.

His arm is around me, pulling me away from the mirror. He must be kneeling because I feel his legs on either side of me. His hands rub my arms, moving over me like his touch might skim off the ache.

“Is she okay?” Louisa’s voice asks.

“She will be,” Lev says. “We need a moment.”

“Of course, absolutely. Take as much time as you need.”

High heels click away. Lev caresses my hair. There’s a sense of tranquility that sinks from my scalp to the rest of my body. I rest my head on his chest. My breathing calms; the memories scatter. I listen to his heartbeat.

Even as a child, I never felt truly secure. I was anxious, worried about my dad getting hurt while working. But with Lev comforting me, all of that washes away. I still care about everybody, but it doesn’t grip me to the point that it’s constantly on my mind.

It makes no sense because he has brought an immense amount of stress in my life and I don’t think I can trust him. The lingering threat of what he could do to me and everyone I love is how he keeps me under his thumb.

“You’re someone I would never hurt,” Lev says, as if reading my mind.

I have no reason to believe him, but he says it with the same conviction as when he told me he was in the Bratva. Still, I have to wonder who else he would hurt. It’s not me that I’m most worried about. I dug my own grave.

It’s the rest of the people I love. My dad, my mother, and Julia—they’re all innocent.

He must see the conflict in my face and kisses me lightly on the lips. It’s lacking any sensuality or implication. In the logical part of my brain, I know he meant it as a gesture of comfort. It was a way to calm me. But the other part of my brain is filled with ricocheting intensity and needs an outlet.

My hands grasp both sides of his face. I kiss him like a crashing wave. He lets me have full control for a second or two, receiving all of my grief. When his hands sink into my hair, gripping onto it, we become combatants. We clash against each other, our lips exploding against each other.

When he pulls the dress away from my chest, it tears. I stand up, yanking it off the rest of the way and tearing more of it. He stands up. He unbuckles his belt, pulls it out, and lets it drop to the floor. His eyes stay on me, hungry and demanding, as he pulls down his pants.

His erection is barely restrained by his boxer briefs. I touch my mouth, recalling our phone conversation, and stand up, my legs almost shaking.

He steps up to me, his hands cradling my head as he kisses me. The kiss is rushed but still punctuated with intensity. His erection presses up against me.

I pull down my underwear. As I bend over to get it off my ankles, my face comes close enough to his erection that I have half a mind to go through our phone-call scenario. I stand up straight again, a faint pulse between my legs.

As I look down at myself, I see the flaws again. The small breasts, the stomach without the visible abs, and the layer of fat on my hips. Lev mentioned that he’d slept with models. In comparison, I’m a consolation prize, or worse.

I keep my head down, thinking of ways to talk my way out of this. All those models must be much more experienced than I am too. He wouldn’t have slept with them if they weren’t.

There’s movement in front of me. Lev’s shirt has been dropped on the floor. I glance up at him.

He wasn’t lying about the weight training. His chest is a testament to what weight training can do. His body must be pure muscle, every part of his chest and waist firm and defined, run through with rippling veins.

His wound from last night is slightly red but there are also some rough stitches holding it together. It’s not the only mark on his body—there are at least a dozen scars, in various sizes and states of fading.

It could mean a million different bad things and I don’t care about any of them right now.

He pulls down his boxer briefs and kicks them off.

I imagined his cock on the phone. Of course, I did. I imagined it to be larger than average with a decent thickness.

I underestimated him.

“Take the stool. Put it up against the mirror in front of you and remain facing the mirror,” he commands.

The stool has an iron frame, but the cushion seems comfortable enough. I pull it in front of me and look into the mirror. I see the two of us. He has to be at least eight inches taller than me. His body looks like a mountain, sturdy and carved of stone, ready to swallow me in its depths.

“Kneel,” he orders. I get onto the stool. I have no idea what he’s planning. The pulse between my thighs is getting stronger and begging for attention.

I watch him in the mirror, approaching me. His cock presses under my ass. I open my legs the smallest bit.

His hands grasp my hips. His cock rubs against my wetness. A small groan slips out of me. He presses his hand against my spine, forcing me to bend forward. My face is less than an inch away from the mirror. The head of his cock presses against my entrance. I reach back toward him, but before my hand reaches him, he plunges into me.

It’s like a spark of electricity