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

touch of her skin, every breath from her lips. She is my addiction, my cocaine.

Her touch brands my skin and I can’t see anything but Charlotte. She’s beautiful and passionate and I’m overcome with need. I hold her face in my hands as I kiss her, because I am not the kind of man who can let her go. She lays her palm over my heart and lets her other hand drop to my hip.

This time, I want her slow, but she’s impatient, tugging and grinding. I still her hands and bring them to my lips. She smiles and I have to kiss her luscious mouth.

I want her right now, and I want this to last forever. Since I can’t have both, I’m going to make the moment last. Every taste. Every caress. Every deep, slow slide into her.

This will be slow.

“Come here.” I lead her inside, then stop to kiss her again because I need to. I need to feel her in my arms, against my chest. When she’s smiling up at me, I lower my head, watching her as I close in. Her eyelids flutter and her lips part enough that her tongue slips out to moisten a trail across her mouth.

She doesn’t hold back the moan of pleasure. Good. I want her to know what she does to me, but even more, I want to know she needs me, wants me, desires me. My pulse pounds and my fists clench in the fabric of the shirt she’s wearing.

“Take me to bed, Kostya.”

I smile against her mouth then finish kissing her before I speak. “My pleasure, sweet Charlotte.”

I swing her into my arms because I want to kiss her again and I want her closer.

Now, she’s pressing kisses in the curve where my shoulder meets my throat and I want to crush her against me, but I let her explore and revel in her touch, in the whimpers coming from her throat.

She uses one hand to loosen the tie holding my shirt closed at her waist. It opens and I get a tease of her curves, an eyeful of the smooth plane of her stomach. This woman is perfect.

The bed is still unmade and I lay her gently in the center then slide in next to her and peel away the shirt so I can see all of the soft and supple skin I’m aching to rub my hands over. My cock twitches.

She arches her back and draws me toward her, and I don’t need more of an invitation. I will have all of her. Her skin is warm and smooth under my hand, her body pliant to my touch.

I move my kiss from her mouth to her throat, down to her collarbone, then to her breast. Her nipple is pebbled and I swirl my tongue until she writhes and holds my head with one hand and slides the other down my stomach to my dick. Her fingers clench, stroke me through my pants, and I want more than her touch. Now.

I want her crazy with need. I want to taste her. I want to fuck her.

Charlotte unfastens my belt, then the button of my pants, and slips her palm against my cock. She strokes me until I’m in my own frenzy and I kick my pants away. We have all day—there is no telling when it will be safe to go out again—but I can’t wait any longer.

I roll her to her back, or try to, but she puts her foot down for leverage and fights to stay on her side, then slides down, slowly kissing my chest, licking my stomach, sucking the space next to my belly button, before she moves further down.

I feel her breath first. Warm. Damp. Then a swipe of her tongue. My body jerks as if I don’t what’s coming. And it’s glorious. Perfection. Every deep pull, every accompanying moan that vibrates my cock takes me higher, pushes me closer.

I was right about the things she can do with her mouth. I’m pumping my hips, sliding down her throat, and when I’m about to explode, I pull away and roll on top of her, sliding my cock home.

She gasps and holds onto my shoulders. Her cries are music. “Kostya!”

Her body tenses, her legs tighten around my hips, and her pussy clenches, milks my dick.

Oh God, this woman.

At some point, we’ll return to the mansion, to my daughter, to my life and job.

But for now, holding her against me is everything I need to pretend nothing else exists.

13

Charlotte

I’m attached. Too attached, considering the man I’m attached to is an admitted Bratva don. And my Google search didn’t bring warm and fuzzy news. Of course, it wasn’t news I didn’t know already. Drugs. Women. Guns.

Shit.

“I have a car coming. We’re safe to return to the compound.”

Oh, here comes the lingo. His mansion is now a compound. That one, I probably should’ve known. It isn’t like I haven’t watched my share of TV. And the bad guys—isn’t that what Kostya is?—always have a compound.

I just nod, because I don’t know what to say to him now that my thoughts have taken me off on a path I never wanted to go down.

Things have changed on about a thousand levels. I know who he is. What he is. I also know very intimate details of his body—a scar near his groin, another that runs the length of his inner thigh.

But I can’t reconcile the information with the man who whispered such sweetness in my ear while he made love to me. And there is no other name for what we have done.

Also, the fact that he looks more like someone who might go hiking in one of the canyons nearby rather than someone who could dump a body in them, doesn’t help my confusion any more than his sudden silence.

He doesn’t look at me before he walks out of the bedroom. He’s dressed now, not in his usual perfectly tailored suit and Italian shoes,