Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (fantasy books to read .txt) 📕

I have never been so attentive with a woman. I could spend days massaging her like this, watching the pleasure.

When I slide my hand up her pajama shorts, she bites her lip and her bright blue eyes widen like she wants more, like she never wants me to stop. I push her underwear aside and stroke my fingers up her lips.

She is already wet for me, and hot.

It takes everything I have not to tear her shorts off right there.

But making her want it is just too sweet.

I watch her closely as she stares right back at me. Her breath catches when I slide my finger inside of her, going slow so that I can map the pleasure in her face. I have never been comfortable staring at a woman like this—there is far too much intimacy—and yet with Camille I could not stop if I tried.

“Erik …”

I move my finger in small circles inside of her as she grips onto my arm, pulling me deeper. She lets out a fluttering breath and then closes her eyes for a long moment, all movement pausing.

The orgasm pulses through her entire body, a stunned moan rising into the air. I move my finger quicker, drawing it out, my cock so hard now it feels like it could erupt.

I need her badly.

“Ah!” she cries when I leap atop her.

I tear at her clothes, kissing passionately: her neck, her chest, everywhere. She paws at my pants, pulling them down around my thighs, as I rip her bottoms so hard the waistband snaps.

I toss it to the floor and grab the base of my cock, guiding the tip to her hole.

“Fuck,” I growl, lost in the primal need now. “Camille …”

With one swift arch of my back, I push inside of her.

Her body contorts, as though she is tightening herself around me. Her pussy is hot and wet and so tight I feel like I could come right now, but I will not allow myself that selfish release. I want to feel her pussy pulsing on my cock, feel the shared pleasure of her orgasm.

I pump my hips as she throws her hands back, clawing at the sheets, sweat dripping down her forehead. Her mouth is twisted and her gasps send warm puffs of air over my cheeks.

She bites into my shoulder, clawing down my back, gouging me, almost hurting me. I do not care. I would let her rip me to shreds if it brought her closer to that moment of perfect release.

She wraps her legs around me and screams right into my ear. I tilt my head, listening intently, fucking her so hard now the mattress is shifting around on the base.

“Fuck!” she cries. “Erik, I’m—I’m—”

We roll over and I grab her ass, lifting her and then throwing her down onto my shaft. She grinds on top of my rock-hard cock, planting her heels on the bed and working her pussy along my length. I have to bite down to stop from letting go right then.

My cock is on fire, all sensation in my body fixated on the point of contact.

She touches my face, looking at me with watery eyes.

“Come in me, Erik,” she moans.

This is the part where I push her hand away: where I growl that I am not into that romantic shit. But instead I grab her hands and press them closer to my face, her fingernails scratching softly down my cheeks, my neck.

“Ah!” I roar, coming hard.

I roll her over again as my cock is wilting, staying inside of her.

Then, annoyed that I have to leave, I pull out, stand up, and begin to get dressed.

I have duties to attend to, business to conduct, and yet if this was a perfect world I would just stay in bed with Camille all day. I am glad for the chance to turn my back to her as I walk into the en-suite.

If I didn’t, I might just leap on her again.

I spend the day going from club to club, handling business.

One man decides he does not want to pay what he owes us, so I have to put a scare in him. As I wash the blood off my hands in the bathroom, I watch the water turn red and distantly wonder if I am truly the sort of man who would make a good father. But the thought passes quickly.

Everything I do is necessary for the Bratva. I cannot let a few wayward emotions make me forget that.

“You seem different,” Anatoly says as we drive home.

“Different, how?” I mutter.

He smiles in that way he did when I was a boy, when he knew me better than I knew myself.

“When Emily and I were in the first wild weeks of our courtship, sometimes I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had the same expression you have now, nephew. If you are not careful, you may fall in love.”

He says it jokingly, but he has struck close to the mark.

“There is little chance of that,” I say, trying for a laugh.

“We will see,” he replies. He pats me on the shoulder. “A little love is not a bad thing for men in our line of work. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

“Work is what matters. This organization is what matters. Not her. Not love,” I mutter, shrugging his hand away.

“Of course,” he says. “But you have worked hard your whole life. You deserve some happiness.”

“Are you going to start singing me a song, Uncle? Are we in a fucking movie?”

He laughs, nodding as though he expected that answer.

I turn away and watch the city at night, marking the businesses we own, marking those that used to belong to the Italians. Anything is better than pondering the truth of his words.

When I get home, I take a long shower, washing the day away. Camille is at her nursing class, so I retire to the study to catch up on some reading and to handle the