Page 50 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

A part of me wanted to forget the incident in my office and act as if nothing had happened. That part of me was of the opinion that she was the same woman who witnessed a Bratva covert operation and should be treated as such.

The other part of me, however, disagreed. This part of me believed she wasn’t a threat—just a woman who happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Why “clean up her mess” when she hadn’t done anything wrong?

The two opposing sides kept going back and forth in my mind, each presenting valid points as to why it was right. The more this mental war went on, the more I buried myself in the memory of what happened in that office.

Even in my sleep, I heard her moans and saw her face, twisted in pleasure.

I was in my office that afternoon, replaying the sex scene over and over again in my head. The scent of her lingered on my clothes until I got home that evening. As did the taste of her lips and her pussy.

Damn!

So clean.

So tasty.

I could eat her all day long and never get tired. Her body was worth worshipping—perfect breasts, glowing skin, killer shape and a cunt so gorgeous it almost had me drooling when I first set my eyes on it.

“…Where’d you learn to do that?”

That question gave me a small sense of satisfaction, knowing she was blown away by my eating techniques.

The fact that she didn’t come over intending to get laid made it even more interesting. The sex was unplanned—spontaneous. And the best I’d had.

I never thought a man like me, whose presence alone commanded attention, would ever be distracted by a twenty-two-year-old girl. Yet there I was, doing nothing but thinking of her in my office.

Yuri had noticed my distraction lately, and it was only a matter of time before he confronted me about it. Until then, Aria would continue living rent-free in my head.

The front door opened, and the soft creak pulled me out of my thoughts. The man walking into my space like he owned the place wasn’t Yuri.

It was Ilya, my younger brother.

His signature cologne and dangerous, unrestrained presence gave him away even before I set my eyes on him.

Standing at six-foot-three, Ilya Tarasov was lean and athletic, the kind of frame built—not from lifting weights at the gym—but from years of violence that was both controlled and instinctive.

His steel-blue eyes were fixed on me as he approached my desk, dressed in a black shirt with the top three buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up nicely, his dark brown hair tousled in a way that accentuated his ruggedness.

The Rolex on his wrist caught the chandelier’s warm glow, his polished black shoes scuffing against the floor.

“Did your mother not teach you how to knock?” I asked teasingly.

“She did.” He sank into the visitor’s chair and crossed his legs. “I just refused to learn it.”

I huffed. “What’re you doing here, Ilya?”

“Since when did dropping by to see my big brother become such a big deal?”

“You never ‘drop by’ unless it’s important.”

He shrugged his shoulders, a small knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “People change, Rodion, or should I say…Anton.” The slight pause came when his eyes bore into mine.

I wasn’t surprised that he knew about my fake identity. Just like me, Ilya also had his ways. Nothing got past him unless he chose to let it go.

I let out a quiet chuckle. “So, that’s why you’re here.”

“I think we need to talk.”

“About what?”