Page 8 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

Oh my God.

It’s definitely fireworks.

My knees turn to jelly and I grip his jacket for support. He brings his hand up and cups the back of my head while he moves—slow at first, until an overriding hunger consumes us both.

I mimic his movements to match his rhythm, and the longer we kiss, the more I’m hooked.

****

The unexpected meeting in the narrow corridor isn’t the last time he kisses me.

For weeks, Igor and I engage in an illicit employer-employee affair. I sneak off at odd hours, before and after work, to lock lips with my boss and do more stuff I’m sure my mother wouldn’t be proud of.

He’s claimed me everywhere: in the corners of the club, in his car when his driver isn’t watching, and my personal favorite, his hotel rooms.

At his command, I’ve stripped, bent over, spread-eagled, and stood on the tips of my toes with my hands on the shower walls while he took me from behind.

For weeks, I’ve been living a fantasy, one I never thought would be possible. And in my heart, there’s been hope that it might mean something more.

Our connection has burned fast and recklessly, and I’ve realized he makes me feel chosen, elevated, and different from the other women who flock around him at the club.

But I haven’t had the courage to ask if our situationship can blossom into something deeper. Maybe it’s because I’m too scared to wish for more, and I don’t wish to dissolve what we currently have.

It’s on days like these that I wake up with such concerns burning in my chest, after another amazing night in his hotel room, with a warm blanket draped over my naked body and the distinct scent of his cologne drifting in the air.

Yawning, I sit upright and lean back into the headboard, the blanket drawn up to my chest.

I smile at the sight of Igor leaning against the bathroom door, his bare back facing me and a black pair of trousers hanging loosely around his waist—the same waist I straddled violently last night.

It’s not the first time I’ve woken up to him on the phone.

I reach forward and grab his black shirt from the foot of the bed.

As I slide it over my shoulders and work the buttons, I think of sneaking up behind him to pepper soft kisses across his olive-toned skin, but the minute I catch on to the hot rush of Russian spewing from his mouth, I discard the thought.

I spring to my feet and rush to his side, just as he turns around.

I’m genuinely worried and maybe this close to panicking because, in all the weeks we’ve spent together, I’ve never heard him so upset or rattled. He’s always so strangely calm and collected.

I grip his shoulders and squeeze gently. “Hey, who was that? Is everything okay?”

When he looks down at me, his brown eyes are just as icy and detached as the first time I saw them. He covers my hand with his large one and slowly detaches it from his shoulder.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

It’s like someone rammed a knife straight through my chest. Instinctively, I flinch.

“Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “Because what we have is fun, and it ends there.”

The knife in my chest cuts deeper, and I feel the life slowly draining out of me. “I mean…I…I know that, but—”

“But nothing,” he dismisses coldly. “You’re like eighteen.”

It’s a blow to my gut, knocking all the air out of my lungs.

I scoff, fighting back hot tears. “I’m twenty.”