Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

Several pierogies and a crisp salad later, Pasha and I are laughing over a joke he heard Mak tell one of his men. “It’s even better in Russian.” He sips on his water, still chuckling. “Fuck, I gotta remember that one for Sofi.”

“Do you speak Russian?” Almost immediately, I want to kick myself for asking such a stupid question. “I mean, I hear you say a few words and phrases sometimes, but…”

“But am I fluent? Yes.” He sets his glass back down and smiles at me with all the warmth I wish he’d have every day. Asya was right: his stomach is a direct road to the best version of him. “I was born here in America, as were Sofi and Mak. But our father insisted we go back and visit frequently. He wanted to keep us rooted in both worlds, Old and New.”

“You must have loved it.”

Pasha thinks about it for a moment. “For the most part, yeah. Especially at Christmastime. The lights on the snow… I’d be bundled up so tight, I couldn’t put my arms down below my waist. But it was worth it.”

I try to imagine a tiny version of this man, a sweet little boy, waddling around the frigid snow like a marshmallow. My heart squeezes—in a few short years, I’ll be bundling up a little girl who looks just like him.

Our plates are empty, so I automatically start to get up to clear the table. But Pasha beats me to it.

“We’ve been over this,” he rumbles with a disapproving glare.

“It’s not a big⁠—”

But then he rises and towers over me. One hand bands lightly around my throat. He’s not smiling, but I can feel a little glimmer of that mischief his mother was talking about in him. Although, when it’s communicated through the form of a six-and-a-half foot tall man with eyes that can commit murder on their own, it’s less ha-ha-hee-hee and more gulp.

My throat bobs against his grasp. “I⁠—”

“Hush.” He passes a thumb across my lips. I swear he’s also increased the temperature in the room thirty degrees, but that might just be my imagination talking. “You don’t listen to orders very well. Sometimes, I have to put my hands on you to make you understand.”

I gulp again. I nod. I’d do just about anything he asked me right now, truth be told.

With the tiniest amount of downward pressure, he puts me back in my seat. My knees buckle instinctively, those filthy, traitorous whores. I almost gasp when my butt hits the cushion.

“That’s a good girl,” Pasha croons. He teases my lower lip once more with his thumb before he withdraws his touch altogether. I almost moan at the loss of contact.

Then, with one more withering look, he scoops up all the dishes and disappears into the kitchen.

I listen to the sounds of Pasha rinsing off dishes and loading up the dishwasher and coach myself through the steps of inhaling and exhaling again, which requires a little more conscious effort than it usually does. The candles are low, casting a perfect golden glow in the room.

Damn. If I wasn’t pregnant, this would be the perfect moment for a glass of wine.

The water turns off in the other room. Silence.

And then he’s behind me. Smoothing his hands along my arms and breathing me in.

“I know I said it before,” he rumbles in his chest, “but my scent smells incredible on you. You smell incredible, moya plamya. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His mouth is so close to my neck. I can feel his breath fanning across my skin.

I can’t have wine.

But I can have him, can’t I?

I turn my face to his and decide in that last breath to just go for it. Take what I want. See what happens. The worst he can do is throw me out, right?

I mean, no, the worst that he can do is murder me, dismember my body into a million little pieces, and dissolve each of them in a vat of acid, but…

I can’t remember what my point was, because right then, our lips meet. If he did it or I did, I can’t be sure. But we come together, and there’s no denying what this is.

He’s kissing me.

He’s kissing me.

I want to moan. Fuck it; I do moan. He tastes even better than I remember and feels like everything I’ve been aching for. When his moan echoes mine, I swear I’m about to melt into a puddle on this chair.

Pasha reaches down and lifts me out of my seat. We’re so hungry for each other. My fingers thread through his hair and his hands wander over my body until they rest on my waist. All the while, we’re devouring each other’s lips and tongues like nothing else will satisfy.

He hoists me onto the table and nestles himself between my spread legs. This feels familiar… I can’t help but giggle between my moans at the thought.

“Something funny, moya plamya?” Pasha growls over the pulse in my throat.

“N-no! No.” I’m half-giggling, half-breathless, but when he catches the zipper of my sweater between his teeth, all the giggles vanish. What will he think when he realizes I’m not wearing anything underneath? Well, nothing except a bra. My boobs are growing too big to just freebird anymore.

Heat flares in his eyes when his nose rubs along the bare skin of my cleavage. He doesn’t stop tugging until the sweater is completely open and peeling away on either side.

“Naughty girl,” he teases in a low growl. Even in the heat of this moment, his smile still flickers like embers.

I lean up on my elbows toward him—but before I have the chance, he leans forward to capture my lips with his once more.

I hear myself let out a small whimper of need and it fuels his desire, leading his hungry mouth back down the other side of my neck to the ever-deepening valley of my cleavage.

I reach down to the clasp holding my bra together and unhook it. I’ve been loving front closures lately because of how easy they are to put on; I’m now loving them for how easy they are to take off.

Pasha straightens up.

I fully expect him to utterly devour them, but he surprises me. His tongue glides over the swell of one, followed by a warm, suckling kiss. Again, and again, he does the same thing all around my left breast until my nipple is practically begging for his attention.

Finally—finally—his warm lips wrap around the puckered bud and I gasp, I arch, I feel my toes start to curl when he flicks it with his wicked tongue. Pasha slides his hands under me to rub my lower back and hold me even closer to him. I can’t stop myself from grinding against him.

“Very naughty girl.” He nips the underside of that breast before kissing a trail to my right one, where he does it all over again.

“Pasha,” I hear myself whine. “Pasha, please…”

Those strong hands smooth down my back until they hook into the waistband of my sweatpants and panties. He doesn’t let go of my nipple with his mouth as he slides both items down my thighs and drops them in a pile at our feet.

Part of me feels so self-conscious about the changes in my body. My stomach is fuller, my breasts are larger—hell, I think my thighs have grown a bit thicker, too. I’m not the woman he first undressed in that storage closet.

But just when I’m ready to plaster a self-conscious hand in front of my belly, Pasha seizes my wrist in a grasp firm enough to shock a surprised little yelp out of me.

“If you think for even one second I’m letting you hide any part of yourself from me, you’re fucking delusional,” he snarls. “I want to see all of you. Every last, beautiful inch.”

He descends with kisses, down the swell of my breasts and the swell of my belly and the swell of my throbbing labia.

“So beautiful,” I hear him whisper again and again.

I’m blushing like crazy. My cheeks are on fire and my skin is on fire and everywhere he touches ignites with an aching need for more of him. I don’t even realize my fingers have tangled in his hair until I feel his tongue glide along my slit.

My spine buckles. “Pasha…”

He shifts his shoulders for a moment, struggling with something I can’t see. But then he’s back, his hands smoothing from my spread thighs and over my stomach, and I’m met with the wonderful feel of his bare skin against mine.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, his mouth hovering over the very spot I need him most.

Fuck, do I need him. I need him to be hungry and greedy and I need to be the only one who can satisfy him.

His tongue glides through my slit again, but this time, he doesn’t let up. He dips, licks, sucks, renders me mute. Every sensation feels twice as intense as before. I can’t stop rolling my hips or pulling on his thick, dark hair.

I can’t stop moaning.

I can’t stop gasping.

I don’t want to stop any of this.

Pasha latches onto my clit and I buck into his mouth with a loud mewl of pleasure. His hands caress down my body to wrap around my thighs, holding me to him as he devours me.

“Pasha… fuck, I’m gonna…” I’m breathless. I can’t form words. I just need.

He presses a finger inside me and fuckfuckfuck I’m so close, right on the edge, needing just a little more until⁠—

What? He’s pulling away?

I could cry. I want to sob with frustration and this literal ache now pulsating throughout my whole body. I lean up on my arms to demand an explanation⁠—

I’m met with him. All of him. So warm and solid and strong, and bare.

His mouth collides with mine. My tender breasts are pressed against his chest as he pulls me closer to him, closer to the edge of the table. His hands spread me wider around him, and oh my fucking god he’s throbbing hard and thick right at the core of me.

Pasha cups my face to make me look him in the eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. The pure rapture on his face as he pushes into me is a mirror of my own.

Was he this big before? Did I feel this full before?

“Oh, fuck…” My lashes flutter when he pulls back and surges deeper. “Pasha, I’m… fuck…”

“Let it out, baby.” His breath is hot against my skin. “Let me feel you come for me like the good girl I know you are.”

That’s all it takes.

As soon as the sentence ends, I’m a shuddering, spasming mess in his arms, flying apart at the seams. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop fucking the life out of me. The whole table rattles with every savage thrust.

I cling to him like that’ll keep me from dissolving into the ether.

“Good girl,” he growls repeatedly. “So fucking beautiful when you take my cock…”

If I didn’t have a praise kink before, I do now. It’s one thing to be desired as a physical object—it’s another thing entirely to feel like he’d fuck my soul if he could.

And who’s to say he isn’t? Judging by the way he’s groaning, he’s in me deeper than he’s ever been in anyone before.

Tremors ripple through my limbs and center in my core; the aftershocks make him groan again and again.

Good.

I love making him groan.

“Keep… keep doing that,” he rasps against my throat.

My swollen lips curve in a wicked smile. “Doing… this?”

I rock my hips and squeeze around him again.

“Keep that up and I’ll fill you with my cum right this fucking second, baby.”

He grabs my ass, his fingers digging in as he guides me to the rhythm he wants. I’m biting his shoulder, feeling another eye-rolling orgasm building up inside me.

The more I move, the more he moves. We’re on this race toward a finish line neither of us want to cross too soon.

“Daphne…” Pasha’s voice melts into a series of grunts and groans; his thrusts grow harder and deeper. “Fuck, Daphne…”

“I want it.” I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud—although more accurately, I think I breathe it in a gasp. “I want it. I want you. Fuck, I want you so bad it hurts…”

The table creaks and groans beneath us. I don’t care if it collapses; he’d better not stop fucking me even if it does. I want him, I need him, to ride this overwhelming wave of pleasure with me.

It crashes over us at the same time.

Heat blooms deep inside me and the world goes bright. He’s grunting, groaning, gasping as he pours himself into me. Every spasm milks him and he shudders, his fingers digging so hard into my flesh that I’m certain I’ll be wearing bruises for a while after this.

Not a problem, as far as I’m concerned.

Finally, the orgasms finish having their way with us. We collapse on the table together, a tangle of panting limbs and shivering aftershocks. His face buries between my breasts as he tries to catch his breath.

Slowly, gradually, he eases his hold on me. “You are…” Pasha laughs deliriously against my skin. “You are the best dessert.”

With one last lingering kiss, he eases out of me. I hate how empty I suddenly feel, even as he leaves a new sense of fullness at the same time.

I hate even more the reality that comes crashing down when he moves away to grab his clothes.

What did we just do?

He doesn’t say anything more. Just tugs his pants on and shrugs on his shirt. No glances at me, no more sweet words of affection.

It’s like we just engaged in a mutually beneficial transaction.

Because… we did.

Of course we did.

I can’t believe I was so stupid. I can’t believe I even allowed myself to think, to imagine… But what does it matter? This whole arrangement is strictly business. He needed an heir, and I needed a temporary rescue. We just happened to find what we were looking for in each other’s available resources.

Me, a womb.

Him, a protector.

My face heats with shame. Is that what he thinks of me? A live-in benefit? A convenient outlet?

Quietly, and without sparing him a single glance, I pluck my loungewear from the chairs he threw them on. My panties are the worst reminder of how hard I fell—they’re still damp in the center with my desire for him.

I know he wanted me, too. His is just a different type of desire. One that doesn’t involve emotional connection or monogamy or anything but the pursuit of his next orgasm.

Pure sex. Nothing more.

“Daphne, are you⁠—”

“I’m fine.” I can’t look at him. If I do, I might actually cry. “I need to go take a shower.”