Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

I should be mortified by what just happened.

I should be terrified I’m going to lose my job.

Instead, I’m laughing and giggling and running through the hall hand-in-hand with this insane man I only just met. He’s got the bottle of absinthe in his other hand, though hell only knows when he found time to recover that, and we keep passing it between us to take long gulps.

He gives it to me and nods at a door. “What’s this?”

I shrug. “Some storage closet. We only use it for overflow.”

He tries the doorknob. It opens. He gives me a wicked grin and winks. “That’ll do.”

Then he pulls me inside.

I follow him in and the door swings closed behind us. I don’t know why, but being alone with this man suddenly has me feeling all warm and self-conscious. I wrap my arms around myself and toe the cement floor.

The laughter fades. The craziest man I’ve ever crossed paths with turns his back on me and starts thumbing through canvases stacked against the wall.

His face scrunches up at the sight of one of them. “The hell is this supposed to be?”

I lean against his arm and peer at the print in question. “Leda and the Swan. Which was a reimagination of the Greek myth.”

“Which was about as fucked up as this… I guess you could call it a ‘painting,’ but it seems like a stretch to call it ‘art.’”

I giggle. “You know, you don’t strike me as the academic type.”

He sighs and sets the painting back in its place. “I’m not.”

“But you seem to know a lot about art. Mythology. Classical stuff.”

“I’ve read books on occasion, believe it or not.”

At first, I think I’ve crossed a line. But then he flashes me that disarming smile and slowly swaggers toward me until I’m backed into a folding table set up as a makeshift desk.

“So, moya plamya…” He takes a swig from the bottle of absinthe, but never once looks away from me. “How does it feel to be the vandalizer of someone’s very, very expensive property?”

I can’t hold back the impish grin. I grab the bottle from his grasp and tip it back to take my own deep sip. But right when I’m about to swallow, he holds my chin, pulls me to him, and kisses me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced anything as erotic as this.

His tongue sweeps between my lips; he’s drinking the liquor from my mouth. And even when there’s nothing left, he does it again, and again… stroking my tongue with his, drawing soft moans from my throat.

When he pulls away, I’m left completely breathless.

“Like that,” I pant. “It feels like that.”

He smirks. Sets the bottle down.

And then, next thing I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the table and he’s wedged between my legs. His hands rub my thighs, teasing my dress up to my waist.

“Wait!” I gasp. “I don’t even know your name.”

He chuckles against my throat and sucks a warm kiss onto my skin. “Pasha.”

“Pasha.”

“Mhm.”

“Russian?”

“What gave it away?”

“Probably the part where you started speaking Russian.” It’s lame, I know. But the way he’s touching me, leaving trails of fire along my skin and sending shivers of pleasure straight to my core… I’m scrambling to maintain some grasp on my sanity. Quippiness is not high on my list of skills at the moment.

Pasha reaches up to cradle my face in his hands. I’ve never been so held by a man before. Revered. Worshiped, really–that’s the only word for it. It makes my heart race in ways it has no business doing.

“You are so fucking beautiful. Do you know that?”

On a logical level, I know I’m not the ugliest duckling. I’ve got most of my features in the right places, more or less. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, all that good stuff.

Did Conrad ever take the time to tell me that?

… Not so much.

At the reminder of everything else that’s happened today, my cheeks burn with shame. I try to look away, but Pasha keeps holding me in place. I try to lower my gaze, but he kisses my eyelids and my heart instantly hurts.

I want him.

I want him to want me.

But…

“I can’t. Do this, I mean.” I brace my hands against his chest. His very solid, very warm, very carved chest. “I can’t fraternize with a client.”

Pasha regards me for a moment. “You may not remember this, but you just burnt the only bridge between me being a client and not. I officially own nothing that was purchased here.”

He smells incredible. Like leather and wood and sex. It’s intoxicating, paired with the sound of his deep voice.

“So that doesn’t matter anymore,” he continues. “Nothing does. Nothing but you and me. Right here. Right now. So…” His thumb rubs my bottom lip. “What’s it going to be, moya plamya?”

The part of me determined to be a good girl scolds me for even being in this backroom with him.

The rest of me tells that part to shut the fuck up and kiss him already.

Our lips collide. Pasha’s chest rumbles with a pleased growl. I start popping buttons open so I can feel his bare skin beneath my fingers. He’s a literal wall of muscle and heat and I sense his heart racing underneath my palm.

I want to taste him.

Every. Last. Inch. Of. Him.

His hands envelop me as he caresses my body, so far up beneath my dress I have half a mind to rip the damn thing off. I feel his fingers smooth up my waist and stroke my back… and then my bra pops open.

My eyes widen with surprise. That was smooth.

Pasha breaks away from our kiss to look at me.

“Is the door locked?” I pant.

He nods. But then that grin widens as he peels my dress up and over my head. “Would it matter if it wasn’t?”

“What do you mean? Of course it would⁠—”

Another kiss. Another embrace. By the time we separate, I’m practically naked in his arms, my hardened nipples rubbing against his bare chest as he sucks on my tongue and starts to slide my panties down my legs.

And then he’s pushing me down, his mouth trailing hot kisses down my jaw and neck to the valley between my breasts as he lays me out on the table.

“Now, this,” he snarls when he looks at me spread out like a feast for him, “is a work of art.”

I blush. I gasp, too, when he leans over me and devours one nipple. His hands continue to massage every stretch of my body, and I don’t know if I’m melting or flying or a little bit of both.

“I’ll… I can stay quiet,” I assure him. I can—I’ve never really been one for loud sex. No one has ever pulled that sort of reaction from me.

Pasha lifts his head from where he’s kissing my stomach. “Why?”

My brow furrows. “Why what?”

“Why stay quiet?” His tongue passes over the crease in my hip and I shudder.

“Because they’ll… they’ll…” I can’t think. His lips press over the sensitive skin right above my mound and he’s draping my legs over his shoulders. Is he doing what I think he’s doing? “They’ll hear me. Us.”

“Good. Let them.”

My back arches at the first glide of his tongue between my folds. His grip on my thighs tightens, then smooths up my legs to my waist where he presses me down. Oh my God, I don’t know what to grab, but I need to grab something or I’m gonna buck off this table so hard it’ll be like a rocket launching into space.

So I fist my hands in his hair and tug the same time he nips and sucks and tugs and then sweeps his tongue even deeper inside me.

I haven’t…

I don’t…

When was the last time Conrad kissed me down there?

Has anyone done this to me before?

I can’t remember. I can’t fucking think. Pasha is somewhere between making out with my slit and fucking me with his tongue… and then he moves up a bit.

His wicked mouth latches onto my clit. His hands keep me anchored in place, but nothing stops the loud cry of pleasure from pouring out of me.

Back and forth, back and forth, his tongue flicks and swirls and teases that small bundle of nerves that makes my toes curl and my hips grind against his face.

And then one of his hands leaves my waist, and I think he’s going to move on to something else⁠—

I cry out again. He’s filling me with his fingers—first one, then two—and instantly searches for the spot deep inside me that no one, especially not Conrad, ever tried to hit.

“Sing for me, moya plamya.” Pasha breathes over my pussy. He presses, his fingers curl, and I feel the sudden surge of pleasure when he finds that sweet spot inside me.

I’m writhing like crazy, my moans pitching as the pleasure builds and builds and builds deep inside…

And then it bursts open.

I’m seeing stars.

I don’t know how long I ride that high. I don’t know if I ever want to come back down.

Pasha holds me, murmuring his encouragement for me to just “let go, let it out, let them hear, let them all fucking hear.”

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers against my skin as he kisses the insides of my thighs. Then he’s suddenly rising over me, dragging me closer to the edge of the table until my ass dangles over open space. His hands are the only things keeping me from crumbling to the floor.

He kisses me and fuck, I can taste myself on his lips and tongue. It’s so dirty. So… so wicked.

I love it.

He groans when I lick him clean, and I moan right back when I feel his hot, hard length slide over my core and tease my clit. We pull apart just enough to look each other in the eyes—and it’s almost like he’s asking me for permission.

I bite my lip. And nod.

This time, he swallows my cry of pleasure and I’m glad because I swear, this man is going to make me scream. He’s spreading me open, pushing me to new fullness I have never felt. His cock is surging and pulsing and pushing… pushing… oh, God…

“That’s it, moya plamya, my little flame,” he growls in my ear. “Let me hear you sing. Let the whole fucking world hear you sing.”

Pasha wraps his arms around me and lifts me up. Up, up, until our chests rub and slide against each other and gravity helps him bottom out inside me with every. Single. Solid. Thrust.

I can’t…

I’m not…

It’s too much…

I want so much more.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so completely filled. So stretched open to my absolute limits.

So completely and utterly fucked.

The table creaks and groans beneath us, battering against the far wall in time with his thrusting. His hands grab my ass and spear me on him over and over again.

Moans turn into grunts and grunts turn into cries of deep pleasure. The cries turn into sobs as that sweet release builds and builds until I don’t think I can hold back anymore.

“Come for me,” Pasha orders between kisses on my shoulder. “I want to feel you come.”

That’s all I need.

He sheaths himself inside me right when that second bubble breaks and I’m flying, shattering, screaming his name over and over. My hips want to ride him and push him off but he’s holding me there, filling me with him, and it makes me grind even harder on him.

Pasha groans. He’s panting as hard as I am.

But the moment I calm down from that toe-curling orgasm?

He’s pulling out, flipping me over, and smacking my ass.

“I’m not done with you yet, moya plamya.”

Oh, fuck… I’m pretty sure I just came a little again.

I hear him chuckle and yup, I did. I can feel the evidence trickle down my thighs. Pasha rubs his hands between my legs and caresses my thighs open wider. Takes his time kneading my ass like he’s inspecting me. I don’t know if I’m ready for him to go there yet, but I don’t know if I’d refuse him, either.

I feel him line back up right where I want him to be; I breathe a sigh of relief. He chuckles and gives my ass a loving squeeze.

“Don’t worry, beautiful.” Pasha swallows back a grunt when he starts pushing back inside me. “I’ll give you plenty of preparation before taking you here.”

He thumbs me there when he says it. Not hard, not deep, more of a caress right outside the rim. It’s enough to make me squeal with pleasure and feel him slide into me even more.

“Fuck, baby…” He leans over me and kisses a fiery path up my spine. “You feel so fucking good…”

He’s stroking my ego almost as much as his shaft is stroking my inner walls. I push up onto my elbows and arch my hips up more. I’m not just going to lie here and take it—I’m going to give him exactly what he wants.

What we both want.

Pasha smacks my ass again, this time with a deep growl of appreciation. It spurs me on and I ride him, grind on him, throw my hips back to take him deeper on every solid thrust of his thick cock. Now, he’s snarling my name as much as I’m crying out his.

“Daphne…”

I shudder. Lean back into him.

I’m so fucking close.

One hand squeezes my breast. The other hand slides down my body to press right over my womb.

Something about that makes every fiber of my senses snap.

I feel him pouring heat deep inside me at the same time I shudder even harder, sob even louder, chant his name like a mantra on my trembling lips. Pasha holds me tight to him and grunts over and over, working himself into me deeper and deeper with slow, solid, punctuating thrusts that push that liquid heat exactly where he wants it to go.

I can’t feel my legs.

Or my fingers.

Or my toes.

All I can feel are his kisses fluttering along my shoulders. His arms wrapped around me, holding me to him, preventing me from falling to the ground.

All I can hear is my name breathed through his own panting gasps, paired with whispers in Russian that I can’t interpret but that feel like something close to a prayer.