Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva) by Nicole Fox (good books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

I sneer at him, trying to push down that childhood cowardice. “I didn’t know you were so threatened by me. Maybe you should just tell me where my daughter is and we can never see each other again.”

“As I said, I like seeing you this way, so I wouldn’t mind keeping you here for some time.” He approaches the bed, his hands resting on the footboard. Even as I try to slow down my breathing, my body tenses. “You’re a Mafia don’s daughter. You can’t be so entitled that you thought you could disrespect me like that and not fall victim to some—let’s call it ‘retaliation.’”

“I didn’t think a Bratva boss would be so sensitive,” I snap before I can stop myself. I force a smile. “I understand. I won’t do either of those things again. I was angry, but we’ve agreed to a deal now and I’ll play my part.”

“It’s far too late for that, Cassandra,” he tuts. “Besides, you’re lying again.” His finger strokes the sole of my foot. I reflexively jerk backward, but the silk bonds remain taut. He moves his hand over my foot and toward the ties around my ankles.

I should be desperate for him to untie the silk—kicking him in the face would be incredibly satisfying—but I find myself wanting to move his hand up. I want his touch to guide itself higher up my legs. To salve the burning need that grows hotter with every passing second.

What. Is. Happening?

“You’ll keep rebelling until you understand that I’m the one with all of the leverage. Anything I give you is an act of benevolence.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, but the last word slurs off my tongue as his hand slides up my leg. He moves up along the bed, sitting down near my hip. I stare at him defiantly, trying to ignore his hand stroking the inside of my thigh. “So … what? You were just trying to annoy me by not showing up tonight?”

“Are you annoyed?” he whispers. His hand moves away from my thigh. My hips impulsively raise up. He gives me an amused look. “Are you tense?”

His thumbs slip under the hem of the dress, rubbing against my thighs. He tugs the skirt of the dress up. I hear some of the material rip as it reaches my hips. I pull against the restraints, pulling myself away from him, though part of me—a larger part than I want to admit—is dying for him to touch me.

Do it, asshole, that voice begs. Touch me. Make me moan.

“Tell me the truth, Cassandra Balducci,” he says, running his fingers over the waistband of my lace underwear. “You’re the one who believes the truth will save the world. So tell it to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Pissed off,” I mumble, but my heart is beating hard enough that I’m worried he can see it moving through the sheer material.

“And what else?” he prompts.

I shake my head, words failing me. God, his hands are so close. My pussy is pulsing. I need friction. I pull on the restraints again. They still don’t relent.

“That is a lie by omission, Miss Balducci,” he reprimands softly. “There is far more than anger swirling inside of you right now.”

His fingers curl under my underwear’s waistband. I wait for him to pull it down, but he abruptly yanks it up instead. The pressure against my clit sends my heart into a gallop. My focus starts to narrow to my underwear, his hands, and my clit. Everything else seems insubstantial and ethereal.

He tugs upward again. When I moan louder, he yanks my underwear down, pulling it close to the middle of my knees. I’m left bare for a second, but his hand quickly replaces it, covering my pussy completely, his thumb and his little finger splaying over onto my thighs.

Oh, fucking Christ almighty.

His hand slaps my pussy. My vision blurs, but before the sting can sink in, two of his fingers plunge into me. He strokes inside me, his fingers curled enough to stroke my upper walls. In the past, clitoral stimulation has been the only way I can get off, but I can feel him getting close to something without touching my clit—I’m quite literally twisted around his finger.

When he lowers his palm, the heel of his hand rubbing against my clit, I know right away that my world is going to end with a bang and I’m going to die on his fingers.

The heel of his hand presses down harder and his fingers move faster like he’s repeatedly pulling a trigger. My back is arched and my hips rock back and forth, still desperate for more. Heat is flushing my face. My breathing is so loud, it must sound like I’m dying. Everything is narrowing to a central point that begins and ends where Maksim’s hand is touching me.

Euphoria charges through me, a stampede of sensation trampling deep inside me and taking out anything else in my mind and body. Nothing else in the world matters. Nothing else in the world even exists. I feel myself smiling.

For the first time in a long time, things are simple. There is one thought and one thought only: I am going to come. Hard.

The joy fades as Maksim touches my cheek. He looks directly at me. A defiant, haughty anger dominates his eyes, but in his dilated pupils, I can see his desire like it’s a reflection of my own lust. He leans down, his mouth dangerously close to my ear.

“How does it feel to come on the hand of your family’s sworn enemy?” he taunts. For the first time, I notice his pants are unbuttoned and unzipped, his arousal evident. It should disgust me—the thought of him masturbating while touching me as I’m tied down—but it only makes my heart beat faster, my own arousal roaring back with a vengeance. “You are such a naive woman, mucking around in affairs that