Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (best romantic novels in english .txt) 📗

He laughs again, for the thousandth time that night, more laughter than I ever expected to hear from him in a million years. I could get used to that sound. He’s so serious all the rest of the time that every time his lips part in a smile is a miracle to me. It’s like seeing a bear walk on his hind legs, then you blink and all of a sudden he’s climbing mountains and running marathons.

I watch him as the waiters clear away our plates and use some little tool to scrape the crumbs from the tablecloth. He really is stunningly handsome. A jawline you could slice bread with, high cheekbones that any runway model would kill for, and those eyes—those eyes that undress me and restrain me and rile me up all at the same time. He could send men to war with those eyes. He could tempt any woman to bed.

I am damn sure that he’s done both.

The chauffeur drives us back to the mansion as Erik sits silently beside me.

In the house, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs to my bedroom. My belly immediately starts thrumming with butterflies, my throat getting tight. It’s not my first time, but it almost feels like it.

I expect him to pounce on me the moment he closes the door, but instead he swallows, looking almost … awkward? That can’t be right. He’s been a portrait in extreme self-control since the moment I first laid eyes on him. King of his world, master of his surroundings, yada yada yada.

But now, leaning against the closed door, he looks like a bashful high school kid who isn’t sure how to make the first move. I’m not sure if it’s weirdly endearing or just plain weird.

“I really am grateful for what you did early this evening,” he says, voice quiet and exposed. “Not just for risking the obstruction charge. But you put yourself out there for me, Camille. You proved we could be …” He pauses, mouth tightening.

“Could be what?” I urge.

He shakes his head. “I just wanted to thank you,” he finishes.

It’s like a new Erik has taken his place. I’m not even sure how to interact with him anymore. Maybe he is capable of being vulnerable after all. Maybe he doesn’t always have to be this detached and analytical tactician, this frosty, emotionless kingpin.

But then his face hardens. “We still have business to take care of, however.” Whatever small flame of feeling was flickering in my chest, it extinguishes at this sudden change.

Things are made even more confusing when he takes me by the shoulders and drags me toward the bed. My heart pounds, not just with nerves. The memory of the last time we had sex is still hot and tingly on my skin.

He tosses me down, standing over me as though he owns me. Maybe he does. That should make me angry, surely, but as his eyes move over me with that air of unchallenged ownership, I feel my sex get warm.

That’s so fucked up, isn’t it?

He slides his hand up my leg toward my underwear. I moan involuntarily, twisting and letting my thighs open for him. He is just about to slide his fingers beneath my underwear when he pauses, eyebrows knitted.

“Oh, I must apologize,” he says.

“Apologize?” I gasp, breath coming quickly.

“I was about to touch you,” he mutters, removing his hand. “But, of course, that would violate your rule, wouldn’t it? Touching is not strictly necessary for procreation, so …”

He stares a challenge at me, his lips twitching in a smile that tells me he knows he’s caught me in a trap. My sex is aching with desire, screaming at me for his touch.

But if I cave now, I will be going back on everything I laid out. I sit up, tossing him a challenging look of my own.

“Of course,” I say breezily. “I don’t want to break the rule, either.”

He nods shortly and steps back. “We shall do it your way, then. Undress.”

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing his chest rippling with muscles. A light bead of sweat slides down between his pectorals. I watch it, biting my lip, mind full of all we could be doing. The memory of his hand on my leg is too potent to ignore.

I stand up on shaky legs and undress in front of him, slipping my shoes off and pulling my tights down. He tries to keep up his cold demeanor, but his eyes flit to my bare legs and his jaws get tight.

When I pull my dress over my head, I’m almost positive he lets out a growling breath. But it is too quiet to be sure.

I unclasp my bra and let my breasts spill free. There is something even hotter about not simply pouncing on each other. About maintaining distance. Tease and denial.

My body is alive with anticipation. He lets his shirt flutter to the floor and then undoes his belt. Soon we are both standing there completely naked, the air pricking my nipples.

His manhood is rock-hard and neither of us has even touched it. He nods at the bed.

“Let’s make a son,” he says.

I suppress a laugh. “Is that your idea of dirty talk?” I shoot.

He tilts his head. “I do not want to cross any boundaries,” he says, seriousness on his face but mischievous light dancing in his eyes.

He is playing with me.

I go to the bed and lie down. Then, as he makes to stand over me, I shake my head and flip myself over, sticking my ass out at him. A rumble comes from deep within his chest, animal and hungry.

He likes it, I realize. He likes it a lot.

I look at him over my shoulder, his tattooed torso bulging as he struggles to restrain himself. Above the bird of prey I see words etched in an unfamiliar language—Russian, I assume. He might have the power out there, in the house, but