Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) by Fox, Nicole (classic books for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

“I’d be … impressed,” I say, my voice hitching. “I wouldn’t be certain if I could do it.”

“I would show you. I’d tell you to work on the head first. Just press your tongue against the tip. Look at me while you’re kissing and tasting me.”

“Mmm.” I rub harder, pushing two fingers inside me. My grip on my phone is tight enough that my fingers ache. “I’d love the way you had your hand in my hair.”

“I would guide you to my balls. You’d take each one into your mouth. Your tongue would feel like paradise.”

His breathing is quickening. I can picture him, his cock in his hand, getting himself off on just the thought of me. My heart is beating so fast, I might die here with my hand in my underwear and I wouldn’t mind.

“I’d take you in my mouth,” I whisper. It almost turns into a moan. “I’d try to take as much as I could.”

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

His voice is low, barely audible.

“Lev—” My hand is rubbing so hard against my clit, I’m certain I’m going to be bruised in the morning. “I’d take you in as deep as I could. I’d let my tongue roll under you. When I pulled back, I’d let my tongue play with the tip of your cock before taking you back in.”

“I wouldn’t be able to take your teasing. I’d take your hair in my hands. I would guide you as far as you could take. I wouldn’t be able to control myself. You would look so damn good. I just wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

My pussy throbs harder than my heart, faster and faster, until the orgasm hits me like a storm. Incoherent noises slip out of me. My body arches off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure slams me. I’m taken away by a tsunami of unrestrained bliss.

Lev makes a noise between a growl and a groan. It’s almost enough to get me off again. I listen to his labored breathing, a provocative lullaby.

I close my eyes. My heart slows down. Sleep starts to take hold of me. At some point, Lev tells me to have sweet dreams.

And I do.

10

Allison

The Harrington bloodline is made of fighters. My grandfather, my uncle, and my dad all served in the Marines. My grandfather was a state trooper and my dad is the chief of police. My uncle is a firefighter. My mother was a nurse before becoming a homemaker.

We were made to be on the frontlines.

So, I can practically feel the disappointment of generations past when I’m terrified as I drive up to Lev’s mansion. If I were afraid because he’d killed someone, it would be a sensible reaction. But after my hormones got the best of me last night, I’ve strongly considered leaving the city and never returning.

If the universe cared about me, Lev would be hidden away in his mansion and I’d have time to calm my nerves. But he’s outside, taking paper bags out of the back of a cherry-red car. The vehicle that was a casualty last night is nowhere in sight.

He turns as I park, a paper bag in each arm. His sturdy frame makes my legs a bit unsteady as I step out of my car. The way he holds the bags near his waist focuses my attention on his groin. I force myself to concentrate on a willow tree in his yard instead.

“I assumed you’d be here later,” he says.

“It’s 7:00,” I say. “That’s our time.”

“Yes, but it was a late night,” he says.

I flush. “I don’t need much sleep.”

“Close the trunk,” he says. I shut the trunk and follow him into the mansion. As he walks to the back of the house, I focus on the walls, the floor, the recessed lighting—anything other than his body. There’s a memory of tasting him which doesn’t exist but desperately wants to.

He sets the bags down on the kitchen counter. He starts taking items out of the bag—milk, powdered milk, sweetened condensed milk.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to get your own groceries,” I say.

“I usually don’t.” He moves to the other bag. He pulls out cinnamon sticks, powdered cinnamon, nutmeg, and black cardamom. “But I wanted to get some specific items and I didn’t want to risk someone missing something or getting the wrong product.”

He takes out a honey bottle shaped like a honeypot. He pulls out four tea tins and folds up the paper bags, setting them between two canisters on the counter.

I check the tea tins. They’re different brands of chai tea.

“You remembered what I told you about the cinnamon chai tea.” I touch my cheeks as heat rushes into them again. “That’s incredibly kind of you.”

“It’s for our con,” he says matter-of-factly, like I’m the idiot for not realizing that. He puts the various types of milk into the refrigerator. “Just a part of the plan. Nothing more.”

“I’ve known a lot of people for over six months—I’ve known Julia over a year—and she doesn’t even know about the chai tea. We could have invented any story.” I shrug. “It’s just nice that you remembered what I said to you.”

“That was the point of questioning each other.”

As he moves to grab the tea tins, his elbow bumps into my arm. His hand immediately caresses where we collided, an automatic apologetic gesture, before continuing what he’s doing. It’s the smallest detail, one he probably barely even notices himself doing, but it’s a kindness I doubt he’s ever granted anybody else.

Except me.

A song starts to play—crunching guitars and heavy bass. He stops putting the spices away and takes his cell phone out of his pocket. When he taps on the screen and puts it up to his ear, the song ends.

“Ilya,” he says. His eyes shift back and forth as he listens. He quickly glances at me before handing me the black cardamom and walking down the hall.

The indication is clear: do not leave the