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

She’s the patron saint of bad ideas. She’s Pandora’s box, which I’d open over and over.

I slip my hand under her shirt, tracing her spine. As she settles over me again, my fingertips dig into the flesh of her hips, keeping her down.

“Lean forward,” I tell her. She obeys, our lips close enough that I steal a quick kiss. I rock my hips against her. Her eyes melt, like black rum in her irises. “Sway your hips.”

At first, her hips move slowly, rocking against me, but as her breath quickens, she grinds against me with determined enthusiasm. My hands settle on her thighs, feeling her muscles rippling under my palms. I slow my breathing, trying to concentrate on the ceiling of my car and not the hitches in her breath or the delicate moans that sometimes follow.

But, God, it’s like trying to pay attention to the candlesticks instead of the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.

I grab her left hip and her right ass cheek. I slam her up and down my cock, her body bouncing high enough that she has to steady herself with her hands on my chest and her hair still sways like it’s caught in a storm.

As I drive back into her, I grab the back of her neck to pull her down to me. When we kiss, her lips frantically crash against mine. She nips at my lower lip, her hips gyrating against my hips, getting her clit to rub against my abdomen.

When I start bouncing her again, she leans forward to meet my movements and her cheeks are flushed. It almost makes me angry again because I know I can never completely own her. She will always belong to other people, because of her devotion to improving the world, whereas I need her to be fully mine.

Her hands grip onto my shirt, her eyes squeeze shut, and she starts bobbing with my movements. Her pussy is pulsating around my cock. As her thighs tighten against my legs, I drive into her harder.

Her climax is unrelenting. Her fingernails dig into my chest as her pussy repeatedly clenches my cock, squeezing me until I can’t hold onto the edge anymore. Euphoria blinds my vision as I erupt, my seed surging into her.

She collapses onto my chest.

We’re both heaving for breath. I close my eyes, trying to steady my thoughts, waiting for that post-sex regret to sink in, but all I can think about is how much I’d rather be here than anywhere else.

I sink my fingers into her hair, follow the strands down her back, and let my fingers trace her shoulder blades through her shirt. She plants a kiss under my jaw.

“It looks like I did all right,” she says. “Not bad for my first time on top.”

“Oh, you were flawless,” I say. “But if you want more practice, we can arrange daily sessions.”

She smirks, rocking her hips against me. I grab her, kissing her hard. She lays her head on the side of the headrest next to me.

“You said I shouldn’t be living in fear,” she says. “And I don’t want to. But you’re much better at being in control.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” I say, my voice sounding harsher than I mean to be.

“You also …” she starts. She kisses my cheek, nervous again. “You also mentioned that your parents lived in fear of each other.”

She doesn’t ask anything. The statement joins the steam on the windows, slowly evaporating as the seconds pass by. I could let it go. I don’t need to answer anything when she never asked a question.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s complex. My parents had a good relationship for several years. They were happy. But my father began to rise in power and their relationship became more and more strained. When he became the Bratva boss, something changed. It could partly be that my mother simply didn’t like that he had so much power, but it was mostly my father’s ego. He became violent. I didn’t intervene—he was my father and he was the Bratva boss, so he had power over me in nearly all aspects of my life. I left the house when I was sixteen. Within the Bratva, I heard rumors that my mother had been seen with an FBI agent. I thought my father would beat her and she’d fall back in line.”

I take a deep breath. Ally’s thumb rubs over one of my shirt buttons as she listens carefully.

“The police report … she was found beaten to death. Everyone knew it was my father, but in the Bratva, what happens in the house has no effect on anything else. It’s a man’s domain and he gets to decide how punishments are dealt. That’s especially true for the Bratva boss. I wish I could say I tried to let it go or that I thought of going to the police, but as soon as I heard, I knew I was going to kill him.”

She stops fidgeting with my buttons. Her fingers are slightly curled above my shirt, her wrist still resting on it.

“It was simple enough. I told him to come to his nightclub, Original Menace, because a Colosimo tried to put poison in the vodka. I said I had captured the man. Like the Colosimos, he took pleasure in torture, so I knew he wouldn’t give up the chance to torture someone before killing them. He came. And I killed him.”

Ally raises her head. Her eyes search mine, looking for guilt or regret.

“The way I act isn’t armor or an act to intimidate people, Ally,” I say. “I killed my father because I wanted to kill him. My mother’s name was Mariya. I named my vodka Mariya’s Revenge because I feel no shame over what I did. I can look at those words every day, remember I killed my father, and I wouldn’t ever take it back.”

Her fingers rest over the button again, but she doesn’t fiddle with it.

“You’re not angry that she