The Don Shielded Her. So I Became Bratva Queen. novel · Chapter 7 of 24

Chapter 7: His Right Hand

He didn't ask if I was sure.

He'd already asked, at the window, and I'd already answered.

He took my good hand and walked me up the back stairs to the third floor.

His apartment was one long room under the roof, bare wood and books and a bed the size of my old kitchen.

He shut the door with his heel.

"Last chance to go sleep in Nadia's little room," he said.

"Shut up, Kirill."

He didn't move me toward the bed right away.

He stood with his back against the door and watched me, his chest still rising hard from the kiss.

"You've got no idea what you just started."

"Then show me."

I walked at him and got my hands on his collar, and his shirt came open in a rip of buttons I didn't bother to count.

His chest was broad and warm and scarred in two places I'd ask about later or never.

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and he let it fall.

Then I put my mouth on his neck and bit him.

He made a sound low in his throat, half laugh and half groan.

"You bite."

"I've been wanting to for three years."

"Liar. You didn't know I existed for three years."

"I noticed you at my father's funeral."

That stopped him.

His hands, which had been working the hem of the borrowed T-shirt, went still.

"You shook my hand over the grave."

"I remember."

"You never looked back."

"I didn't dare."

He pulled the T-shirt over my head in one motion.

The cold air hit my bare breasts and my nipples pulled tight, and his eyes went to me and stayed there.

"You will now."

I reached for his belt.

My fingers weren't steady.

Four years of Vin's careful chore, the lights off, his mind on the docks or on Romina's soft voice.

This was a man whose hands were already spreading over my bare back, thumbs tracking my spine, pulling me up against his chest.

Skin on skin.

His heart beat under my palm like a war drum.

"Kirill."

"Say it again."

"Kirill."

He kissed me then, deep and slow, one hand cupping the back of my head, and I felt his other hand slide down over the curve of my ass and squeeze.

Not polite.

Not careful.

Like he was taking stock of what belonged to him now.

I got his belt open and his trousers down and then his cock was in my hand, thick and hot and hard, and he hissed through his teeth.

"Fuck."

"That's the idea."

He laughed against my mouth.

Then he picked me up.

He carried me to the bed and laid me down on my back, and the mattress gave under me like a cloud.

The lamp by the bed was on, and he stood over me for a second, letting me look.

Broad shoulders, chest with a light dusting of dark blond hair, cock standing up hard against his stomach.

Tattooed knuckles flexing.

"Take off your pants," he said.

I lifted my hips and pushed the sweatpants down, and he pulled them off my ankles and dropped them.

I was naked except for my father's gold watch on my right wrist and the white gauze on my left arm.

I reached for him.

He caught my right wrist in one hand and pinned it above my head.

"No."

"Kirill."

"You're going to lie still and let me look at you."

His eyes moved over me like a man reading a book he'd waited years to open.

I felt the blush climb from my chest to my throat.

"Stop staring."

"No."

"Kirill."

"I said no."

He knelt over me, one knee between my thighs, and his free hand found my breast.

He rolled my nipple between thumb and finger, and I gasped and arched up into his hand.

"That's it."

He bent his head and took my other nipple in his mouth.

His tongue, hot and rough, circled and flicked.

My back bowed.

I was wet already, wetter than I'd been in four years, and he hadn't even touched me there yet.

He worked my nipple with his mouth until I was whimpering.

Then he kissed his way down my stomach, slow, pausing at my hip to bite.

"Kirill, please."

"Please what."

"Touch me."

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