Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

31. Elena

31

ELENA

M y body moves before my mind catches up, obeying a command I don’t fully understand.

My heart thunders in my chest as I turn away from him, exposing my back to his gaze. The air feels charged, every nerve in my body acutely aware of his presence.

He doesn’t move immediately, and the silence stretches, thick and taut.

I feel him behind me before I hear him—his warmth radiating across the inches that separate us.

The faintest shift of fabric announces his step closer, and then his hands are on my shoulders.

His touch is lighter than I expect, his fingers grazing my skin like a whisper, but there’s an undeniable firmness beneath it. A shiver ripples through me.

Slowly, his fingers curl around the delicate straps of my dress. He doesn’t rush, his movements precise, deliberate, as if testing my resolve.

The straps slide down my arms, inch by inch, the fabric gliding against my skin with a soft, almost imperceptible sound.

My breathing quickens as the dress falls lower, pooling around my waist like liquid silk.

The cool air kisses my bare shoulders, heat radiating from his hands. I gasp softly, the sound breaking the stillness, and I feel his touch shift, his fingertips grazing down the curve of my back.

They move with an unhurried confidence, pausing briefly before finding the clasp of my bra. A deft flick with practiced ease—and the tension holding it in place dissolves.

Time slows as the garment slides from my body, slipping down my arms before falling soundlessly to the floor.

I’m acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin, every beat of my racing heart, every sharp inhale and exhale that seems too loud in the silence.

My hands twitch instinctively, longing to shield myself, but I hesitate, frozen under his gaze.

Gently but firmly, he turns me to face him, and my eyes dart everywhere but his. Vulnerability prickles across my skin, a flush creeping up my chest and neck.

My arms move on their own, an instinctive shield against the sudden exposure, but before they can rise fully, he catches them.

The intensity in his gaze pins me in place, and I feel utterly bare—not just in body but in spirit. The air thickens between us, every second stretched to infinity as I stand there, caught in his grip.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over my body with undisguised hunger. “You’re beautiful, Elena. You’ve nothing to hide.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest. Beautiful. No one has ever called me that in my life apart from Veronica. Not like this. Not with such conviction. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, but I don’t look away.

He steps closer, his hands sliding down my sides to rest on my hips. His thumbs hook into the waistband of my panties, and he pulls them down, letting them join the growing pile of clothes at my feet.

Now I’m completely exposed, vulnerable in a way that terrifies and excites me. He steps back, his eyes drinking me in, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. Just this.

“Kneel,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

My knees hit the rug without hesitation. I look up at him, my breath shallow, my pulse racing. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and something inside me melts.

As he tosses the shirt aside, I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the intricate ink that covers him. Each tattoo seems deliberate, placed with purpose. The scars cutting through some of the designs only add to the story his body tells.

“What do they mean? I ask softly, my voice trailing off as I reach out, hesitant.

He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Then he steps closer, taking my hand in his and guiding it to his chest. His skin is warm, solid, alive beneath my touch.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a wolf inked over his heart, its sharp eyes staring out fiercely, “represents loyalty and survival. In Russian folklore, the wolf is a protector, but it’s also a hunter.”

I notice words written in Russian, inked in bold, precise letters above the wolf tattoo. They’re stark against his skin, ominous and commanding.

“What does it say?” I ask, my fingers hovering just above the text.

He hesitates, his eyes darkening, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his voice drops, deep and unyielding, like the echo of a thunderstorm. “It says, ‘ Ten', kotoruyu boyatsya dazhe monstry .’”

His gaze locks onto mine, holding me captive in its intensity. “The shadow even monsters fear.”

A shiver runs through me, not of fear, but of something deeper. The words seem to pulse with life, with a dark truth about the man standing before me.

“Is that what you are?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His lips curl into a faint, almost bitter smile. “It’s what they believe. And sometimes, Elena, belief is all that matters.”

I let my fingers trace the letters, feeling the hardness of his chest beneath them, the steadiness of his heart. “But you’re not just that,” I say softly, meeting his eyes. “Not to me.”

His expression softens, just a fraction, and he covers my hand with his own. “No,” he murmurs. “Not to you. Never to you.”

For a fleeting second, something raw and vulnerable flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

He steps closer, his heat enveloping me, and his voice dips low, a promise and a warning all at once.

“And this?” I ask, tracing a crow perched on a branch near his collarbone.

“Death and wisdom,” he says, his voice quieter now. “In our world, it watches from above, always present.”

My breath catches as his words sink in. He shifts my hand lower, toward a coiled snake inked on his ribcage, its fangs bared and ready to strike.

I let my fingers linger there for a moment, feeling the unyielding strength beneath his skin. His hand moves mine again, this time to an intricate design on his forearm—a black bear standing on its hind legs, roaring.

“Power,” he says simply. “Strength and resilience. It’s not about being the biggest or the loudest. It’s about enduring. Standing your ground, no matter what.”

“And this one?” I ask as I point to a stark star on his shoulder, its lines precise and sharp.

“That’s the mark of a leader,” he says, his tone steady. “In our world, the stars mean rank, respect, and responsibility. But they’re also a target. A reminder that power comes with a price.”

The intensity in his gaze makes my heart stutter. He’s baring himself to me, not just his body but his soul, and it leaves me breathless.

Then he steps back, his hands moving to the waistband of his pants. He unbuttons them, sliding them down along with his boxers. My breath catches as his body is revealed fully to me, raw and unrestrained.

My eyes widen, taking in the sheer power of him—hard, unyielding, and unapologetically erect.

His body is awe inspiring, his cock standing proud between us, and I can’t tear my eyes away. The sight of him, raw and unguarded, steals every coherent thought from my mind.

He steps closer, the air between us thick with anticipation. Slowly, he takes my hand, his grip firm yet gentle, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he moves too quickly.

He guides me to the bed, his touch igniting sparks along my skin. The soft sheets cradle me as he lays me down.

His hands start their journey, gliding over my shoulders, down my arms, and across my trembling stomach.

Each touch is electric, a slow, deliberate exploration that leaves me breathless. His fingers brush against the curve of my hip, trailing down to my thighs, teasing and igniting fires wherever they linger.

His gaze follows his hands, dark and intent, as if he’s committing every inch of me to memory.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers through me.

I’m trembling beneath him, my chest rising and falling as I try to steady my breathing. When his hands finally settle between my legs, I feel my heart race faster than ever.

He spreads me wide, his movements confident and assured, his eyes fixed on the most intimate part of me with an intensity that leaves me blushing and exposed.

“Beg,” he murmurs, his voice velvety but commanding, the word rolling over me like a challenge.

His breath is hot against my core, light as a whisper, sending jolts of pleasure racing through me. My body reacts instinctively, arching toward his touch, desperate for more.

“Please,” I whisper, barely audible, my voice trembling with need.

“Louder,” he demands, his fingers pressing just enough to tease but not satisfy. His mouth curves into a smirk, and the sheer power he exudes makes me feel completely at his mercy.

“Please, Dmitri,” I say louder this time, my voice carrying a raw edge of desperation as my body arches involuntarily toward him.

He rewards my plea with a satisfied smirk, his eyes gleaming with approval.

Without breaking his gaze, he pushes a finger inside me, the sensation shocking more moans from me.

He adds another, stretching me in a way that borders on pain but quickly turns into pleasure so intense it feels like it might undo me.

His tongue finds my clit, circling it with unrelenting precision.

A cry escapes my lips, my hips bucking against his hand.

He watches me, his dark eyes drinking in every sound and movement, his control unwavering even as I lose mine completely.

“That’s it,” he purrs, his voice low and hypnotic. “Come for me.”

The command, soft yet firm, reverberates through me. My body obeys before my mind can catch up, the tension inside me snapping like a tightly wound spring. A wave of pleasure crashes over me, powerful and all-consuming.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, until I’m a trembling mess, clutching the sheets for dear life.

When he finally withdraws his fingers, I feel empty, aching for more.

He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs, and I feel the head of his cock press against me.

“Look at me,” he commands, and I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. “I want to see your face when I take you.”

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips, his hands gliding over my body with a reverence that makes me feel as though I’m the most important thing in his world.

His touch is deliberate, unhurried, giving me time to adjust to every new sensation.

He begins to push inside, inch by inch, slow and unrelenting. There’s a stretch, a brief moment of discomfort that makes me tense, but he pauses immediately.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “Relax. You’re doing so well.”

I take a shaky breath, and the tension eases. He moves again, deeper this time, and the discomfort gives way to something new, something warm and all-encompassing.

I let out a soft moan, and his lips find mine, his kiss tender and reassuring.

“You good?” he asks, his forehead pressed to mine, his voice strained with control.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He begins to move, his rhythm slow and deliberate, giving me time to adjust to each thrust. His pelvis brushes against my clit, and I gasp, the pleasure building steadily, layer by layer.

My body responds instinctively, meeting his movements, and I can feel the connection between us deepen with every shared breath.

The pressure builds and I find myself teetering on the edge. “I can’t hold it,” I gasp, my hands gripping his shoulders.

“Wait for me,” he says, his pace quickening, his voice a low, growling plea. “Stay with me, Elena. Just a little longer.”

I try, biting my lip, my body trembling with the effort. But it’s too much—the pleasure crests, spilling over in a wave that leaves me crying out his name, my body tightening around him as I shatter.

He thrusts one last time, deep and claiming, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips as he spurts deep inside me.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing, the warmth of his body against mine.

Then, he slowly pulls away, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter.

“You did well, moya lisitsa ,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His voice is low, almost tender, but there’s still that edge of dominance that sends a shiver down my spine. “Very well.”

I blush at his praise, my body still tingling from the sensations he’s just brought to life within me. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I have to know; what does moya lisitsa mean?”

He smiles. “It means ‘my vixen’, because that’s what you are. A sly, beautiful creature who stole my heart at first glance.”

He sits up, leaning back against the headboard, and gestures for me to join him.

I hesitate for a moment before scooting closer, my body feeling strangely vulnerable now that the heat of the moment has passed.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. His touch is possessive, yet also comforting.

“You are beautiful, Elena,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “That was your first time.”

It’s a statement, not a question but I nod anyway. He kisses the top of my head. “Good girl for being honest. You’re mine now, do you understand?”

The words send a jolt of electricity through me.

Mine.

I look up at him, searching his face for any hint of deception, but all I see is raw honesty.

“Do you understand what that means?” he asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm.

I nod, though I’m not entirely sure I do. All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before. Never felt so alive, so desired, so claimed.

“My good girl,” he says, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I won’t let anyone take you from me. Not ever.”