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

50. Elena

50

ELENA

F ear crawls under my skin as I wait for him to come back from his meeting. Memories of my family come back to me. I wonder again if they’re still alive.

I let Dmitri in. I let him make me feel safe, even though I know better. Because no one stays. And no one is safe—not in his world, not in mine. I get the feeling he’s gone for good.

Of course. That’s what I deserve. I got attached. That was dumb. I saw it in his eyes before he left this morning. Pain. He wants to tell me it’s over but can’t bring himself to do it.

The sound of the door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. My heart leaps, the relief almost overwhelming. I’m off the couch and halfway across the room before I can stop myself.

Dmitri steps through the door, his presence filling the space. His dark eyes sweep over me, sharp and unreadable. Something is different. His shoulders are stiff, his movements deliberate, as though he’s carrying an invisible weight.

“You’re back late,” I whisper, my voice betraying the relief I can’t hide. “Where have you been?”

“Work,” he says, his voice low, almost hollow. He shrugs off his coat.

I reach for him before I can think better of it, wrapping my arms around his neck. For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Then his arms circle me, pulling me flush against his chest. The tension in his muscles bleeds into me, but I don’t care. He’s here.

His mouth presses against mine. I respond instinctively, clinging to him as if holding tighter might stop the storm I sense brewing inside him.

His hands tangle in my hair, his body pressing me back against the wall.

There’s an intensity in his touch, more raw and desperate than usual. It’s as though he’s trying to memorize every inch of me, to imprint this moment into his memory. It doesn’t feel like a reunion. It feels like a goodbye.

“Dmitri…” I murmur between kisses, trying to pull back enough to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. His lips find my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. I gasp, my hands tightening in his hair.

“Don’t ask any questions,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. “Not now.”

I want to argue, to demand the truth, but the way he’s touching me unravels my resolve. I let him lead me to the bedroom, let him strip away my doubts with every kiss.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze raking over my body. “My beautiful wife.”

His hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against my jawline, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. The intensity in them makes my heart race.

“Do you know what I want from you?” he asks, his voice seductive.

I nod slightly, already feeling the familiar heat pooling between my thighs. “Anything, Dmitri. Tell me”

“Show me how much you crave me, moya lisitsa . Touch yourself for me.”

A rush of warmth floods my cheeks, but I don’t hesitate. I reach down, my fingers trembling slightly as they slide beneath the hem of my dress, finding the slickness waiting for me.

His eyes never leave mine as I begin to stroke myself, slow and deliberate, moaning softly as I lose myself in the sensations.

He watches me like a man possessed, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “Good girl,” he purrs, stepping back to stand at the end of the bed. “But don’t stop. Let me see all of you.”

I spread my legs, my eyes fixed on him as he watches me.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Show me how much you need me, Elena.”

I whimper, my fingers working faster as I approach the edge, but then he speaks again, halting me mid-motion.

“Not yet,” he commands, standing and closing the distance between us in two strides. “You don’t get to come until I say so.”

I bite my lip, nodding as I pull my hand away, my body trembling with desire. He cups my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his gaze unwavering.

“Always,” I say.

“Good.” He steps back, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one, revealing the muscular chest beneath. When he removes the garment completely, tossing it aside carelessly, he motions for me to kneel before him.

I sink to my knees gracefully, looking up at him with wide eyes as he unbuckles his belt slowly—so agonizingly slowly—before sliding his pants down just enough to free his hardened cock. He strokes himself lazily while maintaining intense eye contact with me.

“ Close your eyes ,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet against my ear. I obey without question, shutting my eyes tightly.

His touch comes unexpectedly, a single finger trailing up my thigh. I gasp at the contact, my skin alight with sensation.

I’m lifted into the air, laid on my back on the rug.

His lips follow the path of his hand, pressing feather-light kisses along my leg. I tilt my hips instinctively, offering myself to him.

His tongue flicks over my clit, and I moan softly, the sound escaping before I can stop it.

He chuckles darkly, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through me. “Do you like that?” he asks, his voice teasing. I nod eagerly, unable to form words as his mouth continues its exploration.

He shifts higher, his hands cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden under his touch.

His mouth follows, capturing one peak between his lips, sucking gently before grazing it with his teeth. I arch into him, a whimper escaping my throat. He switches to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, pulling moans from deep within me.

His hands glide down my sides, tracing the swell of my hips. He kneels before me, his breath warm against my inner thighs. His fingers skim over my sensitive flesh, parting me gently.

I tremble, my body aching for more. His tongue flicks over my clit, and I cry out, the sensation almost too much to bear. He laps at me slowly, deliberately, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through me.

“You taste exquisite,” he growls, his voice thick with desire. He slides a finger inside me, curling it just so, hitting a spot that makes my entire body jerk.

I pant, writhing against him, desperate for release. But he withdraws suddenly, leaving me bereft. I whine in protest.

“Patience, Elena,” he says, his tone firm yet laced with amusement. “I decide when you come.” His words send a thrill through me, a mix of frustration and arousal intertwining in my core.

I feel the press of his cock against my pussy, and I tense in anticipation.

He thrusts into me slowly, filling me completely. I groan, the stretch delicious, overwhelming. He stills, allowing me to adjust to his size before pulling out and sinking back in.

His pace is unhurried, each movement deliberate, driving me to the edge without letting me fall. “Look at you,” he breathes, his voice heavy with admiration. “Taking me so well, my sweet wife.”

His hands roam over my body as he fucks me, gripping my hips, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples.

Every touch, every word heightens the sensations coursing through me.

I rock against him, meeting his thrusts, craving more. He growls, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he regains control.

“Who do you belong to, Elena?” he demands, his voice rough, urgent.

“You,” I gasp, the word torn from me. “I belong to you.”

He groans, burying himself deeper, harder. “That’s right,” he says, satisfaction coloring his tone. “My perfect, obedient wife.”

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. I feel the tension building within him, his muscles tightening, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Just as I feel him on the brink, he pulls out abruptly, leaving me empty and yearning. I let out a frustrated cry, my body trembling with need.

“Touch yourself,” he says, stepping back again, his cock glistening with my wetness. “Now.”

I let my fingers trail lower, teasing myself as I watch him watching me. The air between us crackles with tension, heavy with desire.

He owns every part of me , I think helplessly, my body responding to his command even as my mind races. My fingers find their mark, brushing over my slick folds, and a soft moan escapes my lips.

His lips curve into a smirk, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just watches, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that threatens to consume me.

I arch into my own touch, my breath hitching as pleasure begins to build within me. But just as I feel myself teetering on the edge, he speaks again, his voice slicing through the haze of desire like a knife.

“Stop.”

I freeze, my body trembling with frustration. My eyes flicker to his, pleading, desperate. But he only smiles, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Again,” he commands, his voice firm. With shaking hands, I resume touching myself, my movements slower this time, more controlled. I can feel his eyes on me, his presence overwhelming, and it only adds to the ache building inside me.

As I near the edge once more, I brace myself for his command—and sure enough, it comes. “Stop.” My hands still, my chest heaving as I fight to catch my breath.

He steps closer, his fingers trailing along my jawline, tilting my chin up so our eyes meet. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval. “You’re learning.”

I whimper softly, my body begging for release, but I know better than to disobey him. He releases my chin and steps back, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues to watch me. “Again,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

This time, I’m more careful, moving with excruciating slowness to draw out the sensation. My body is taut with anticipation, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with need.

As I approach the edge once more, I glance at him, silently begging for permission. But he shakes his head, his expression stern.

“Not yet.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, my frustration mounting with each passing second. But there’s something else too—a deep, aching longing that I can’t ignore. I belong to him, I remind myself. Every part of me is his to command.

His next command comes before I can recover. “Faster.” My heart skips a beat, but I obey, increasing the pace of my touch, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Pleasure surges through me, swift and undeniable, but just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he says it again. “Stop.”

I cry out, my body writhing with the effort of holding back. He steps forward, his hand cupping my cheek, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“You’re doing so well, Elena,” he murmurs, his voice softening just enough to soothe the raw edges of my frustration. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

I nod, tears spilling over as I struggle to maintain control. He wipes them away with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle. “One more time,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “For me.”

With trembling hands, I comply, my movements slower now, more deliberate. Every stroke sends jolts of pleasure through me, but I force myself to hold back, to wait for his signal. When I’m right on the brink, I look at him, my eyes wide and pleading.

This time, he doesn’t stop me. “Come,” he commands, his voice rough with need. And just like that, I shatter, my body convulsing with the force of my release.

My legs buckle, but he is there, catching me, holding me close as waves of pleasure wash over me.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his expression softer now, almost tender. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

His touch lingers on my skin, as though he’s memorizing the curve of my hip, the line of my spine. It’s not like him to be so quiet.

Usually, after we make love, there’s a teasing remark, a whispered endearment, or at least the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns against my skin.

Not this time.

“Dmitri,” I whisper, my voice breaking the silence. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, I think he’s going to answer. His body tenses slightly, his hand tightening on my hip. But then he exhales, the sound heavy with unspoken words, and I know he won’t tell me.

“Nothing,” he says softly, his lips brushing my shoulder. “Rest.”

But I can’t. I lie still, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his silence press down on me. He’s here, but he isn’t. Whatever’s haunting him is keeping him locked away, just out of reach.

My chest tightens with the ache of it, the gnawing doubt that I’ve let myself fall too far, too fast. I want to believe him, to trust him, but his silence feels like a wall between us, growing taller every moment.

He shifts beside me, pulling me closer, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. The gesture feels almost desperate, as if he’s holding onto something he’s afraid to lose.

I want to scream, to demand answers, to shake him until the truth spills out. But I don’t. Instead, I let him hold me, let the steady rise and fall of his chest lull me into a fragile calm.

If he won’t tell me what’s wrong, I’ll have to find out myself.

As he drifts into sleep, his breathing evening out, I lie awake, my mind churning with possibilities.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming, something dangerous and unstoppable.