Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) Nicole Fox (year 7 reading list .txt) 📖

break eye contact as she bends from the waist to pick them from the floor, revealing a tantalizing slice of upper thigh in the process.

She stares me dead in the eye as she tucks her panties into the breast pocket of my jacket, then grabs me by the wrist and drags me through the door into her bedroom.

As we step through the doorway, she lets go and stalks to the foot of the bed. I shut the door behind me and stop short, one step into the room.

We stare at each other for a moment. Unspeakable tension fills the room like lightning bolts lancing back and forth between us. The only sound is our heavy breathing, panting like we’ve just come straight from a battlefield. Maybe we have. Or maybe that’s where we’re headed.

Then, like someone uttered a silent command, the tension breaks, the stillness shatters. I take two powerful strides across the distance between us, savoring the fear that swells in her eyes, before grabbing her throat in one hand and pinning her on her back on the bed.

I am rumbling with hunger as I unbuckle my belt and free my already-hard manhood.

My manhood throbs and aches. I flip up the hem of her dress, knock her thighs apart, and guide myself to her sex.

She throws her hands back on the bed, gasping and clawing at the sheets as I slide inside of her. Her body tells me how badly she wants this: she is wet, hot, shifting her hips to urge me closer.

I melt into her and lean back to watch the pleasure that flits through her. Her whole body contorts as I fuck her, her mouth making an ‘O’ as moans escape.

She grabs my face, claws down my shoulders, and braces my back.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers.

So soon? Her body shivers and her pussy gets tight like she is about to come. Then she is coming, her pussy pulsating on my cock, her legs moving in spasms as she lets out a primal scream.

“Fuck,” I echo, burying my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her as I come, all the sensation in me fixated on the end of my cock.

For long seconds, I know nothing but this woman.

Then I roll aside and she shoots me a vague look, biting her lip, her chest rising and falling like a bellows.

“You’re still an asshole,” she whispers, but she is smiling.

After a moment, I realize I am smiling, too.

9

Camille

Mom is clawing at me, begging me to help her, screaming at the top of her lungs so that her voice echoes tortuously around my head.

I try to run, but vines coil around my legs. I lash at them, cursing myself for leaving her, and now I am screaming, my voice hoarse—

I wake with a jolt. Sweat coats my body like a thick blanket.

I reach for my phone and call Jackie. She tells me that Mom is okay. She is sleeping.

“Is everything all right with you, hon?” she asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “I just … I’m fine, just checking in.”

I pull on the plush robe that Erik gifted me. Maybe I should feel like a princess, but right now it’s more like I’m a prize poodle. I wonder if he’ll take me to a dog show and make me strut around. Look, everyone, isn’t she well-behaved?

I still find it weird to wake up with nothing pressing to do, so I grab my textbook and get a good hour of studying in. Then I go downstairs, searching for breakfast. If he’s going to keep me here, the least I can do is take advantage of the five-star cuisine.

I’m shocked to find Erik in the kitchen, smoke rising from the pan as he sears a steak.

He hasn’t noticed me, so I lean against the door, watching. So this guy actually cooks for himself? I took him more for the waited-on-hand-and-foot variety. He even hums a tune as he flips the eggs over-easy.

It’s downright surreal.

“Hungry?” he asks without turning.

I almost pee myself. I didn’t realize he’d noticed me. It’s spooky how he does that, the clairvoyant asshole. Of course, when we have a kid, super hearing will be a bonus, I guess. Kids get in trouble when no one overhears them. Like Rob did.

“Starving,” I answer. “Where’s Ashley?”

“Is my cooking not good enough for you?”

I sigh loudly, not gracing that with a response. He accuses me of starting arguments and yet he treats me like we’re on Dr. Phil half the time.

“I’ll take some eggs,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen island.

He’s shirtless, his broad back shifting as he turns the steaks over. I try not to let that habit of wanting him resurface, but no matter how much I remind myself of reality—that this bastard bought me like a horse at auction—it’s difficult.

He brings over a plate of eggs and sits across from me. It would thrill me to tell him they’re overdone, maybe give him a nice vindictive glare to go along it, but, annoyingly, they are perfectly cooked.

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Then we are in trouble,” he says with that hint of smile.

“Ha, fucking, ha.” I roll my eyes.

“What have you been thinking about, Camille?” He stares down at his food, cutting it methodically. Jeez, this guy even eats in an ultra-controlled way. “How to instigate another argument?”

“No,” I say, pushing down about a hundred biting responses. “This …” I wave my fork at the modern kitchen. “The mansion, the cars, the servants. What is it you do again? I know Anatoly said you’re a proprietor, but that isn’t exactly specific.”

“I invest in businesses. I take a percentage of the profits. It is not complicated.”

“Like what?”

“Nightclubs, mostly,” he sighs, as though asking a simple question is the worst crime I could commit. “You have been to many of them, most likely.”

“There’s nothing uglier in a man than bragging,” I say.

He shrugs. “You asked.”

“And these nightclubs make you enough to afford all this?”

He nods. “I invest wisely,” he says. “I chose you,