Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) Nicole Fox (people reading books TXT) 📖

bad that the desire to just pull my cock out and take her against the wall is a never-ending temptation.

But I want more of this, too. More torturing her with her own desire.

I want to see her lose control at my hand.

I want to see her come with my eyes clear—without the distraction of my own imminent orgasm.

I can see little pearls of perspiration start to form on the skin just above her breasts. As I continue to delve into her, I drop my head down and lick the sweat right off.

A startled little moan escapes her lips before she clamps them shut again. Fueled by that sound, my tongue wraps around her plump, pink nipple and I start sucking hard.

And that’s when she starts to truly lose it.

Her mouth falls open once more with a little pop and I feel her fingers entangle in the hair at the back of my head.

But she’s not trying to pull me off her.

On the contrary, she’s trying to hold on for dear life.

Desperate to ride out the storm.

Her breath comes out in gasping bursts and I take advantage of her vulnerability as I slip a third finger inside her. I can feel her tighten around me, as her juices start slipping down my fingers onto my hand.

“Oh… oh, God… fuck…”

I release her nipple and look at her face. It’s flushed, uninhibited. She looks dazed, disoriented.

Utterly at my mercy.

“Yeah, you like that, kiska?” I rasp, looking her right in the eye.

I’m sweating through my shirt now. I wish I was as naked as she is, but I can’t bear to withdraw my hand right now, not even for a fraction of a second.

Not before she comes.

“You’re my slutty little fuck doll, aren’t you?” I continue.

Her gaze burns into me. She’s unable to stop me, and I know she doesn’t really want to, but she’s not going to give me what I want, either.

At least, not willingly.

“Fuck. You,” she breathes.

I grind my fingers deep inside her while my thumb lands on her clit. I circle fast, teasing her until she’s shuddering against me, her breasts sweaty and heaving, one leg raised high so that I can reach her better.

She’s laid open for me, but I can feel her still holding something back. One last shred of resistance.

“Come on, Esme,” I growl in her ear. “Come on my hand. Come on my hand like the fuck doll I know you want to be.”

Then I bore down on her clit and she screams, her back arching as she explodes over my hand.

And it’s beautiful.

Absolutely fucking beautiful.

I pull my hand out of her and wipe it against my pants before I reach to start unzipping myself.

The time for games is over. I need to be inside her now.

I’ve suppressed the urge to burst for too fucking long.

But then I look up and catch her expression. Her cheeks are rosy, her lips slightly parted, her hair a wild sweaty mess that’s pasted against her shoulders.

She looks so fucking satisfied.

She also looks so fucking sad.

That stops me in my tracks.

“Is this what you like?” she asks softly. Her voice barely rises above a whisper. “Having a helpless woman at your disposal? Forcing yourself on a woman who can’t refuse?”

Her words send a jolt stinging through me.

I feel my cock deflate.

The desire coursing through my veins hits a wall suddenly and I feel my hands fall to my sides.

“Go,” I growl. “Now. Get out of here.”

She stares at me for a moment. Trying to figure out if I’m serious or not.

Then she slides out from underneath me and runs for her bedroom.

A second later, I hear the door slam shut.

I lean my forehead against the wall, the same one I had just made her come against.

And then I send my fist slamming into it.

Now, I’ve got a raging hard-on and bruised knuckles. I ignore the pain lancing through my hand and head straight for my bedroom.

I discard my sweaty clothes and without so much as sitting down, I start masturbating furiously, my head swimming with thoughts of Esme.

I relive the moment when I saw her breasts for the first time.

I relive the moment I sucked her nipples until she moaned and grabbed my hair.

I relive everything, again and again, until hot seed shoots out of me.

Only then can I breathe again.

The relief pours through me. Like I’ve purged her—fucking finally.

But that lasts for hardly a few seconds before it sets in again—the hunger. The burning, aching need for more of what I’ve just barely tasted.

That pisses me the fuck off.

I walk into my bathroom and turn on the shower. I step inside, and cold water assaults my body.

I welcome the prickly pain.

I stand there for a long time, trying to get her out of my head.

But twenty-five, almost thirty minutes later, I’m still consumed with thoughts of her, and only her.

“Fuck!” I yell to the empty cavern of my bathroom. My roars echo until they fade away.

I have to find a way to deal with this massive need inside me.

I have to fill it with something other than Esme.

Because I know now, without a doubt, that something terrible is happening.

And I need to fucking end it.

24

Esme

I wake up the next morning, heart still hammering.

It had taken me hours to fall asleep and I still wasn’t able to escape the dreams that plagued me.

“Nightmare” is the wrong word though.

More like a fucked-up fever dream. Part delicious, part horrifying.

I can still feel it all—everything that happened.

Artem’s brutish hands on my body, gentle despite their size and strength.

The way he pinned me to the wall, taken what he wanted despite my feeble, dishonest protests.

I wish I had been stronger.

I wish I had fought harder.

But my body wanted him—even if my mind and heart didn’t.

Liar.

I try and shake the self-made accusation from my head.

No, it’s not a lie—I definitely do not fucking want Artem Kovalyov.

I’m just… confused.

I’ve spent four months fantasizing about this man. Is it any wonder I’m taking some time to