The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(26)

“Mish—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Almost as soon as the word passed her lips, he pressed a finger inside of her, slowly drawing it out, adding another finger as he pushed back in. She reached for him, wanting to touch him, feel him beneath her hands, but he shook his head.

“Hands down.” His voice was hard, but there was a layer of need in his tone that made her shiver all over.

When she complied, his face disappeared between her legs. Her thighs were quivering as she accepted what he was giving her, but it wasn’t just how amazing he was at the act itself, but the deep, throaty groans he made as he did it, like he got off on it just as much as she did.

Her head fell back as soon as his tongue curled against her, his arm going over her waist to keep her in place.

She tunneled her fingers through his hair, gripping the strands tight as she fought not to cum as he continued his onslaught, but there was no point in trying to hold back from him, not when he was determined to make her break apart.

He didn’t stop, not until she was begging him to, but even then, he didn’t seem like he was ready to be done with her.

Never bothering to undress any further than undoing his jeans and sliding them down his muscled thighs, Mishca pulled her down the bed, his movements urgent.

Breathless pleas fell past her lips as he rubbed the head of his cock between her folds, then finally, but slowly, entering her.

His lips were at her ear, uttering words in Russian that she couldn’t hope to understand, but that didn’t stop her body from responding to them.

His fingers dug into her hips as he used her, just as she used him, to get off. Seconds, minutes, hours, time didn’t matter as she let everything go, reveling in the moment with him.

He reared back, his gaze intent on her face as he rotated his hips, shifting to a deeper angle. She didn’t have to say that she was close for him to know, he always did.

Lauren held onto his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she went up to kiss him. “I love you.” The words were barely a whisper against his lips, but he shuddered, pounding harder.

Her orgasm struck her out of nowhere, her entire body seizing up. Mishca’s hold around her tightened as he found his own release, both breathing heavily as they fell back onto the bed.

Her legs were trembling on either side of him, but he was too busy nuzzling her throat to notice. “Better?”

If she could just lay with him for the rest of the day, just like this, she doubted anything else could upset her. “Yes.”

“Next time, just talk to me.”

She was tired, exhausted really, but she did had enough energy to laugh, snuggling closer to his side. “No, I think I quite liked how you did that.”



“The f*ck is dove gray?” Luka asked, looking through a collection of fabrics for any indication.

Alex had made it clear what colors the groomsmen were allowed to wear, and made sure that Mishca enforced the rules. Their suits would be the soft gray color, white button-downs, and royal blue bow ties.

Since it was the weekend, currently, Mishca, Luka, and Vlad were in a boutique, getting fitted for their tuxes. Vlad had gone first, and now Luka and Mishca were up. With the wedding date fast approaching, things had become far more erratic than they’d been over the last three weeks. Now that Lauren was more open with him, he was now the go-to person for the few details, and if either of them got too agitated…well, they figured out a way that would help them both.

Roger was measuring Mishca’s arm span when the door to the shop opened. Everyone’s eyes turned to Mikhail as he entered alone. Like always, he was impeccably dressed, looking every bit of the mafia boss he was.

Through the mirror, Mishca watched his father, wondering why he was there when he had made his feelings on Mishca’s relationship with Lauren quite clear. With a look, he sent Luka and Vlad out.

When they were alone—Roger had been a friend of the Bratva for years—Mikhail took a seat, studying Mishca with a contented smile.

“I remember a time when you refused to dress like a man of your position. Now here you are, being fitted for yet another four-thousand dollar suit.”

“Not this time. This one has a different meaning.”

Mikhail made a sound of disapproval, shaking his head. “What is this, Mishca? I hear about this, this wedding from my lieutenants, but not my only son.”

“And what would you have said? I’m making a mistake? That love has no place in our world?” He then leveled a stare on him that could only be read as irritation. “And we both know I’m not the only son.”

Mikhail, wisely ignoring the jibe, laughed heartily. “Is that not true?”

“Not always.”

As Roger finished with his measuring, he took a step back, quietly excusing himself to let Mishca appreciate his work—and gave them much needed privacy.

“I thought you would learn from my mistakes, but you are a fool. You inherited this trait from your mother.”

“What exactly did you come here for? I doubt it was just to annoy me, you could have done that in a phone call.”

Some days, Mishca didn’t realize just how much of a good little soldier he had been during the days when he blindly followed Mikhail’s orders. He still didn’t fully understand why Mikhail allowed it, or if it was just because he was looking for someone to challenge him. Either way, he wasn’t backing down now.