Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(11)

Will I have time to formulate regrets on the way down? Will my life flash before my eyes? Will I see Clara again?

Misha drops to one knee. I should do something— fight back, dammit! —but all I can bring myself to do is close my eyes and pray that it doesn’t hurt when it all ends.

But to my surprise, he doesn’t push me. He doesn’t let me fall.

He just consumes my pussy like he’ll die without it.

I grab onto Misha’s broad shoulders for dear life as he licks me to the fastest orgasm in recorded history. He passes over my clit once, twice, adds two pulsing fingers inside me, and that’s it. Game over. I’m coming and drooling and shuddering from head to toe.

When he pulls away and rises again, I see my juices slicking his lips. He runs his tongue over them.

“You’re delicious, kitten,” he growls.

“Wh—huh—what was that?” I splutter.

He grins, the biggest smirk I’ve seen yet on him. It frightens me more than his stone-faced silence. “I told you I’d have to punish you. Making you come on my face while your life hung in my hands felt appropriate.”

I don’t know what to say. People don’t talk like that. People don’t act like that.

But Misha Orlov talks like that.

Misha Orlov acts like that.

Misha Orlov makes me come like that.

“I… You… You’re crazy.”

His eyes catch the light and glisten. “You don’t know the half of it.” His voice is ragged with desire.

He cups my face with the palm of his hand. Then he steps close, hooks my heels around his hips, and drives himself home.

The foreplay was gentle and tender and worshipful and sweet. But this?

This is the exact fucking opposite.

I wasn’t sure how I’d take him, and even now that I am actually doing, I’m still not sure how. I cry out as Misha slams into me with deep, powerful thrusts. He’s splitting me apart while my bare ass dangles over the nighttime city below. I feel the kind of cold air that only exists a thousand feet off the ground, teasing my nipples into painful points. Every time one grazes his chest, I cry out again.

He keeps slamming his hips into me, moving in punishing strokes. I’m coming again what feels like seconds later, and then once more right after that. My eyes roll back in my head. My body goes limp.

I’m putty in his hands, completely at his mercy, and I’ve never been wetter.

Then I feel his body quake, twitching as he releases inside me. It seems to take him by surprise, too, because I hear the breathless, frustrated curse he utters right after. It’s in a harsh foreign tongue, and it probably ought to register that he just came inside me, but I’m too dazed to process that right this second.

He pulls out of me, leaving me gasping and hollow. I sink to the ground and fall in a puddle on the stones of the patio. Through my half-closed eyelids, I see a naked Misha pace away into the suite.

It feels like I’m made of champagne now. My body is light and floaty. My thoughts are careless and

free.

I could go to sleep like this. Fucked and cared for in a way that I didn’t know was possible. I sure as hell would never have suspected that he’d be the one to give me this feeling.

I’m almost out when he returns to the patio and comes to stand in front of me. “Thank you,” I mumble, eyes mostly closed. “It’s been years since I’ve been touched like that. It’s been months since I’ve been touched at all…”

He doesn’t respond. Or if he does, I don’t hear it. I just feel those hands again—those tempting hands, those dangerous hands—as he scoops me up like I weigh nothing and carries me into the bedroom. He sets me down on a bed as soft as a cloud.

I’m out the second I touch down. And I dream a dreamless sleep, with endless skies the color of golden champagne.

In the morning, my head is pounding. It takes every ounce of effort I have in me to lift my cement-filled head off the pillow, and even more to peel my crusted eyelids open.

When I do, I see the bed next to me is empty.

And when I touch it, the sheets are cold.

Before I can understand what I’m seeing, the phone next to the bed rings. “Shit!” I curse. Then I remember Misha scolding me for cursing and I seal my lips.

I lunge to answer the phone and quiet the punishing ring. “Hello?” I rasp, my voice thick with sleep.

“Ms. Paige?” the woman asks. She continues before I can answer. “Mr. Orlov wanted you to know your room has been prepaid for the next three nights. Enjoy your stay and let the front desk know if you need anything at all.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare down at the mouthpiece, trying to process her words.

Silver Eyes is gone.

I have a pretty good feeling I’ll never see him again.





MISHA

TWO WEEKS LATER

I told myself when I walked out the doors of the Four Seasons that I would not think about her ever again. I keep that promise—in a manner of speaking. Because I don’t think about her.

But I do see her every night in my dreams.

That mouth, wide open as she came for me, sputtering and desperate.

The joy in her eyes as the champagne touched her tongue.

The softness of her skin as I kissed up her thigh, and higher, and higher…