First he made me his. Then he made me his wife.
When Kirill Aristov kissed me so roughly I forgot all about my fear of flying and then made me come hard enough for everyone on the plane to hear, I didn’t know he was a ruthless bratva boss.
Or that one day soon I’d be his captive, my helplessly bound body bucking and writhing with every merciless climax as the bastard who just stripped me bare and spanked my ass red took me in the most brutally shameful way possible.
But by the time he put his ring on my finger, I knew what kind of man had made me his.
And what it means to belong to him.
