Page 14 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

Clara huffs. A sour expression covers her face.

“Is that really all you care about? What about if I evenlikehim?”

“Nonsense. Stop talking this rubbish. Set up another date with him. Tell him you really enjoyed the last one.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Clara, I told you to do it. Do it. I don’t want to hear another word. You can go on a few more dates with him, and then we'll approach him for a marriage arrangement.”

I grit my teeth together. He’s trying to marry her off to that idiot who was sitting at the table with her. He seems clueless, boring, bland. Clara doesn’t need a husband like that.

Clara doesn’t need anyone else but me.

Clara glances up the stairs towards her bedroom. I am pressed up against the edge of the doorframe. It’s too dark up here for her to see me, but it feels as though she is looking right at me. Asking me for help. Begging me to save her from her fate with Brandon, and from her uncle's controlling ways.

Her uncle needs to learn a lesson. He can’t go around talking about me like that. He can’t call me the most reckless of all the Dubrovs.

Giorgio is still lecturing her, pacing up and down past her. She is standing still and quiet now. I guess she’s given up, knowing he isn’t going to actually hear her out, anyway.

Her fists are clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her eyes are glittering as though she might start crying, but she’s fighting it.

Her uncle is being a complete asshole.

When Giorgio turns to face Clara again, he raises his brows. “And? What are you still doing here? Go and message Brandon like I told you to,” He snaps.

She doesn’t say a word. She turns towards the stairs and starts walking up them, clearly upset. I can see the tears falling now that she has turned her back on her uncle.

Oh shit. She’s coming up here.

I bolt towards the window, climbing through it, out into the cool night air. I duck to the side, out of sight, watching through the glass.

She walks into her bedroom and closes her door behind herself. I expected her to slam it. But she doesn’t.

For some reason, I like how controlled she looks. I can see the anger boiling in her, but she's composed and elegant.

She marches over to her bedroom cupboard and starts looking through her clothing. It’s late. I can’t imagine what she is looking for.

After a while she pulls out a dark blue dress, short, velvet.

Carrying it over to the bed she tosses it on the unmade blankets and starts kicking her shoes off. Then she pulls her top over her head and my cock starts to throb.

Her lace-pink bra is practically transparent.

She unbuttons her jeans and starts to wiggle them down her hips.

Her back is facing the window now, and my eyes are taking every inch of that gorgeous body. The curve of her spine, the way her waist dips inwards before swelling over her hips. Oh my fuck—her ass.

I clear my throat without thinking and she turns towards the window in fright.

I hold my breath. She stares into the darkness. I know that all she can really see in the glass is her own reflection.

After a long moment she turns away again, continuing to undress.

Then she pulls the blue dress up her body, slipping her arms into the thin shoulder straps. She grabs a pair of black high heels from her closet and slips her feet into those.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

My cock is so hard it’s beginning to hurt.

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